CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I squint through the dense underbrush, my eyes scanning for any sign of Logan. The forest is a tangle of shadows and whispers, but I push on, my feet finding familiar paths worn by countless paws before mine.
"Anything?" Henry's voice cuts through the silence, hopeful yet edged with fatigue.
"Nothing," I reply, trying to keep the frustration from seeping into my tone. I catch his eye for a moment—blue like the deepest part of the ocean—and see my own worry mirrored there.
We move in sync, our human forms belying the wolf agility that courses through our veins. Every snapped twig, every rustle of leaves, we pivot, investigate, discard. But Logan—headstrong, always charging ahead Logan—is like a ghost in these woods.
The sun dips low, streaks of orange and pink paint
