The clearing is still thick with confusion and exhaustion when Amy steps out of the packhouse, and the moment her eyes find mine I know this is not shock or fear reflected in them, because it is recognition, and there is something deliberate in the way she studies me that makes my chest tighten.
She does not look at the wolves shifting back into their human forms or at the red moon still hanging overhead, and she does not look at Axel or Atticus standing rigid at my sides, because her focus stays locked on me as if this is the exact moment she has been waiting for.
“You knew,” I say before she can speak, because the certainty of it rises in me without hesitation, and the strange look on her face only deepens.
She exhales slowly.
“Yes.”
The word lands heavier than it should.
“What do
