The storm had not let up. Outside, the pines were bowed beneath heavy snow, wind howling through the branches and sending a flurry of white against the cabin windows. Inside, the fire crackled, warming the small space, yet Holly felt an odd tension in the air—something just beyond her understanding, brushing against the edges of her instincts.
She glanced toward the treeline. The rogue wolf was still there, lying low in the snow, her gray-and-white coat almost blending with the storm. She hadn’t approached the cabin, but there was an unmistakable awareness in the way she shifted her weight, ears flicking toward every sound from within.
Holly’s fingers traced the leather binding of her grandmother’s notebook. She had spent the last hours pouring over it, reading entries that hinted at wol
