Page 3 of Riding with the Rejected Wolf

"Wedding pictures?" he echoes, his face paling further. "We...uh...we didn't have a traditional wedding. A registry office, just the two of us. No photos."

I exchange a glance with Kade, whose eyes are narrowed even more now.

"Uh-huh," I drawl, not buying it for a second. "And you said she was last seen at your house in Bozeman?"

"Yes, that's right." He nods vigorously, like a bobblehead on a bumpy road.

I again glance at Kade, who gives me a subtle shrug. "All right, Henry. Give me your contact info. I take half of my fee upfront.”

He perks up at that. “So you’ll do it? You’ll find her?”

“I'll start looking into it," I say, taking the business card he practically throws at me. I tell him my fee—double what I’d normally quote—and he doesn’t even blink before transferring it over. Maybe this guy has more money than sense. Or maybe he's just that desperate.

As Henry leaves the diner, I let out a low sigh. "What do you think, Kade? Is this guy for real?"

Kade chuckles, shaking his head. "Real as a three-dollar bill, brother. But a job's a job, right?"

I nod, tapping the table thoughtfully as I study the photos Henry left. There’s one of Mika laughing as she sits across from another woman at a coffee shop, and just looking at her makes my wolf stir in a way he hasn’t in years. "Maybe. But something tells me this one's gonna be more trouble than it's worth."

MIKA

Blend In or Stand Out?

With the sweat trickling down my back after hiking all day, I stumble into the remote cabin, kicking the door shut behind me with a satisfying thud. The place is as rustic as they come—wooden floors, a stone fireplace, and not a single piece of modern technology in sight. Just what the doctor ordered for someone trying to disappear off the grid.

I drop my backpack onto the threadbare couch, the bag hitting with a thump that echoes through the quiet room. I’ve moved so many times over the last few years, but this is the first time I’ve left everything behind in an attempt to leave no trace and start anew. At this point, I've been running for years. And I don’t know how long I can keep this up. I can barely remember what it feels like to stay in one place for more than a few months or weeks at a time. But this cabin? This place feels like it might just become my sanctuary.

The weight of exhaustion settles on my shoulders as I make my way to the bathroom. The mirror above the sink is cracked, but it's good enough for what I need. I pull out a bag filled with box dye and a pair of scissors from my backpack, taking one last look at the ‘old’ me in the mirror.

"All right, Mika," I mutter to myself, pulling my long blonde hair over one shoulder. "Time to go incognito."

Lifting the scissors, I start snipping away, the blonde strands falling to the floor in a messy heap. With each cut, I feel a small sense of relief. Like I'm shedding more than just hair—I'm shedding the past, the fear, the constant running. By the time I'm done, my hair is a short, choppy mess, dyed a deep brunette. It's not pretty, but it's practical. And once I dye it a deep brunette, it’ll be just what I need.

After reading the instructions on the side of the packet, I drape a towel over my shoulders and start mixing the dye, the chemical smell filling the small bathroom. As I work the dye through my hair, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. Tired eyes, dark circles, and a face that's seen too much for its twenty-eight years. But there's a steely determination there too. I'm not giving up. Not yet.

Once the dye is in, I wrap my hair in a plastic cap and set the timer on my watch. I rummage through my bag, pulling out a granola bar and a half-empty bottle of water. It's not much, but it's something. As I sit down on the edge of the tub, I take a bite out of the granola bar. It's stale, but then again, everything in my life feels a bit stale these days.

With my meager meal finished, I’ve got nothing but time to waste while this color develops. So I decide to explore the cabin a bit. The floorboards creak under my weight, the sound oddly comforting in its predictability. There's not much to it: a rickety bed with a thin blanket, a small table, and a bookshelf with some worn books and old board games stacked on it. It’s all covered in dust and spider webs, but I guess beggars can't be choosers.

The cupboards in the small kitchen are bare, save for a few cans of beans and a loaf of bread that's past its prime. There’s also an old-fashioned wood-burning stove that I'll need to figure out if I’m ever going to eat a warm meal. I try the faucet, relieved when clear water sputters out. Still beats city plumbing on the fritz. All things considered, it's not much, but it's a safe house. A place to lie low until I figure out my next move, until I can get a handle on the chaos that’s taken over my life.

My gaze catches on an old photograph hanging crooked on the wall—a family, their smiles frozen in time. I wonder who they were and why they abandoned this place. But maybe, like me, they had no choice but to leave everything behind.

I don’t have much longer to ponder the previous occupants, however, as my watch beeps, signaling the end of my hair dying ordeal. I dash back into the bathroom, rinsing until the water runs clear. As I towel dry my hair, I study myself in the mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me. And I’m glad. That's the point.

As I’m still getting used to the weight and look of my new hairstyle, I head back to the living room and flop down on the couch, letting out a long, weary sigh. The cabin is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels almost sacred. For the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself relax. Just a little. I don’t think I’m ever going to get rid of that gnawing fear that Henry will catch up to me. But as I listen to how quiet everything is up here, I also feel a strange sense of hope. This cabin, this solitude—it feels safe. Like I can finally make that fresh start.

Eventually, I curl up on the couch with a blanket, the exhaustion of the past few days catching up with me. Unfortunately, that feeling of safety doesn’t extent to my sleep, and I dream of him, stepping out of the shadows and reminding me that it doesn’t matter where I go, he’ll always find me. I fight and try to pull back from his grasp. But then I see a pair of piercing blue eyes watching me from beyond, a wolf's eyes. And I don’t know why, but they give me a strange sense of comfort. I stop fighting. And suddenly I’m not having a nightmare anymore…

SILAS

The Scent of Something I’d rather forget

The engine of my bike rumbles to a stop as I pull up at the address Henry gave me. It’s a quaint little place in Bozeman, the kind of house that looks like it should belong to a happy family with a white picket fence. But the air around it feels thick and tense, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

I dismount and take a moment to scan the area, acting like I’m supposed to be here since giant hairy guys on Harleys tend to attract a lot of attention. Striding up to the door, I reach into my pocket like I’m pulling out keys. There are no signs of forced entry, no obvious disturbances. From the outside, everything looks normal. Too normal. I push down the peculiar feeling of déjà vu stop in front of the door.

The lock is easy to pick—almost disappointingly so. Inside, the house is eerily quiet and I lock the door behind me, taking a deep breath while letting my wolf’s senses come to life. The scent of her feint. She’s been gone for a while. But when I catch it, it hits me like a freight train—sweet and intoxicating, with a hint of something wild and untamed. It’s a scent that brings back memories I’d rather forget. Memories of the mate who rejected me. But this is different. This is human. And humans shouldn’t smell like this…

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