Page 4 of Riding with the Rejected Wolf

I shake off the feeling and the shitty memories that come with it and focus on the task at hand. The living room is tidy, if a little dusty. But the thing that strikes me most is there’s nothing here that screams ‘married woman.’ There are photos. So much for being shy. But they’re of her and, I’m guessing, her friends and family. No Henry. If they ever lived together, it certainly wasn’t here.

Now, that’s not to say I can’t scent him here at all. He’s definitely been inside this house recently, but there’s nothing here that’s his. No men’s shoes by the front door, and judging by the disheveled state of the main bedroom, no men’s clothing in the open cupboards and drawers. They may be married. But they’re obviously separated. And my guess is she took off in a hurry the moment she realized he found her.

I head into the kitchen, next. Old dishes are stacked in the sink, a carton of milk left out on the counter—more signs of a hurried exit. The fridge hums along as if nothing has happened, its contents untouched long enough for the produce to turn slimy. Gross.

Casually, I rummage through the trash, prodding at an empty Takis packet with a sigh. Never understood the appeal of those things. Too spicy for my taste, but to each their own. When I give it a shake, there’s something inside. Never to leave a stone unturned, I look inside and find a crumpled receipt.

“Clever girl,” I say to myself as I fish it out and brush the powder and crumbs from my fingers before smoothing the crumpled paper out. It’s a receipt from a local sporting goods store for camping equipment. One tent, a sleeping bag, cooking gear… all paid in cash just a couple of weeks ago. Mika's smart, I'll give her that. But if she really didn’t want this thing found, she should have burned it, not left it hidden it in a spicy snack bag for a nosey wolf to stumble across.

I shrug off my jacket and toss it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, taking a moment to once again let my senses roam the space. Her scent is fading but still there, clinging to every corner of this house she briefly called home. A scent that is becoming more familiar, more ingrained in my memory with every whiff.

Closing my eyes, I follow it around the house, like I’m tracking her footsteps and finding the places she spent time in the most. The bed and the couch are the strongest, so I search beneath the mattress, blankets and couch cushions, even moving the furniture away from the wall since I already know she has the forethought to hide things.

It’s when I pull the couch away from the wall that the sound of something hitting the floor catches my attention. I bend down and pick up a thin, dog-eared paperback—Surviving the Wilderness: A Hiker's Guide—filled with highlighted sections and handwritten notes in the margin.

"Camping equipment and now this?" I murmur, flipping through the worn pages. "It looks like you're going somewhere secluded, Mika."

She’s probably trying to lose herself in the vast expanse of nature, where it would be difficult for any normal human to track her. But I'm not a normal human, and it doesn’t really matter how deep into the wild she goes. Now that I have her scent, I’ll be able to find her anywhere.

MIKA

Even the trees have eyes

The crisp mountain air bites at my cheeks, turning them a rosy pink that would have, once upon a time, required my blush compact to achieve. Now, it just feels good to feel something so natural, so untainted by the fear and anxiety that had become my constant companions.

Wrapped in a thick jacket, I trudge through the forest, the crunching sounds of twigs and fallen leaves accompanying me as I gather firewood. Each log I heft into my arms, each snap as I break a fallen branch, feels like a small victory. This is me, surviving. This is me, taking care of myself, relying on my own two hands.

I'm humming a tuneless melody under my breath as I add another log to the growing pile by the cabin door when I feel it—a prickle of awareness, a tingling sensation that runs down my spine like a jolt of electricity. It's subtle, easily dismissed as a trick of the wind or my overactive imagination. But something deep within me, something primal and instinctive, screams out that I’m no longer alone out here.

Please no.

I freeze, every muscle in my body going taut. My gaze darts around the clearing, searching for the source of my unease. The trees sway gently in the breeze, their leaves whispering secrets I can never decipher. The only sound besides their rustling leaves is the frantic thumping of my own heart.

"Hello?" My voice, when I finally find it, is a shaky whisper. I clear my throat and try again. “Is anyone there?”

Silence.

I listen for the longest time. But when nothing happens, I chide myself for being paranoid. It's probably just a deer or a rabbit, startled by my presence. Still, the unsettling feeling lingers, a knot of tension in my gut.

Hurriedly, I gather my firewood and practically throw the wood inside before bolting inside and locking the door behind me.

My breath comes in ragged gasps as I lean against the solid wood, my hand pressed against my racing heart. I tell myself it's nothing, just the wind playing tricks on me. But the fear is a living thing inside me, whispering warnings I can't ignore.

Pulling myself together, I move to the windows, drawing the moth-eaten curtains closed. It’s not much, but the cabin feels instantly more secure.

I watch the clearing through a tiny hole in the fabric, my senses on high alert. Every rustle of leaves, every creak of the cabin's old bones, sends a shiver down my spine. I know it's probably irrational—I mean, who could possibly think to come looking for me here—but this fear clings to me like a second skin, and I can't shake the feeling that I'm not as alone as I think.

SILAS

The Watchful Wolf

The sun is low in the sky as I crouch in the underbrush, my wolf form blending seamlessly with the twilight shadows. The cabin is just ahead, nestled in a small clearing. It's a perfect hideaway—secluded, quiet, and far from prying eyes. My wolf stirs restlessly inside me, his instincts urging us to move closer, to get closer to the source of that intoxicating scent.

Mika.

She has the curtains drawn now. My wolf got a little too close while she was gathering firewood earlier. Idiot. We should’ve known better, but the sight of her—her scent—distracted us and she sensed us. She's sharp, I'll give her that. But she's also scared out of her wits enough to cut off all her hair and dye it dark. And fear makes a person unpredictable.

From this distance, even with the curtains drawn, I can still see her moving about inside the cabin, her silhouette framed by the dim lights inside. My wolf's senses are sharper than ever, and her scent—wild and sweet—carries on the breeze, making his hackles rise. It’s a scent that feels achingly familiar, stirring memories of the mate who rejected us. But smelling that here doesn’t make sense. This woman is human, and I don’t have a mate.

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