Page 16 of Fated Wolf's Destiny

ISABELLA

The box is old, the cardboard brittle and yellowed around the edges. It’s tucked into the corner of Arthur’s storage room like it’s been hiding there forever. I don’t even notice it until I bump into the shelf, scattering a cascade of dusty files. The heavy box tumbles forward, landing on my foot with a painful thud.

I crouch down, brushing off the grime, my name catching my eye—my full name, scrawled in Arthur’s tidy handwriting.

Isabella Gordon.

It’s written in black ink, bold and deliberate, like this box was meant for me to find.

Curiosity blooms in my chest as I open it, pulling out a stack of aged envelopes bound with a faded blue ribbon. The scent of paper and time wafts up, triggering a pang of nostalgia. I undo the ribbon carefully, my fingers trembling, and slide out the first letter. The handwriting is unfamiliar but neat, elegant.

My dearest Bella,

it begins, and my breath catches.

I glance down at the signature:

Margaret.

My grandmother.

I sink to the floor, the room around me fading as I read the first letter. And then the next. And then the one after that.

Each one is a story, a piece of her life I never knew. She writes about being part of the Nightshade Pack—is she talking about a wolf pack?—about growing up in the shadows of the Cascade Mountains. She’d told me similar stories, but I’d always attributed them to being just fairytales. But the more I read, the more I realize they contain information I can’t dismiss. She writes about meeting my grandfather, a human. She calls him human as if that is different than her. She speaks of falling in love despite the warnings. About how the pack—again with the pack—cast her out for choosing him. About the loneliness, the rejection, the pain of being torn between two worlds.

They called it betrayal,

one letter reads, the words underlined in anger.

I called it love. They said I was weak, but they were wrong. It takes strength to leave everything you’ve ever known to follow your heart. But sometimes, strength isn’t enough to fill the emptiness you leave behind.

Tears blur my vision as I reach the last letter, dated just months before she died.

To my granddaughter, Isabella: If you’re reading this, it means I am gone and never shared my secrets with you—at least not in a way that made you understand your heritage. For that I am sorry. But if you ever feel the pull of your wolf, don’t fight it. Don’t be afraid of it. You’re more than they’ll ever let you believe. You’re both, human and wolf, and that makes you stronger than they could ever understand. Find your path, my darling, and don’t let anyone tell you who you’re supposed to be.

Her words wrap around my heart like a vise. All my life, I thought her stories about being a wolf, about being some kind of shifter who could change at will between her human self and her wolf self, were just that—stories. Fairytales. But if the stories were real, then what happened in them cost her everything. Are they real? If not, could these just be the ramblings of an aging mind?

I clutch the letters to my chest, my mind racing. Arthur must have known. The final piece of paper contains a brief note from him.

Bella, your grandmother is speaking the truth. Her truth, and mine as well. I too am a shifter, as is everyone in Shadow Hollow. I am a fox, but your grandmother was once part of the powerfulNightshade Pack. If you’re reading this, you have stumbled upon questions to which you want answers. Ryder Stone is now alpha to the Nightshade Pack. You can trust him. I always knew I would tell you the truth if you asked. If you’re reading this, I’m gone, and you need to know. Arthur

I stand slowly, breathing heavily. They’re all true—my grandmother’s stories. It’s one thing to dismiss her stories as just that, but Arthur’s note? There’s no way he’d have written that if it wasn’t true. He kept these papers for me, waiting for the right moment to hand them over. And now that I have them, and he’s not here, leaving me with more questions than answers.

The moonlight spills into the clearing behind the clinic, casting long shadows across the ground. The air is cool and crisp, carrying the scent of the wild, as I step outside. My grandmother’s words echo in my mind as I stand barefoot in the grass, staring at the trees.

If you ever feel the pull of your wolf, don’t fight it.

I close my eyes, letting the stillness settle around me, and take a deep breath. I don’t know what I’m doing, but closing my eyes and breathing deeply seems like it should be a part of it.

My pulse thrums in my ears, and I focus on the memory of her stories—of shifting, of running through the woods with the wind in her fur, of the connection she felt to the earth and sky. She called it shifting and described the sensation as stilling her mind and calling her wolf forth. There was a swirling mist of color, thunder, and lightning that would surround her and allow her to transform.

I want that. I want to feel it, to know what it’s like to let go and become something more.

I stand in the pool of moonlight, stilling my mind and exhaling slowly. “Come on,” I whisper, more to myself than anything. “You’re there. I know you’re there. Just… show me.”

The stillness deepens, and I swear I feel something stir—a flicker of heat, a faint tingle beneath my skin. My heart leaps, and I latch onto it, willing it to grow.

But it doesn’t.

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