Page 4 of Fated Wolf's Destiny

Lucas raises an eyebrow. “Control.”

He isn’t wrong. The word hangs between us, heavy and unspoken until now.

I tighten the cap on the bottle, setting it down on the counter with more force than necessary. “They won’t get it.”

Lucas watches me for a long moment, his usual easy demeanor giving way to something more serious. “They’re testing you, Ryder. They want to see how far they can push before you push back.”

“Then they’ll get their answer,” I say, my voice low and steady.

Lucas sighs, running a hand through his hair. “They’re waiting for you in the council chamber.”

“Of course they are.”

I push off the counter, the weight of the moment settling on my shoulders like a second skin. The run through the forest feels like a lifetime ago, the freedom of it already slipping away.

As I make my way outside and to the council chamber, the air grows heavier with each step. Carved into the side of the mountain, the council chamber has existed longer than the lodge. Its entrance is guarded by warriors loyal only to the council itself. I know what’s waiting for me behind those heavy oak doors—questions, demands, and the ever-present burden of knowing the pack’s future rests on me.

But it’s not just the Elders that burden me tonight. It’s the declining birthrate and the Crimson Claw. It’s the strange energy clouding my senses that I can’t quite name. And my mate, whoever she may be.

She feels close and even though we have never met, the memory of her scent lingers in my mind, sharp and untamed, stirring something in me I don’t want to name. She should matter. The scent isn’t wholly wolf—or wholly human—for that matter. And yet, I know I will recognize it should I ever encounter it in the real world. Her presence in Shadow Hollow will be a harbinger, a spark waiting to ignite something far beyond my control. And yet I dream of her—the dreams coming more frequently—and I wait.

I reach the council chamber, pausing outside the heavy oak doors. My wolf stirs, restless and impatient. The Elders think they know what’s best for the pack, but they’ve forgotten one thing—they aren’t alpha.

I am. I bow to no one—not even them.

I push open the doors, stepping inside. The room falls silent, their stares bearing down on me like a heavy cloud about to burst.

Let them test me. They’ll find it isn’t me who breaks.

CHAPTER 2

ISABELLA

The air in the Cascade Mountains bites through my wool coat as I stand at Arthur Whitfield’s graveside in the small town of Shadow Hollow, the wind carrying the scent of damp earth, rain-soaked pine, and wet trees. The weather here is far more bitter than where I live in Seattle. The sky is heavy with low-hanging clouds, the kind that threaten snow but hold back like a deep breath. Arthur had retired here after teaching at Washington State University to open his own veterinary clinic. Arthur had been my mentor and advisor when I studied at WSU. Shadow Hollow feels like a painting on the edge of smearing, something off-kilter, like the ache in my chest that refuses to settle.

The funeral crowd is small, mostly people from town. I’ve never felt so out of place among a group of people in my life. Their quiet gazes landing on me, then shifting away as if they know something I don’t. Dorothy Canning, the woman who owns the bakery, stands nearest to me, dabbing her eyes with a crumpled tissue. I’m grateful for her presence, though she hasn’t said much beyond offering me a pastry and condolences earlier this morning.

Arthur’s headstone is simple, marked with his name and two dates. No epitaph. That was his style—practical, understated. The man who became like a father to me when my parents were killed in an automobile accident and taught me to care for injured animals, fix fences, and see the beauty in simple things and places. He was supposed to grow old in this place in that clinic, not die suddenly, not like this.

I step closer to the grave as the others begin to disperse, murmuring their goodbyes. My boots sink into the muddy ground.

“How did it happen, Dorothy?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “Arthur was healthy. He—he never even caught a cold.”

Dorothy hesitates, her lips pressing into a thin line. “The sheriff says it was an accident, Bella,” she says, not meeting my eyes. “Something to do with his heart giving out.”

“His heart? Arthur hiked the mountain trails every weekend. He had the heart of an ox.” My frustration and grief bleed into my voice, but I don’t care.

Dorothy glances around nervously, as if expecting someone to overhear. “Sometimes things like this just happen,” she says, patting my arm. “He would have wanted you to carry on, sell the clinic and live your life in Seattle.”

I watch her retreat, the question of how Arthur really died sinking deeper into my mind like the wet earth at my feet. I know I should sell the clinic—it’s the practical thing to do—but I don’t know that I can. In any event, I know I can’t make a decision about that right now.

Back in Seattle, the sound of my boyfriend Danny’s voice grates on my nerves before I even fully step through the door of ourloft. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed, his dark hair still damp from his shower. He looks like the kind of man who should be in control of everything, and that’s exactly how he likes it, but he’s not any good at it, and resents it when I have to clean up the messes he’s left in his wake.

“You can’t be serious about staying in that backwoods town, Bella.” His tone is clipped, impatient, as if this discussion is a waste of his precious time.

I drop my bag onto the floor and kick off my boots. “I haven’t made any decisions. It’s not just about the clinic, Danny. Arthur left it to me for a reason. And I don’t believe he died the way they said. Arthur was always so healthy. Dying of a heart attack just doesn’t feel right. I owe it to him to figure out what happened.”

“What are you, Jessica Fletcher? Solving mysterious deaths in a small community?”

---