Page 8 of Fated Wolf's Destiny

The forest presses close to the property line, its dark edges swallowing the fading light. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but my eyes keep darting to the tree line, scanning for… something. Anything. The sensation of being watched prickles the back of my neck. My rational mind tells me it’s just paranoia. My gut doesn’t believe it.

I stop near the side of the building, where the forest seems closest. From here, the clinic looks both comforting and haunted. I know I should feel safe—this was Arthur’s haven. But instead, unease churns in my stomach.

“You’re getting in over your head,” I murmur to myself, the words bitter on my tongue. But leaving isn’t an option, not anymore. Not with Arthur’s cryptic notes and these woods that feel more alive—and more dangerous—than they should.

The evening air cools as the sun dips lower. A sharp gust of wind rustles the trees, and I swear I hear something faint, like footsteps. I spin toward the sound, my pulse hammering, but there’s nothing there. Just the trees swaying, their branches creaking in the breeze.

I exhale a shaky breath and rub the back of my neck, forcing myself to turn back toward the clinic. The building looms in the dusk, and I feel completely alone in this forgotten corner of the world. But beneath that isolation is something else—a spark of determination, stubborn and burning.

Arthur didn’t just stumble into whatever this was. He dug into it. He knew something. And whatever it is, it’s buried here,waiting for me to uncover it. And may be the key to finding out what really happened.

I glance at the woods one last time. They seem darker now, the trees impossibly still, like they’re holding their breath. The air feels heavy, like it’s caving in on me. Something is out there. Watching. Waiting.

I’m not sure if it’s the clinic, the forest, or my own imagination, but one thing is certain: Shadow Hollow has secrets, and they’re not going to stay hidden forever.

The next morning, the knock on the clinic door startles me. It’s been so quiet this morning that I’ve started to feel like the only person left in this town, a thought that’s both comforting and unnerving. I set down the file I’ve been flipping through and glance toward the window. Outside, Dorothy Canning is standing on the porch, a basket clutched to her chest. Her face is warm, kind, but there’s something sharp in her eyes, like she’s already weighed and measured me.

I open the door, plastering on my best polite smile. “Dorothy, hi. What brings you by?”

She beams, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. The basket smells divine—sweet, buttery, and rich. “Oh, I thought you could use a little welcome. You’ve had such a rough time of it lately, poor thing.”

I close the door, leaning against it as I study her. Dorothy’s warmth feels genuine, but there’s an edge beneath it, a subtle tension that sets me on alert.

“That’s thoughtful of you,” I say, gesturing for her to follow me into the clinic’s main room. “I’ve been too busy to think about food.”

“That’s what I figured,” she says, setting the basket on the counter. “Where are you staying? No one’s seen you at the mill house.”

“Is someone looking for me?” I see the hurt cross her face. She’s only trying to be kind. “Arthur kept a cot in the back. I figured I’d stick closer to town and get the clinic cleaned up and then work on the mill house.”

“You sound like you’re planning to stay.”

“I haven’t made any real decisions, but I figure stay or sell, both places need to be cleaned up, Arthur’s things packed away, and stuff like that.”

“You’ve taken on quite the responsibility here, Bella. Arthur’s shoes are big ones to fill, aren’t they?”

“They are. But then I learned from Arthur, learned from the best. I might not be able to fill them in the opinion of others, but I can make sure his legacy lives on.”

Her lips twitch, like she’s considering her next move. “Looks like you’ve been trying to make some sense of Arthur’s notes. Looking for anything in particular? We were good friends. I might be able to help.” She busies herself unpacking the basket—muffins, a loaf of bread, and a jar of honey—though her tone is anything but casual.

“Not really. Just getting organized,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Arthur wasn’t the most… linear thinker when it came to filing. I need to understand the way he ran things.”

Dorothy glances up, her gaze cutting through me like she’s trying to peel back layers. “Surely you have an idea as to what you want. For the clinic and the mill house, I mean. For Shadow Hollow. It’s a small town, you know. Not always easy for outsiders to… fit in, but people want to know if we’re still going to have a local vet, someone who can handle large and small animals.”

Her words land heavy, though her smile never wavers. I meet her gaze, refusing to flinch. “The clinic I worked in just outside of Seattle had both a large and small animal practice. I did more than my share of large animal emergencies, and Arthur made sure I was an excellent diagnostician as well as a surgeon,” I say, more firmly than I intended. “I split up with my boyfriend and decided to come here to figure things out. Right now, this place feels more like home than anywhere else.”

Dorothy hums, noncommittal, and pats my hand like I’m a child trying to play grown-up. “Of course, dear. Just wanted to make sure you’re settling in. People in town—they’re curious, that’s all.”

Curious isn’t the word I’d use. Suspicious, maybe. Wary and nosy, most definitely. I bite back my frustration and thank her again for the basket. She leaves after a few more pleasantries, though her parting smile feels more like a warning than a farewell.

As the day drags on, I lose myself in paperwork, in trying to make sense of Arthur’s chaotic notes, but the uneasy feeling Dorothy left behind sticks to me like sap. I don’t even notice the rumble of an engine outside until it cuts off, followed by the crunch of boots on gravel.

When the door swings open, Gus Greenly fills the frame. He’s a tall man, broad-shouldered, with a permanent scowl etched into his face. His hands are rough, grease-stained, and they hang loosely at his sides, but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he looks at me.

“Afternoon,” he says, stepping inside. His voice is gruff, each syllable weighed down by disapproval. “Thought I’d come see how things are shaping up around here.”

“Afternoon,” I reply, wiping my hands on my jeans. “It’s coming along. Slowly.”

His gaze sweeps the room, lingering on the piles of papers and half-unpacked boxes. “Doesn’t look like you’ve decided whether or not to stick around yet.”

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