Page 27 of Fated Wolf's Destiny

Lucas’s jaw tightens, and I wonder if he’s going to shut me out. But then he leans forward slightly, lowering his voice. “Arthur might’ve been onto something,” he admits, “but it also might have been something that wasn’t paranormal. There are people—groups—who don’t play by the rules. Illegal hunting, trafficking, harvesting old-growth timber, and worse. If Arthur got too close to any of that...”

The weight of his words settles over me, heavy and suffocating. “You don’t think he died of natural causes either, do you?”

Lucas doesn’t answer, but his silence speaks volumes.

The air between us is thick with unspoken truths. Finally, I reach for Arthur’s notes, flipping to a page with sketches of oversized pawprints and detailed descriptions of injuries.

“Look at this,” I say, pointing to a note and a sketch of a deep gash on a deer carcass. “Arthur thought it looked like a wolf attack, but bigger. More violent.”

Lucas’s eyes narrow as he reads, his unease visibly deepening. “Mutants,” he mutters under his breath, so quiet I almost miss it.

“What?” I ask sharply.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “Just a theory.”

But I don’t believe him, and suspicion twists in my chest. Lucas might be more open than Ryder, but he’s still holding back.

“Bella,” he says, his tone softer now. “Be careful with this. Arthur was a good man, but his curiosity might’ve put him in harm’s way. I don’t want the same thing happening to you.”

His concern is genuine, but it doesn’t quell the fire building inside me. “I can’t ignore this, Lucas,” I say firmly. “Arthur trusted me to carry on his work, and this is part of it. I owe it to him to figure out what’s going on.”

Lucas nods slowly, his gaze lingering on me. “Just promise me you’ll be smart about it,” he says. “And if you need help... you’ll ask for it. The pack might have turned their backs on your grandmother, but neither Ryder nor I would do that to you.”

The offer catches me off guard, and I see something in Lucas’s eyes—something earnest, maybe even protective.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, my resolve hardening.

As he leaves, the stray dog whimpers, and I go back to give him a cuddle. I glance back at Arthur’s notes. The pieces don’t fit together yet, but they’re beginning to form a picture—a picture of what, I’m not sure, but at least I know it’s a picture of something. And I have a sinking feeling that whatever’s out there, it’s more dangerous—and more connected to Arthur’s death—than I ever imagined.

The clinic is quiet except for the whirring of the centrifuge spinning a sample of blood I drew from the injured dog earlier. The mutt, now patched up and dozing on a blanket in his crate, whimpers softly in his sleep, his legs twitching like he’s chasing something in a dream. I should feel some sense of relief—the injury was manageable, the dog safe—but the nagging questions won’t let me rest.

I study the vial in my hand, holding it up to the light. The blood looks normal, but something about it is off. The chemical compound I detected during the initial test doesn’t make sense. It’s not something I’ve ever seen before in an animal’sbloodstream. The machine didn’t recognize it either, spitting back an error message that only added to my frustration.

“What the hell were you on to, Arthur?” I mutter under my breath.

The doorbell jingles, the sound cutting through the silence. I turn to see Dorothy stepping in, a small basket clutched in her hand. Her cheerful smile falters slightly when she sees the tension on my face.

“Bad time?” she asks, her tone gentle.

“No, just busy,” I say, forcing a smile. “What brings you by?”

She sets the basket on the counter, the smell of more fresh-baked muffins wafting out as she unties the corners of the cloth drawn over them. “Thought you could use a little pick-me-up,” she says. “Running this place on your own can’t be easy.”

I soften at her kindness, taking one of the muffins and biting into it. It’s still warm, the buttery sweetness melting on my tongue. “Thanks, Dorothy. I needed this more than I realized.”

She watches me, her sharp eyes scanning the room. “You’re doing good work here, Bella,” she says finally. “Arthur would be proud.”

Her words hit harder than I expect, and I have to clear my throat before responding. “I just hope I’m doing enough,” I say.

She looks as if she might say more, perhaps elaborate on our last discussion, but then she shuts down. Why can’t people in this town just talk straight without subterfuge and hidden meaning? I can’t help but wonder if she knows more than she’s letting on. Before I can press her, the bell jingles again, and Gus steps in, wiping his hands on a rag that’s already stained with grease.

“Good thing you dropped your Jeep off earlier in the day. I’ve got it running smoother than a fast-flowing river,” he says, giving me a nod. Then his eyes drift to the dog and the blood samples on the counter. “You’ve been busy.”

“Always,” I reply, glancing between him and Dorothy and moving the vials of blood behind the counter. There’s something grounding about having both of them here, like the clinic’s heartbeat is stronger with their presence, but at this point I don’t know who I can trust.

Gus scratches his chin, his gruff voice softer than usual. “Arthur thought the world of you, you know. Always said you were sharp. Brave, too.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly, the weight of their support settling over me like a warm blanket. “I’m just trying to figure out what he was working on before... before he died.”

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