Page 31 of Fated Wolf's Destiny

The connection forms in my mind, terrifying and undeniable.

What if the members of the Crimson Claw aren’t just wolf-shifters? Arthur kept referring to them as mutants—Lucas andRyder as well. But mutants are normally an abnormality and don’t exist in large numbers. What if someone is creating them in a lab somewhere to be some kind of super soldier? Wolves would be able to travel farther and faster, would have more resiliency to environmental concerns…

I shake my head, trying to banish the thought. It’s absurd. Wolves don’t mix with humans, not like that. You can’t breed two such different species to one another, can you?

And yet, as I sit there in the dim light of the clinic, Arthur’s words looping in my head, I can’t ignore the nagging sense that he was onto something. Something bigger. Something that might have gotten him killed.

I glance toward the window, the night pressing against the glass like a silent reminder of how close everything feels. The woods are out there, dark and waiting, and I can’t shake the feeling that whatever Arthur was chasing, it hasn’t left Shadow Hollow.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries greets me as I step into the Moonlight Café the following morning. It’s a comforting scent, the kind that usually makes you feel like the world isn’t so bad. But today, even the smell of Dorothy’s cinnamon rolls that her bakery provides exclusively for the café can’t ease the knot in my chest.

Marjorie waves me over from behind the counter, her bright smile faltering slightly when she catches the concern on my face. “Bella, dear, over here. You look like you’ve been chasing demons.”

“Something like that,” I say, forcing a weak smile as I slide onto a stool.

Gus is sitting in his usual spot at the counter, nursing a cup of black coffee and looking like he’s been here since sunrise. His gruff nod is as close to a greeting as I’ll get.

Marjorie sets a steaming mug of coffee in front of me, her sharp eyes softening as she leans on the counter. “What’s got you all tied up, hun? Don’t tell me it’s just the clinic. You’ve got that same look Arthur used to get when something didn’t sit right with him.”

I glance at her, the weight of Arthur’s notes and the strange discoveries I’ve made pressing down on me. “It’s... complicated,” I say carefully. “I’ve been going through Arthur’s files. There’s more there than I expected.”

Gus grunts, joining us and setting his cup down with a thud. “Arthur always had a knack for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.”

“Gus,” Marjorie scolds.

“I’m not saying he was wrong to do it.” He glances at me, his weathered face serious. “Just that some people object to that kind of thing.” Gus moves over to the stool next to mine. “You don’t think he died of a heart attack, do you?”

My stomach tightens. “No, I don’t,” I admit. “Some of the things I’ve found don’t make sense. And if he was onto something dangerous...”

Marjorie cuts me off, her voice unusually firm. “He was onto something. And it wasn’t just dangerous—it was important. Arthur wouldn’t have risked himself for anything less.”

Her words catch me off guard. “You think he was murdered.”

Gus exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t know for sure. But the timing was suspicious. He was healthy as an ox one day, gone the next. And there were rumors. Things in the woods, strange tracks near his place. Doesn’t sit right.”

Dorothy nods, her expression grim. “You’ve got friends here, Bella. People who cared about Arthur, just like you did. If you need help, you ask, you hear me?”

The lump in my throat makes it hard to speak, so I just nod. Their support is unexpected but deeply appreciated, and it strengthens my resolve. Arthur wasn’t alone in his fight, and neither am I.

The sheriff’s office still smells like stale coffee as I walk in, a sharp contrast to the warm familiarity of the café. Sheriff Barnes sits behind his desk, his broad shoulders hunched as he goes over a stack of papers. He glances up when I walk in, his expression flickering with a hint of irritation before he forces a smile.

“Bella,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “What can I do for you?”

I set my bag on the edge of his desk and pull out Arthur’s notes, the stack of papers feeling heavier than it should. “I found something,” I say, my voice steady despite the unease bubbling in my chest. “In Arthur’s files.”

He raises an eyebrow, but his tone stays casual. “Did you now? And what’s that?”

I lay Arthur’s papers out and compare the information in them to the chemical compound I found in Blue’s blood and the notes on unusual injuries. “Arthur documented injuries that don’t match local wildlife—deep gashes, oversized tracks. And then there’s this,” I say, tapping the page with the chemical analysis. “This compound isn’t natural. It might be linked to illegal poaching. And if it’s tied to the Crimson Claw…”

“Hold on,” Barnes interrupts, his tone sharp but dismissive. “The Crimson Claw, if they exist, are nothing more than a nuisance—just wild animals. They don’t have the organization or intelligence to be involved in anything like this.”

“Are you sure about that?” I challenge, my frustration slipping through. “Because Arthur wasn’t. And the things he wrote down—he believed there was more to this than just ‘wild animals.’”

Barnes leans back, rubbing his chin. “Arthur liked to dig,” he says carefully. “And sometimes, when you dig too deep, you find things that were never meant to be found.”

“That’s not an answer,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

His expression hardens, his usual affable demeanor replaced by something colder. “I’m telling you to be careful,” he says evenly. “Arthur’s curiosity didn’t do him any favors, and I’d hate to see you follow in his footsteps.”

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