Page 7 of Fated Wolf's Destiny

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches too long, and I decide to push. “I don’t know that I believe Arthur died of natural causes.”

“So, I’ve heard,” he says levelly.

“I’d like to hear your thoughts on that. Arthur considered you a friend, but you don’t seem concerned about his sudden death.”

He and everybody else in town might as well know how I feel.

The sheriff’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his tone neutral. “We’ve been over this when you were here for the funeral, Bella. It was natural causes. His heart gave out.” There’s a pause and his expression softens. “And I was his friend.”

“Were you?” I counter, my voice sharper than I intend. “Arthur was healthier than most men half his age. He hiked every weekend. He...”

“Bella.” He holds up a hand, his voice firm but not unkind. “Sometimes these things just happen. You don’t have to like it, but that doesn’t mean there’s more to it.”

His deflection feels deliberate, and my frustration bubbles over. “What aren’t you telling me, Sheriff? Because everyone in this town seems awfully quick to write off what happened, but I’m not buying it.”

His eyes meet mine, and for a brief moment, something flickers there—an unease, a hesitation. But it’s gone as quickly as it came. He places his hat back on his head, his stance shifting as if to close the conversation.

“Shadow Hollow’s a small town,” he says evenly. “People talk. You’re going to hear a lot of things, not all of them true. My advice? Focus on the clinic—either to get it reopened or to sell it. Arthur would want that.”

And with that, he turns and walks out, leaving me standing in the empty reception area with more questions than answers.

The door clicks shut behind him, and the quiet feels louder than ever. I glance back toward Arthur’s office, unease prickling the back of my neck. Something doesn’t sit right with me—something about the sheriff’s carefully measured words, the way he avoided looking directly at me. He knows more than he’s saying. They all do.

As I lock the door, I can’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—is watching. The dark forest looms on the edge of the property, its shadows deeper than they should be. I thinkI see something move—a flash of amber eyes glowing in the distance.

The wolf.

My breath catches, but when I blink, the eyes are gone.

Shadow Hollow isn’t just a small town. It’s a secret, and it’s pulling me in deeper with every step I take.

CHAPTER 3

ISABELLA

Isit cross-legged on the floor of Arthur’s office, the smell of old wood and dust filling my nose as I rummage through the contents of the desk drawers. The light from the window is dim, casting long shadows across the room. It’s quieter here than I remember—too quiet, as if the clinic is keeping its own secrets and refusing to share.

Arthur’s desk is like a time capsule. Faded sticky notes, pens chewed at the ends, and crumpled papers are stuffed into every nook. But it’s not the ordinary clutter that draws my attention. It’s the thick notebook I uncover tucked at the very back of the bottom drawer, its edges worn like it’s been read and reread a thousand times.

The moment I open it, my stomach knots. The pages are covered in Arthur’s precise handwriting, each line a mixture of clinical observations and something else—something darker. Notes on injuries I don’t recognize:

Deep puncture wounds, irregular spacing, resembling bite marks. Too large for local wildlife. Afew pages later: Found prints again near the eastern ridge. Too large for a wolf. Track pattern… wrong.

“What the hell were you doing, Arthur?” I whisper, the words barely audible in the stillness.

The notebook shifts between his usual professionalism and… paranoia? Frustration? I skim further and find a sketch—a pawprint, massive, outlined with measurements. Beside it, a note reads:

Near the clinic. Twice now. Unmistakable presence.

The room feels colder. I press my fingers to the edges of the page as though touching the paper will help me understand what he saw. My breath catches when I find another note, this one messier, hurried:

Too close this time. Must stay vigilant. Watch the woods. Are they watching me?

A chill runs down my spine, and I slam the notebook shut. I sit back on my heels, my heart pounding in my chest. Outside, the wind shifts, rustling the overgrown bushes near the window. The sound is enough to pull me back to the present. I push the notebook aside and rise, wiping my palms on my jeans as if I can scrub away the unease crawling under my skin.

I venture outside; the grounds are overgrown. Weeds twist through the fence posts, the gravel driveway is choked with grass, and the once-pristine flower beds are little more than patches of dirt. Arthur loved this place—he spent as much time maintaining it as he did with his patients. Seeing it like this is a gut punch, like staring at the shell of someone I used to know.

I step down the creaky wooden porch steps, the uneven boards shifting under my weight. I walk the perimeter, the faint scent of the trees and the mountains swirling around me. The clinic feels different out here, untamed and too quiet. Every shadow feels alive. Every movement in the woods pulls my attention.

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