Page 41 of The Pack

“You are,” I insisted, my chest tightening as I reached for him. My fingers brushed the fur on his arm, and he flinched but didn’t pull away. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

The woods were silent around us and for the first time in my life, I realized the world I thought I understood was built on lies.

Logan wasn’t feral. He wasn’t a monster.

He was still my brother.

For months, we stayed hidden, the curtains drawn, the doors locked. Logan refused to go outside, terrified that someone would see him and report him.

In London, the law was clear: all wolves went feral, and all wolves were a danger. If you were bitten, if you turned, you were no longer human. You were no longer anything. You ceased being a citizen and if you didn’t report yourself, you were punished.

The government didn’t waste time debating the merits of saving shifters. They were sent to Ireland, where the wild land had become a dumping ground for everything England wanted to forget.

And if you helped a wolf?

You were as good as dead.

At first, I believed the government’s lies. I’d grown up hearing them—hearing about the raids, the chaos wolves brought, the violence they carried. But Logan wasn’t like that. He wasn’t violent or out of control. He was still Logan.

He still laughed at my bad jokes. He still sang off-key when he cooked breakfast. He was still the big brother who had taken care of me when I was little and scraped my knees.

But the fear never left his eyes.

The night they found us was the worst night of my life.

I’d set up a room for him behind the closet—a hidden panel he could slip behind whenever someone came to the door. It wasn’t much, but it had kept him safe.

Until it didn’t.

I still didn’t know how they found us. Maybe someone had noticed the strange hours we kept. Maybe I’d been careless. It didn’t matter. They came in force—police officers in dark uniforms, their boots loud against the wooden floor.

They dragged Logan out of his hiding place, ignoring his protests, ignoring my screams.

“I need to find him,” I said aloud, the words breaking through the quiet. The pack looked at me, their faces shadowed in the flickering light.

“Don’t worry, lass. We will,” Magnus whispered.

Callum offered a small smile, Killian a mischievous grin. Tobias grunted, and Thorne…

Thorne’s pale blue eyes met mine, warm and calm. He didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes told me enough.

I wasn’t alone anymore.

I had them.

The next morning came really early.

Magnus stood near the fireplace, a small, tattered map spread across the table before him. His dark hair gleamed in the early morning light, making him look like something out of astorybook—calm, commanding, and entirely too handsome for his own good.

“Are we ready?” he asked briskly as he scanned the faces around him.

Tobias nodded, his dark eyes narrowing. “Callum and I will scout the path ahead. Thorne and Killian can bring up the rear.”

“And Zara?” Magnus asked, his head turning toward me.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, standing a little straighter.

Magnus’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile crossing his face. Without a word, he stepped forward and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small yellow flower, its petals bright and cheerful against the roughness of his hand.

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