Page 19 of Fated Wolf's Redemption

Kylie whistles again behind me. “Damn, you scored the view room.”

Oscar nods toward the end of the hall. “I’ll scout the perimeter after sunset. Kylie, are you good for supplies tomorrow?”

“Already on it.”

They disappear into their rooms, and I shut my door, leaning against it for a second longer than I should. This place might not be safe, but we might be needed here, and that scares me more than anything.

Later that night, the lodge buzzes with the energy of wolves who can feel something coming. The air is tight with agitation. We’re all waiting for the next Crimson Claw strike. They’ve already hit two outposts and a supply run. They’re not attacking openly—but they’re getting bolder.

Lucas hasn’t said a word to me. I’ve seen him. Heard him. Felt him. He keeps his distance, which should make things easier, but it doesn’t.

I try to focus on the legends, the signs, the way the land seems to shift under my feet, like it’s whispering something I don’t quite understand.

In Windrider lore, soulbonds were rare—wolves drawn together by the earth itself when the land fractured. The bond wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t sweet. It restored something broken. Something primal. Something we forgot.

I stare at the passage until the words blur together. Lucas isn’t the kind of wolf who believes in fate. Oh, he believes Ryder and Isabella are fated mates, but he thinks they’re a fluke. And me? I’m not the kind of wolf who wants to need anyone.

But here we are, and something tells me the earth doesn’t care what either of us wants.

The air on the training grounds behind the lodge smells like rain and bruised grass. Silver clouds still streak the sky above, but the storm that threatened earlier has passed, leaving everything damp and charged.

I roll my shoulders and stretch, feet bare against the packed earth. I’m already sweating, and we haven’t even started yet. Lucas stands across from me, chest bare and wearing only low-hung training pants that cling to his hips like they were tailored for distraction. And if they weren’t enough, the cut chest and eight-pack abs are enough to make me drool.

Every night I hear his footsteps in the hallway outside my door. Each night they pause and I stand on the other side, listening. And then he moves down the hall to his own room.

This is stupid. Training with him is a bad idea. It always ends one of two ways—with bruises or with tension so sharp I could cut myself on it.

“Stop overthinking,” Lucas says, voice quiet but direct. “You’re already ten moves ahead in your head, which means your body’s going to be too slow to keep up.”

I look at him askance. “You trying to coach me or beat me?”

His eyes narrow just slightly. “Why can’t it be both?”

“Because I don’t need a coach.”

Lucas drops into a low stance, his muscles shifting beneath his skin, fluid and controlled. “Then keep up.”

The first few strikes are easy—test shots. Probing. We circle each other, barefoot in the dirt, hands up, focus razor sharp. I dart in, trying to catch him off guard, but he sidesteps, grabs my wrist, and uses my momentum to send me stumbling forward, swatting my backside as I stumble past him. I twist away, barely avoiding hitting the ground.

“Still overthinking,” he says, tone maddeningly calm.

“You’re still a condescending asshole.”

This time I lunge first, putting everything behind a low sweeping kick that forces him to jump back. He recovers fast, catching my wrist again, but I pivot my hips and roll through, breaking his grip.

We separate. I’m breathing harder than I want him to see.

“Better,” he says.

“Shut up.”

He lunges. I duck and sidestep. His hand catches my waist, spinning me, but I twist with him and plant my foot against his thigh to push off. He doesn’t let go.

We go down hard.

Lucas lands on his back. I land on top of him, one arm braced on his chest, legs straddling his hips. The contact is instant and electric.

Neither of us moves.

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