Page 32 of Fated Wolf's Redemption

The wind tears across the ridge as I tighten the field pack against my chest, cinching the straps until they bite into my palms. Everything I need is inside—clothes, water, an extra clip of ammo in a comms bead just in case she’s stupid enough to have brought one and hasn't turned it on.

She didn’t leave a trail so much as a damn flare. Only a note that says‘Had to follow the wind. Don’t come after me.’Yeah, like that was going to work.

I crouch low beside the tree line, nose to the dirt, fingers sifting through crushed pine needles and broken brush. The ground is soft here. She was moving fast, but not recklessly. Her prints are clean. Even in her anger and frustration, she’s calculated. My jaw tightens.

A low growl hums in my chest as I rise to my feet. The scent of her curls around me—wildflowers, lightning, stubborn pride. I roll my neck, tilting my head toward the dark horizon. She’s heading southeast, toward Ash Creek. Of all the reckless, dangerous, suicidal… I stop myself before the thought finishes. No. I don’t get to rage at her yet. Not until I have her in front of me.

I step back from the trail and drag in a slow breath. The storm building inside me is clawing for release. My wolf presses hard beneath my skin, impatient, coiled, wild. I can’t track her on foot and keep my head at the same time. I need my wolf—the hunter.

My boots hit the dirt with a thud as I strip, one layer at a time—jacket, shirt, jeans. I roll them quickly, stuffing the bundle into the side pocket of the field pack. I leave the bag where I’ll be ableto pick it up easily with my teeth. It’s not ideal, running like this with extra weight, but I’ll be faster than any vehicle.

Faster than fear.

The shift crashes through me like lightning hitting dry forest. Mist curls up from the ground, drawn to my skin like it remembers the shape of me. Shards of blue and gray whip through the air as the storm pulls tight. Thunder answers, not from the sky—but from inside my chest. The wind howls and the earth cracks beneath my knees. A surge of lightning and fire, mist curling like a cyclone around my form. Then in the blink of an eye, the storm clears, and I stand on four legs, fur thick and dark as smoke, muscles coiled beneath my hide, breath steady and deep.

The world sharpens instantly. The forest isn’t quiet—it’s alive. I can hear the rustle of wings high in the trees, the scurry of a fox three ridges down. But all I care about is the scent trail that punches through the air like the heat of a wildfire.

Sophia.

Her path cuts east, weaving through narrow rock passes and creek beds, following ridges only someone born to the wind would dare. Typical. She never picks the easy way. I pick up the pack. My paws dig into the dirt, and I move—fast and low, slipping between trees and across stone without a sound.

The pack is a weight I barely register. What I do register is the rapid beat of my heart and the way my mind keeps flicking between what I’ll say when I find her… and what I’ll do.

She ran from me. Again. After everything. After what we’ve said. What we’ve done. Outside the cabin—our bodies tangled together, her mouth on mine, her hands dragging me in like she wanted to keep me buried inside her until she forgot her own name.

And now she’s gone. Out here alone. Tracking a madman whose idea of science involves torturing shifters and cracking holes in the veil between worlds.

I leap over a fallen log, landing in a low crouch, nose to the ground. Her scent is still strong, but it's shifting—saltier now, like sweat and adrenaline. She's pushing herself hard. Good. Maybe she’s finally afraid.

The wind changes direction and her scent hits me harder—closer now. Less than two miles. I push harder, muscles burning. My mind races with everything I want to tell her. That she’s reckless. Brilliant. Infuriating. Mine. That if she dies before I see her again, I’ll burn every inch of Ash Creek to the ground just to drag her ghost back and yell at it.

And maybe I’ll kiss her so hard she forgets how to argue, or maybe I’ll pin her against the next wall and remind her she is mine.

Branches slap against my fur, snapping behind me. I don’t slow. The closer I get, the more the scent changes. Something else is in the air now—sterile, chemical, metallic. My lip curls. I recognize the same stench from the cabin. Cain’s work.

I hit a clearing and skid to a stop, dirt spraying in a wide arc. Ahead, through a veil of fog and underbrush, I catch a glint of old glass. A building—half-collapsed, brick bones showing through decades of ivy and rot. The old Cain estate.

And right there in front of it, crouched low behind a boulder with her dagger in hand and her braid whipping in the wind, is Sophia. The scent trail is faint, but it’s there—wildflowers and ozone. Hers.

The ground drops into a ravine, but I don’t slow. I leap, but it wasn’t clean. It wasn’t right.

I stagger for a breath. Too fast. Too much.

Something's wrong. Not with me. With the land.

The wind tastes like rust. The air's too still. The closer I get to Ash Creek, the more the world feels… off. Unnatural.

I run faster.

Sophia's scent pulls me forward, curling through the pine and ash. The old estate is barely a structure anymore—a rotting husk swallowed by time and forest. Moss-covered stone, collapsed walls, a wrought-iron fence half-buried in dead leaves.

She's standing outside the rusted gate. Her back is straight, arms folded, but I can see the way her fingers twitch near her blade. Her head turns just slightly when she hears me.

I shift, the mist curling around me again, this time steadier. Controlled. When it clears, I step from the trees, fully clothed thanks to the spare pack strapped to my flank.

"You disobeyed me," I say flatly.

Sophia doesn’t flinch. "Disobeyed you? I wasn’t aware I owed you my obedience."

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