Page 6 of Falling for My Shifter Defender

As we walk toward the parking lot, Willow slips her small hand into mine and squeezes. I squeeze back, trying to convey a confidence I don't feel.

Just one night, I remind myself.We've survived worse.

But as I watch Eli's broad shoulders ahead of us, I can't shake the feeling that I've just made a decision I can't take back. That somehow, in agreeing to this one night, I've set us on a path that will change everything.

The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I follow Eli down a narrow hallway, Willow's hand clutched tightly in mine. His cabin smells of cedar and something else—something wild that reminds me of rain-soaked forests. It's not large, but it's solid. Secure. The windows have proper locks, and I've already counted two possible exit routes besides the front door.

"It's not much," Eli says, pushing open a door at the end of the hall, "but it's clean."

The spare room is simple—a full-sized bed with a patchwork quilt, a nightstand with a reading lamp, and a small dresser beneath a window that looks out into dense woods. No decorations, no personal touches. Just the essentials.

"Bathroom's across the hall," he continues, gesturing vaguely. "Towels in the cabinet. Help yourself to whatever you need."

Willow immediately bounces onto the bed, testing its softness with delighted little hops. "It's so squishy!" she exclaims, her earlier wariness momentarily forgotten.

I remain in the doorway, still clutching our backpack. The room feels like a trap and a sanctuary all at once. "Thank you," I manage, the words stiff and unpracticed on my tongue.

Eli nods, keeping a careful distance between us. "I'll be in the living room if you need anything." He hesitates, then adds, "Lock the door if it makes you feel better."

The fact that he understands this need without judgment makes something twist in my chest. I nod once, sharply, unable to meet his eyes.

"Night, Willow," he says, his voice gentling as he addresses my sister.

She stops bouncing long enough to wave. "Night, Mr. Eli!"

"Just Eli is fine," he says with a small smile before turning away.

I wait until his footsteps retreat down the hall before closing the door and engaging the lock with trembling fingers. The soft click brings a momentary relief.

"I like him," Willow declares, resuming her bouncing. "He smells right."

I set our backpack on the dresser and begin unpacking the essentials—toothbrushes, Willow's stuffed wolf, the switchblade I keep wrapped in a washcloth. "What does that mean, he 'smells right'?"

She shrugs, the gesture so adult it makes my heart ache. "Like pack. Like belonging." She stops bouncing, suddenly serious. "The bad men didn't smell right. They smelled like metal and anger."

I swallow hard. Willow rarely speaks about the hunters who killed her parents. Sometimes I wonder how much she actually remembers and how much her mind has mercifully blurred.

"Come on, time to get ready for bed," I say, deflecting. "Teeth brushed, pajamas on."

She complies without argument, which tells me how exhausted she really is. While she's in the bathroom, I check the window—second floor, but there's a sloped roof beneath it that would make for a possible escape route if necessary. I test the glass, making sure it opens smoothly, before drawing the curtains closed.

When Willow returns, her face scrubbed and her hair a wild tangle, I tuck her into bed and slide in beside her. She curls against me immediately, her small body radiating heat like a tiny furnace.

"Will we stay here tomorrow too?" she asks, her voice already heavy with sleep.

I stroke her hair, untangling it with gentle fingers. "I don't know yet, Wills. We'll figure it out in the morning."

"I hope we stay," she murmurs. "I'm tired of running."

The simple truth of it pierces me. She's seven years old. She should be worried about school projects and making friends, not whether we'll have to flee in the middle of the night again.

"Me too," I whisper.

Chapter 3

Grace

I wake with a jolt, heart pounding against my ribs. The room is too quiet, lacking the hum of vending machines and the distant rumble of highway traffic I've grown accustomed to. For a disorienting moment, I don't know where I am—only that the space beside me is empty.

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