Page 21 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
It’s Noah.
Last night at the pub, I caught a flicker of something in his expression when the silver-haired director walked in—tight shoulders, clenched jaw, eyes that tracked like a predatorrecognizing another hunter. Not fear exactly. More like... recognition. And maybe something darker.
I replay the moment again as I wander the shops downtown. Something about the way he stiffened made my gut clench. Like he knew this guy—knew the weight of his footsteps, the danger curled behind his easy smile. Knew exactly what kind of ruin he could bring.
And that’s when Marcus struts past the bookstore window, grinning like a devil as he nudges one of the female crew members, whispering something that makes her laugh and blush. Classic Marcus—he’d flirt with a fire hydrant if it winked at him. But this time there’s something almost... practiced about it.
I file it away.
The bartender from last night, Cora, greets me when I step into the pub for a quick pick-me-up. Small talk turns into big answers after I ask about the film crew.
“They've been here filming some backcountry eco-documentary for the past five or six months,” she says, handing over my latte. “But I haven’t seen a single camera set up. It's all out in the woods supposedly.”
I raise a brow. “What about the director? What’s his story?”
Cora leans in, voice dropping. “He's a local. That’s Bode Lunaris. Noah’s uncle, technically. Used to live here decades ago before he left town right after that terrible house fire.”
House fire.
She doesn’t have to spell it out. I know she meansthehouse fire—the one that killed Noah’s real parents. The one that left him orphaned. For some reason, the FBI has lots of information on that particular fire.
My chest tightens.
“Only blood Noah had left, and the bastard vanished when it mattered most. Can you believe that?" Cora's on a roll. "Ofcourse, Noah was far better off growing up with the Bensons as his folks if you ask me."
True that.
I thank her and step back out into the crisp mountain air, heart pounding in a rhythm that feels too personal for someone who’s just investigating.
I’m supposed to be objective. I’m supposed to gather facts, not get tangled up in the emotional debris of my suspect’s past.
But Noah…
Noah is complicated.
And the more I learn, the more I start to question whether I’m hunting a criminal—or protecting one from something worse.
Still, none of this changes my mission.
It just makes the truth a whole lot messier.
The grocery store’s lighting is a little too bright, the kind of sterile that amplifies how tired you look when you’re trying not to be noticed. I loiter near the cold case, one eye on the checkout lanes and the other on the entrance. When he walks in, I don’t even have to fake the shiver.
Bode Lunaris.
He moves with the casual arrogance of someone used to being watched and obeyed. Worn denim, thick jacket, a beanie pulled low over silver-streaked hair. Rugged, camera-friendly in that weathered-woodsman way. He doesn’t notice me until he turns the corner and spots me holding a frozen pizza like it might whisper secrets.
“Oh hey,” I say, feigning breathlessness. “Weren’t you at the bar last night? You’re the director, right?”
He gives me a once-over and smiles. “Depends who’s asking.”
I widen my eyes, cranking up the small-town charm. “Just a curious nobody. I’ve never met a real director before.”
He chuckles. “Well, now you have. Bode. I’m filming a piece on climate risk and wildland burn patterns.”
“Wow,” I say, watching him toss a half-dozen cartons of eggs and three gallons of milk into his cart. “That’s really cool. What kind of stuff have you filmed before?”
“Oh, mainly documentaries. Some of my best work never made it out of post,” he says cryptically. “But I do love returning to the places I know best. Montana’s full of good stories.”
