Page 74 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
He howls, signaling his twisted version of victory.
Later that night after Bode has shifted back into his human form, he carries me—yes, carries me—to a cabin near the edge of the set. It’s surreal. The courtship, the pretense of romance. I keep my body distant but let my words tease just enough to keep him talking.
He dreams of power. Of dominance. Of using me—my magic—to control the pack, to rise as some kind of new alpha king. He speaks in half-truths and veiled threats, but I catch enough between the lines.
He thinks Noah is weak. A throwaway. That thought alone nearly sets me off. My fire stirs, dangerously close to the surface, but I rein it in. I need to keep my cover.
I scan the cabin with every pass—doors, locks, possible weapons
I see jewelry for the shoots, film dailies scattered across a cluttered desk, and a stack of heavily annotated scripts marked with strange glyphs in the margins—wards, I think, or incantations disguised as director’s notes.
There’s a corkboard above the desk with photos pinned to it– people. Familiar faces. Agent Leighton, Marcus, Captain Green, Noah. Even me. Red thread connects some of the pictures like a deranged conspiracy web. A map sits beneath it all, charred at the edges. I recognize the dots marked in permanent black ink—arson sites. Burn scars across the Bitterroot.
On the table closest to the kitchenette, there’s a half-burned notebook left open. I glance at it when Bode turns to refill hisdrink. Phrases jump out—“controlled ignition,” “flame response to blood,” and “threshold test complete.”
He’s been experimenting.
And then there’s the camera equipment—dozens of SD cards tossed in a tin, unlabeled. If he’s documenting everything, there might be proof buried in the footage. Evidence. Confessions. Or worse.
This place isn’t just a hideout.
It’s his lab.
His shrine.
His war room—holy, haunted, and humming with the kind of dark ambition that crawls under the skin and makes your blood forget how to behave.
And I’m stuck in the center of it.
But when I press for too many details, his eyes sharpen. His mood shifts.
I ease off, keep it light. He can’t know I’m FBI, which means my FBI skills must be kept under wraps...for now. I walk the line. Flirtation and caution. Close enough to fool him. Far enough to keep him from triggering the final bond.
He’s growing impatient. As his frustration mounts, so does the danger.
I can feel the storm coming.
And I know I’ll have to weather it alone.
Time passes in slow motion. I feel myself drift in and out of consciousness.
Noah appears like a ghost from the shadows, silent and furious, grabbing me the moment we’re alone in the cabin–rough and real and shaking.
“I couldn’t stay away,” he growls. “I felt you call me.”
We collide, mouths crashing together with desperate heat. His hands roam over me, searching for injuries, reassurance, anything to ground himself. My fingers knot in his shirt. I don’t care about the danger or the cameras or the blood in the air. I need him. Here. Now.
Clothes are shed in frantic pulls. We fall back onto the bed just out of reach of the fire. Our bodies meet with a hunger born of fear and longing. Every thrust is a vow. Every gasp, a plea. I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him deeper, anchoring him to this moment before the world burns us both.
“Noah,” I breathe against his lips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t,” he whispers.
His lips silence my apology, his kiss fierce and demanding. His hands grip my hips, pulling me tighter against him, our bodies moving in a rhythm that's both urgent and deliberate. I feel his need, a burning intensity that matches my own. He rolls his hips, slow and deliberate, each movement a tantalizing promise. I arch into him, craving more, my nails digging into his back.
The cabin around us fades into obscurity—the flickering fire, the shadows cast by the cameras, the faint scent of smoke—all of it blurs as Noah’s presence consumes me. His kiss is a storm, his tongue demanding entry, tasting me like he’s starving and I’m his only sustenance. I melt into him, my legs trembling as I wrap them around his waist, urging him closer. His muscular frame presses against me, his wolf tattoo a reminder of the primal force beneath his skin.
He teases, withdrawing slightly, only to thrust deeper, hitting a spot that makes me cry out. My breath catches, my bodyarching involuntarily as pleasure spirals through me.“Close,”I whisper, my voice hoarse, my breath hot against his ear. His growl vibrates against my skin, a sound that’s both animalistic and tender. His hands guide me, his pace quickening, urging me higher, closer to the edge.
