Page 8 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
First day. Still getting settled.
I stare at the words. Too vague. Too safe. But what else is safe to share?
The magic in the ashes is real. Agent Leighton didn’t have a chance. That ripple of energy, the way the air shimmered when I touched the earth—it wasn’t imagination. I felt it.
And Noah Benson was there.
Watching me.
Not just casually. He was stalking me. I didn’t see him until the branch cracked, but I felt him. Like being watched across a room and knowing exactly who it is without turning your head.
I don’t know what that means yet. Suspicious, sure. But actionable?
Worse, the energy between us isn’t fading. If anything, it’s growing. That spark when he cuffed me wasn’t just adrenaline. It was something else. Something that crackles in the space between us every time we get too close.
And that’s dangerous.
If he’s involved in the fires, I need to keep my head clear. If he’s not, I need to figure out what the hell he is—and why he feels like a live wire under my skin.
I close the phone and shove it back into the duffel.
First day. Still getting settled.That’s all I’m willing to report.
The rest? The rest stays in my gut, simmering like kindling that hasn’t caught yet.
I curl onto my side, groaning as my body protests. The sheets are scratchy, the room smells like dust and bleach, and someone’s snoring down the hall. But the moment I close my eyes, all I feel is Noah Benson standing in that clearing.
And the stone I found, pulsing with memory.
Sleep hits me like a rubber mallet. Blessed silence.
I wake to boots hitting the floor and the hiss of a shower turning off down the hall. Sunlight slices across the room like a scalpel. My limbs scream in protest as I sit up.
Day two.
The soreness is a dull throb, manageable but insistent. I pull on my uniform, the stiff cotton rubbing against my raw shoulder blades, and head out to the drill yard. The others are already gathering.
Noah stands front and center, coffee and clipboard in hand, morning sun carving angles across his jawline. He’s wearing mirrored sunglasses, which only makes it harder to tell who he’s really looking at.
And God help me, he's looking finer than ever.
“Flashovers and backdrafts,” he announces. “What happens when too much heat builds in a sealed room?”
No one speaks. He waits, then points to Taylor.
Taylor stammers a half-right answer. Noah nods.
I scan the group. Five probies including me. Two guys, three women. Mental profile kicks in.
Taylor—big build, slow thinker, overcompensates.
Rivas—sharp but cocky. Useful or dangerous.
Jamie—nervous, observant.
Nicole—quiet, efficient, a pleaser.
None of them have the presence I sensed at the burn site.
