Page 18 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
The real question is: what scent was he chasing... or desperately hoping no one else would find??
I need to find out.
Chapter six
Wolves at the Door
NOAH
Iroll the stone between my fingers, its surface smooth and cold—until it isn’t. Heat pulses beneath the carved ridges, just enough to prickle against my skin like a warning. A protection rune on it, but what is it protecting?
It's been three days since she's touched it, and her scent still lingers on the stone—lavender smoke with an edge of scorched earth and wild musk, primal and untamed, curling beneath the sweetness like a growl waiting to surface. I close my eyes and inhale deeply.
Witch energy. No doubt about it. But not hostile. Not yet.
The same energy laced through the ashes I found at the last fire site. The same strange tug in my chest when Sera’s near. Andnow this rock, pulled from the embers like a clue too obvious for me to ignore. And it’s not the only one apparently. My instincts scream one thing: we’re not alone out here. And we’re up against a lot more than your average arsonist.
But what does Sera have to do with all this? How did she find the stone? Did she know it was there? Was she just retrieving it, or like me, was she looking for clues? Does she know who is behind the arsons?
My mind won’t stop whirring, and I have no one to confide in. No pack, no mate, no one to rely on but myself. Damn it! If I could only trust her. It would be nice to have someone to share my secrets with for once in my life.
I pace my office, boots thudding against the worn tile. A rogue pack. It has to be. The scent in the ashes was muddled—wild, unclaimed. Not local. But trying to prove it? That’s a whole other beast. I can’t just walk up to the Captain and say, “Hey, I think there are unsanctioned werewolves torching our forests and leaving charred corpses behind.”
Yeah. That’d go over real well.
Instead, I scan a lunar calendar on the wall. Red circles mark specific days—the arsons forming a grim pattern across the months. My throat tightens.
Every one of them aligns with the full moon.
The realization hits me like a freight train. I smack my forehead. Of course, during every arson, my wolf was gnawing at me.
My mind whirrs. If it is a pack, it means they are not only ruthless. They're strategic. So am I. And now I know when to expect them.
But that leaves only three days until the next full moon!
Which means three days to figure out who’s behind this. Three days to stop another wildfire. Three days to make sure I don’t become the next headline. Because if the rogue wolves arenearby, they’ll smell me too. And if I lose control—if the moon’s pull hits me wrong—I could become exactly what I’m trying to stop.
I scrub a hand through my hair and grab my keys. I need grounding, perspective, something real. There’s only one place I can find that.
Home.
The Benson house smells like cinnamon, soap, and memories I don’t deserve. The screen door creaks as I step inside, and Mom’s already turning from the stove, wooden spoon in hand and apron dusted with flour.
“Well, look who the fire dragged in,” she says, beaming.
I smile for the first time all day. “Hey, Ma.” I sneak up and give her a kiss.
Dad’s voice booms from the living room. “Thought I smelled burnt toast.”
“Stuff it, old man,” I call back, dropping my gear bag by the door.
I treasure these moments with my parents. Everything as predictable as my mother’s inevitable complaints about her kitchen. “Dinner will be ready soon, if this old stove can make it through another meal,” she manages to work into the conversation now. My dad just rolls his eyes and chuckles.
“One of these days I swear I’m going to burn it down and start from scratch!” she playfully threatens, hurling a side glance at her husband already seated at the table.
I envy them both, so secure in each other’s love. Knowing that, no matter what, they have a mate for life. No secrets between them; they know everything there is to know about each other and love each other anyway.
Dinner is roast chicken and potatoes, warm bread slathered in butter, and the kind of laughter that shakes the dust off your bones. For a moment, I almost believe I’m just a regular guy, not a ticking time bomb with a haunted past.
