Page 48 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
SERA
Iperch on the cot in the bunkhouse, arms around my knees, breath shallow, heart refusing to settle. There’s four of us ladies here tonight, me and Jamie and two other firefighters. I hear gentle snoring from one of the beds.
The moon hangs too bright for this hour, like it’s trying to shine a light on all my lies. I can feel its pull like a whisper in my blood, reminding me of last night—of everything I’ve risked.
I shouldn’t have gone out. I shouldn’t have met Ember. And I definitely shouldn’t have handed over that camera.
But I had to.
I check the duffel bag under the bed. The burner phone sits inside, powered off. Even with it off, I feel watched. Like Ember’seyes might pierce through every wall, every lie I’ve wrapped around myself.
Noah knows something’s up. He has to. Hell, he probably knows everything but is too noble—or too strategic—to confront me head-on. Not yet.
I exhale and sink deeper into the mattress, exhaustion finally hitting. I haven't really slept in days. Just naps. Surveilling. Pretending. Wanting things I shouldn't want.
But before sleep takes me, I break my own promise. I pull Noah’s shirt from the duffel bag and inhale him like a secret I can't quit.
It still smells like him. Charred pine. Smoke. That hint of wildness beneath the surface. Something primal and aching.
I bury my face in it, and for a moment, I let myself pretend. Pretend we’re just two people, not enemies or spies or monsters in human skin. Just a man and a woman, caught in the burn of something that was never meant to last.
Sleep takes me before I can stop it, and for once, I don’t fight the dreams that come.
Not yet.
It’s been two days since Nicole’s funeral, and everyone seems to be strangely back to normal. Marcus and Jamie have made full recoveries, at least on the surface.
But other things have changed. Noah is working us harder than ever, intent on not losing anyone else on his watch. I can feel his guilt dripping off him like maple sap.
Marcus seems to be keeping his distance, which is both good and bad. I need to keep him close so I can uncover his story. But not so close that he discovers mine.
And Captain Greene, well, he appears to be fighting demons of his own, even as he continues to deny the supernatural clues all around him. His eyes are rimmed in red, and there’s a slight twitch in his left hand.
By the time we roll the fire truck back into the garage, my arms feel like rubber and my face is streaked with soot. It’s been a relentless day—one small blaze after another flaring across the county like sparks on a live wire. Dispatch kept us busy with barely enough time to reset in between. I lost count after the sixth call.
The truck door creaks as I slide down and land on aching feet. Every inch of me is tired, but there's something oddly satisfying about it, too. I didn’t just keep up with the team today—I led half the charges into the smoke. Still, I’m relieved to be standing back in the firehouse.
Noah hops out beside me, brushing ash off his turnout coat. He offers a glance, short but weighted. “You good?”
I nod, pulling off my gloves. “Charred, but upright.”
“Let’s get those checked,” he says, gesturing toward my hands.
Together, we walk to sick bay. Tori waits inside, her hair pulled back, skin glowing from some inner witchy balance I haven’t managed to master yet. The room smells like sage and lavender. Soft, herbal clutter everywhere—blankets, salves, a kettle hissing on the back shelf.
Tori’s eyes flick to my wrist, then to the small scorch across Noah’s jawline. “Sit,” she says, already pulling a few vials from the shelf.
As she works, I feel the familiar tug of her energy channeling through her fingers. The burn on my palm fades, replaced by warmth and the faint shimmer of magic.
Noah squints at her. “Wait a second. How long have you been hiding this?”
Tori gives him a sly grin. “Seven years of impeccable restraint.”
I chuckle. “She’s my cousin. That’s how I got the job.”
Noah blinks like he’s recalibrating. His gaze sweeps the space—jars of oils, herbs, an old mortar and pestle. “How the hell did I miss it?”
“She’s a very good masker,” I say, a little too proudly.
