My boots sink into the mud as I crouch beside the tiny moccasin—too small for a rogue, too clean for a scavenger. The forest holds its breath. Then, a whimper. Not from the brush. From inside my head. Sharp. Cold. Like a hook behind my navel yanking me forward.\n\nI shouldn’t go deeper. This is rogue territory. No pack claims these woods. But my wolf is already moving, hackles up, nostrils flaring. And then I see her—half-hidden in a hollow tree, eyes wide, arms wrapped around a bundle swaddled in red cloth. Her lips part. 'Stay back, Alpha. He’s not yours.'\n\nBut he is. I feel it in the pulse between us, in the way my beast wants to kneel, to howl, to guard them both until my last breath. She doesn’t understand. Neither do I, not fully. Only that if I leave now, I’ll spend eternity regretting it.\n\nThe wind shifts. New scents ride it—copper, oil, men with guns. They’re coming. And she’s trembling, backing away, clutching the child tighter. I have seconds to decide: Do I force her to trust me? Do I chase the hunters alone? Or do I walk away and pretend none of this happened?