Beau finishes his coffee slowly. Throughout the course of our little breakfast, various members of the pack stop by to ask him questions, say hello, offer to help with gardening or tracking or maintenance. Caleb shoots Beau a dark look before leaving the lodge, which I try not to take personally. Marcus brings over fresh coffee, and murmurs something incomprehensible to Beau. Through it all, Beau doesn't say much, just listens with that unshakable calm of his. But when his gazes brushes mine, something in it lingers, makes my wolf give a satisfied stretch that feels odd next to my heart.

"I've got something I need to handle," Beau says quietly in my ear. His warmth, the feel of his body, is all around me. He squeezes my hand again, anchoring. "You good?"

"I think so," I say. My voice comes out softer than I mean it to. Because I don't know. Rationally, I know Beau wouldn't leave me alone if there was any danger, he's made that clear. But I'm not a people-person. I don't know if I want to be left alone with this pack of family and friends. There's an uncomfortable truth growing in the spot where I thought I stomped out any vulnerability a long time ago: I want these strangers to like me.

I force a smile, smooth my face into something I hope looks unbothered. Confident.

He nods, giving my hand another reassuring squeeze before he disappears out the back door with quiet purpose. A few others trail behind him.

His form has barely disappeared before I hear a familiar voice behind me.

"Well," Owen drawls. "Didn't take long for you to start smelling like him."

I turn slowly in my chair, narrowing my eyes. The man-child is still half-chewing on a piece of toast, wearing a hoodie that looks like it's been sewn back together a few times.

He grins, lazy and lopsided, like he thinks he's the perfect combination of funny and clever. "Seriously, Rhea, replacing Crestline stink for alpha stink is a move. Bravo."

"You know," I say, sweet as venom, "you talk a lot for someone with nothing to say."

A few people around us snort. Owen puts a hand over his heart.

"Feisty and pretty. You sure you're not here to replace me?"

The flirting is clearly all bravado. Teasing. Pushing boundaries.

Annoying, but harmless.

Despite the fact that there's an apparently unstable wolf that lives inside of him.

My own wolf quietly growls in reassurance that she's not afraid of whatever's lurking inside of the oversized boy. It surprises me for a moment. I realize that I've been referring to her as more than an intangible thing, that she's more that just darkness and instinct. Separate, but still somehow seamlessly interwoven into me. She's happy that I'm acknowledging her, that we're surrounded by other wolves. Maybe less so the gangly werewolf in front of us, but she'll take what she can get.

I roll my eyes. "Relax. Your spot as the village idiot is safe from me."

Owen—bless his cocky little heart—laughs like I've paid him a compliment.

"I like you," he decides. "I was gonna let you get the boring tour with Beau, but now I think you've earned the fun one."

I raise an eyebrow, but I don't hide the beginning of a smile. "You trying to impress me?"

"Nah." He runs a hand through his shaggy hair. "I already know I can't. Just thought I'd show you what the pack's really like."

He jerks his head toward the open yard, and before I can shoot him down, takes off at a trot. So I follow, because honestly, Owen's version of a tour sounds like it'll be entertaining or a disaster. Probably both. And, despite my wolf's ease with being around the rest of the pack, the lodge is starting to feel a little too full, the attention too heavy on my skin.

Owen talks the whole time, naturally. He points out communal buildings, people's cabins, mentions old stories like he personally lived through half of them... throws in details that feel like he's making them up as he goes. I get the sense that Owen believes that anything said with confidence might as well be true.

"And that barn there?" he says, pointing. "Technically our gym, unofficially the scene of several shirtless brawls and an annual 'drunk sparring' night that Beau pretends not to know about."

"You spar drunk?"

He grins. "Ugh, you sound just like him. You sure you're not his mate?"

I pause. Owen uses the word so casually, that I don't think it's one of his jokes. That it must be a wolf thing.

"I don't even know what that means," I say, trying to keep it neutral. Not too sharp. Not too curious.

Owen slows, glancing at me sideways. "Really?"

"I didn't grow up in a wolf-y, wilderness commune, remember?" I suddenly hate myself for allowing Owen to be the one to explain werewolf relationships to me. I sigh. "Is it like... dating? Or a werewolf marriage thing?"

He lets out a laugh. It makes me want to punch him for that stupid lopsided grin. "That's adorable. No. It's... more than that."

"Helpful."

Owen coughs a little. "Okay. It's like a magic bond." He wiggles his fingers vaguely. "You don't pick it. It just happens. Your wolf decides."

I blink. Though I try to sound neutral, I can't help the thread of sarcasm that slips into my voice. "So it's like a soul mate thing?"

He grimaces. "You make it sound stupid when you say it like that. But yeah. Kinda. Wolves can pair off with other wolves, but true mates are kinda rare. Some wolves search their whole life looking for their true mate, their fated mate."

"And how do you know when it happens?" I ask, before I can think better of it.

Owen squints at me, lips twitching. "It's obvious. Like, spiritually obvious. Insta-connection, protective-instinct, rip-out-someone's-throat-for-you kind of obvious."

"Oh," I say, mostly because my brain is still processing the fact that werewolves apparently imprint on each other like aggressive magical soulmates. And because there's an insistent little tug in my chest that I'd like to pretend isn't fate trying to tie me to a certain rugged, handsome werewolf with gray and golden eyes. "And what if someone doesn't want that?"

As if the question is a little offensive, Owen flinches, but his voice softens slightly. "How messed up does someone have to be to reject their perfect match?"

There's a certain somberness to his words that seem out of place coming from him. I get the nagging suspicion that he wants to say more, confess more, but I don't push. I'm caught in my own tangle: how messed up am I, then, to be so afraid of this?

Fated mates.

You've got to be kidding me.

The air sharpens—mint, lavender, the earthy loam of fresh soil—as we approach the largest of the gardens. Lila's there, kneeling in the dirt, tending a bed of herbs. Her wavy hair is braided back. Her loose skirt is stained at the knees.

The memory of last night, of Beau and the others speaking of her wolf, rises to the surface. That she has trouble shifting, and how that's—I don't know—frowned upon? The dichotomy doesn't make sense to me. Owen can shift apparently, but has a dangerous hair trigger. Lila has trouble shifting, but that also leaves something to be desired. Is the goal safety? Or just control?

Lila stills, as if she can hear the tumult of my thoughts. When she looks up, her honey-brown eyes go wide. Color rushes to her cheeks.

"Hey, Lila," Owen says, stopping to toss her his usual grin, all silence and melancholy forgotten. Like he didn't just solemnly drop the phrase your wolf decides a few minutes ago.

"Hi." Barely audible. She ducks her head so fast, I half expect her to disappear into the soil.

"Did you plant all this yourself?" I ask, gesturing to the riot of green and bloom behind her. Peppers and tomatoes peek out from dark leaves. Glossy eggplant, curling pumpkins vines, beanpoles winding their way skyward... Lila doesn't lift her head but nods.

"She's the reason we don't have scurvy," Owen says cheerfully. "Total garden witch. I keep telling her she could make some serious money posting on TikTok, but she doesn't believe me."

Lila's smile is small and shy, but Owen doesn't notice.

He turns and gestures to the chickens pecking at kitchen scraps behind a wire fence. Just beyond, I spot a pen of goats, a solemn looking cow.

"And this is my domain," he says. "You mess around one too many times and you'll get stuck cleaning up shit for the rest of your life."

I watch as Owen ducks into the coop to grab an egg, flicking it up into his palm like it's second nature. He pauses to stroke one of the hens gently. He's grinning again, carefree as ever—but something about the way his shoulders settle says he's more at home here than I expected.

"You like this?" I ask, tilting my head towards the chickens. "Tending animals, shoveling manure? All of it?"

He gently tosses the egg into a wire basket and shrugs. "Sure. Don't tell anyone, though. Runs my whole, 'devil may care bad boy' vibe."

I roll my eyes.

Scratching the back of his neck, Owen pauses. "I like the rhythm of it, I guess. You feed them, they feed you. You take care of them, they don't bite you. That kind of thing. It's straightforward. Which, you know, isn't really the pack's strong suit these days."

I open my mouth to ask what he means, but he's already off, talking faster and faster.

"But I've got plans. Once the crypto market stabilizes again—which it will—I'm gonna start funneling some of it into the pack. Infrastructure, real food security, renewable energy, maybe fix up the lodge—"

"Crypto?" I interrupt, half-laughing. "Seriously?"

"Oh yeah," he says, completely serious. "It's the future. And super smart for werewolves to use. Decentralized. Untraceable. One good investment and boom—pack expenses are covered. Property taxes for the next decade. Attorney retainers and fees. I've got a few coins sitting in cold wallets right now, just waiting for the right time to liquidate."

I brush off the little flicker of guilt regarding the legal expenses. "That's—that's not what I expected you to say. It's a pretty genius idea."

"You thought I was just hot and irresponsible," he says, mock wounded.

"I mean," I drawl, "I wasn't going to say it out loud."

"Rude."

But Owen grins.

I glance back toward the garden where Lila is now pretending to rearrange potted mint, but she's clearly eavesdropping, sneaking glances our way when she thinks Owen won't notice.

He doesn't.

Or doesn't seem to. Maybe doesn't allow himself to notice. Because I wonder how long they've worked in this little corner of their world together, desperately ignoring each other. I wonder if they're too afraid to take things step further because a fated mate might be just around the corner, waiting to tear them apart. I frown. Maybe my arrival did some destruction of its own. Maybe there's an angry she-wolf somewhere waiting to tear my throat out.

Before I can ask anything else, Owen glances up at the sun, squinting.

"Ah, shit."

Lila startles at the sudden curse, and Owen smiles at me sheepishly.

"I'm late," he says. "I'm supposed to help dig trenches for the new water lines today. If I don't show up, Caleb will skin me and use my hide as welcome mat." He winks like he's only half joking. "You'll be fine with Lila. She doesn't bite."

He vaults over the garden fence and jogs back down the trail, muttering about shovels and blisters and surly beta wolves.