Chapter 3 Chapter 3: The Man Behind the Beast

Wednesday morning arrived far too quickly. Marcus came for me at dawn in the ranger's truck, loaded with all kinds of tracking equipment. We drove to the site of the first attack, a ranch belonging to the Morrison family.

The scene was exactly as described: clean kills, minimal struggle, wolf tracks everywhere. But as I looked closer at the prints, something struck me.

"Marcus, look at this." I pointed to a set of tracks leading away from the kill site. "These prints—they're huge. Bigger than any wolf I've documented."

"Maybe it's just a large male," Marcus said, photographing the evidence.

"No, look at the gait pattern, the stride length. This animal would have to be—" I did quick mental calculations, " at least six feet at the shoulder. That's not natural."

We spent hours documenting everything, collecting samples, following the trail into the forest. The tracks led us deep into territory I knew well, winding through old-growth timber and across rocky creek beds.

By Thursday, we'd analyzed three attack sites. The pattern was clear: one massive wolf leading a pack, striking with military precision, then vanishing without a trace.

Friday morning brought another complication. Blackwood called me directly.

"Pierce, we've got a situation. A hiker reported seeing a 'monster wolf' on Timber Ridge Trail yesterday evening. Same location where you logged that wolf sighting earlier this week."

My blood ran cold. "Did the hiker get photos?"

"Blurry ones. But they're already up online, and the media are having a field day with 'mutant wolves' and 'cryptid sightings.' It's turning into a circus."

After the call, I made a decision: Tonight, I'd go back to Timber Ridge Trail alone. If the black wolf was associated with the attacks—which I felt increasingly sure he was—I needed to confront him, to understand what was occurring.

On Saturday evening, I told Marcus I was visiting family and instead drove to the trail. The sun was already setting as I started hiking, retracing my steps from that first encounter.

I didn't have to wait for very long.

He emerged from the darkness, as if expecting me. Light was dying, and we stood facing each other. My heart was thundering inside my chest, but I willed myself to be calm.

"I know you're not just a wolf," I said, feeling just a little bit ridiculous talking to an animal. "I don't know what you are, but I know you understand me."

The wolf's amber eyes shone in the twilight. Then the impossible happened.

The air around him shimmered. His form blurred, shifted. Bones cracked and reformed. Fur receded. In the space of mere seconds, where the wolf had stood, a man now knelt on the ground.

He was tall, well over six feet, with shoulder-length black hair and those same impossible amber eyes. He was dressed in simple dark clothing that had apparently materialized out of nowhere. His face was striking, strong jaw and high cheekbones, and a small scar above his left eyebrow.

"You're perceptive," he said, his voice deep and with a slight roughness to it, like gravel and honey. "Most humans never see past the obvious."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Werewolves were real. Actually, genuinely real.

"My name is Hawk Blackthorn," he said, rising slowly. "And you, Luna Pierce, are my fated mate."

"You're what?" I finally managed.

"It's complicated." A slight smile crossed his face. "May I explain? Without you running or calling for backup?"

Every rational thought in my head screamed at me to do just that, to run, to call for help, to retreat to safety. But that tugging in my chest was harder now, almost painful in the intensity.

"Explain," I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

He took a cautious step forward. "My pack's been living in these mountains for generations. We're shapeshifters—born, not made—and we coexisted peacefully with humans by staying hidden. Three months ago, something changed."

"The attacks," I said.

"Not by choice," he replied, his tone and expression darkening. "A rogue pack invaded our territory. They are led by an alpha named Viktor Steele, exiled from his original pack for unsanctioned kills. He has been forcing confrontations and pushing us toward conflict with humans to destabilize our leadership."

"Why attack livestock?"

"Framing us. Making humans think we're the threat so they'll hunt us, weaken us, make us vulnerable to his takeover." Hawk's jaw clenched. "The attacks you've been investigating—that was Viktor's pack, wearing my pack's scent to confuse trackers like you."

This was insane. Completely insane. And yet, it made a horrible kind of sense.

"What does this have to do with me being your—what did you call it?"

"Fated mate." Hawk's voice gentled. "It is rare, even among our kind. A bond that transcends logic, connecting two souls across species. The moment I saw you on this trail, I knew. The bond locked into place."

"That's ridiculous," I said, but my hand strayed involuntarily to my chest, where that pulling sensation had lived since our first meeting.

"Is it?" He took another step closer. "Haven't you felt it? That connection? Like something inside you recognized something inside me?"

I had. God help me, I had.

"Even if this is real—and I'm not saying I believe you—what am I supposed to do about it?"

"Help me," Hawk said simply. "Help me stop Viktor before he starts a war between our species. You have access to ranger resources, tracking data, and authority. Together we can find his pack and end this."

"You want me to help you hunt other werewolves?"

"I want to protect both of our communities. If Viktor succeeds, innocent people will die. My pack will be slaughtered or scattered. Everything we've built here will be destroyed."

I searched his face for deception. All I saw was desperate honesty.

"If I agree—and that's a big if—I need proof. I need to know what I'm dealing with."

Hawk nodded. "Come with me. Meet my pack. See for yourself what's at stake."

Every logical bone in my body was screaming that this was suicidal stupidity. But something deeper, that inexplicable bond, told me to trust him.

"One condition," I said. "No secrets. You tell me everything."

"Everything," said Hawk.

He offered his hand.

I stared at it for a long moment, knowing that taking it would alter the course of my life forever. Then, against all reason, I reached out and let his fingers close around mine.

His skin was warm. That tugging sensation in my chest stilled immediately, replaced by a sense of rightness that terrified me.

"Welcome to the truth, Luna Pierce," Hawk said softly.

And just like that, my world tilted on its axis.

I was holding hands with a werewolf.

I had just agreed to hunt a rogue pack.

And somehow, impossibly, it felt like coming home.