CHAPTER 3

"Who’s the stray?" I asked, nodding toward the scrawny girl hovering near a rusted chassis.

Lily Brooks didn't look like she belonged in the mud of the Cole salvage yard. Her hair was a bird's nest of tangles, and her feet were caked in dry earth, toes digging into the gravel as she stared at Grayson.

"She’s waiting on me," Grayson grunted. He finally wrenched a jagged piece of engine casing free, the metal screaming as it gave way.

"Why?"

He wiped a streak of black grease across his forehead, his silver eyes flashing with a hardness that didn't match his age. "I look out for her."

"Why you?" I pressed.

"Because nobody else gives a damn." He tossed the part onto a pile of scrap. "Her old man was a logger. Died in the North Woods before she could even crawl. Her mom just... gave up. They drifted here."

I didn't think. I just walked over to her. Grayson shifted behind me, his body tensed like a bowstring. He looked ready to spring, defensive in a way that should have warned me off. But I was eight, and Mason Reed had hammered it into my head that our pack took care of its own—even the broken ones. I decided right then I was going to fix Grayson Cole. If that meant dragging this girl along, fine.

"There’s a pack run and a feast at the park tomorrow," I told Lily. "Games, meat, the whole thing. You don't need a fancy tunic. Just show up. Make Grayson bring you. I’ll be by the old oak."

Lily didn't say a word, her blue eyes wide and glass-clear.

I didn't notice Mason watching us through the grime of the office window. He didn't say a word until we were bouncing down the dirt track in his truck.

"You like that Cole kid, Savannah?" Mason asked, his hands steady on the wheel.

I sat on my heels, staring at the passing pines. "He’s alright. Better than the other pups."

"Maybe." He rubbed his graying beard. "Just keep your guard up. Don't let your heart lead your head into a trap."

"I invited them to the feast tomorrow," I muttered. "That okay?"

Mason stayed quiet for a long beat. "I reckon. Just don't hold your breath waiting for them to walk into a Reed gathering. Coles and Reeds don't mix well, honey."

"Whatever," I sighed.

Back at the Reed manor, the air was thick with the scent of roasting boar and tension. My mother, Vanessa Whitmore, was the only one of the Reed sisters who’d actually mated. Aunt Eleanor was the oldest, a sharp-tongued woman who lived for pack status, and Aunt Harper was the quiet middle child who stayed out of the line of fire.

"He’s my brother, and his name stays in this house!" Vanessa’s voice rang out as I kicked off my boots in the mudroom.

She was at the long kitchen table, braiding dough for the feast. Aunt Eleanor was at the hearth, scrubbing a pot like she wanted to peel the iron off.

"Vernon is a disgrace," Eleanor spat. "Joining a rogue pack? Marrying a woman who probably doesn't even know who her father was? He’s dead to this pack."

"He’s blood," my mother countered, her voice calm but jagged. "And it’s a damn crime we don't know his pups."

I tried to sneak toward the cider, but Eleanor’s nose was too sharp. She spun around, sniffing the air like a hound.

"Is that fuel and wolf-musk?" She marched over, hovering over me. "Savannah Reed, you smell like a mechanic’s floor. Where were you?"

"With Mason," I said, grabbing my glass. "At the salvage yard. He needed parts for the perimeter scout."

"Mason should know better than to take a girl to that pit. Vanessa, are you really going to let her run wild with the Coles?"

Mama smiled at me, her eyes—the same shade as mine—glinting. "She’s got her skin intact. Relax, Eleanor."

I gulped down the cider. "Mama, I invited Grayson Cole and Lily Brooks to the feast. Mason said it was okay."

The kitchen went dead silent. Eleanor’s jaw practically hit the floor.

"You did what?" Eleanor gasped. "That family is a stain on this territory. Frank Cole is a drunk who’d sell his own pup for a bottle of moonshine."

"It was a kind gesture," Mama said, cutting Eleanor off with a single, icy look. "We should have reached out sooner."

"I want to give him some of my scrolls," I added. "His dad won't let him have any."

Eleanor made a sound like a choking bird, but I ignored her.

"They’re yours, Savannah," Mama said. "Do what you want with them."

"Thanks!" I bolted for the stairs, but I stopped halfway up. I knew the good stuff always came out once I was "gone."

"You're making a massive mistake," Eleanor’s voice hissed from the kitchen. "Letting her bond with that boy. You know what Frank Cole does to his kin. That boy isn't just a mechanic, Vanessa. He’s a powder keg."

I didn't stay to hear the rest. I went to my room and started pulling scrolls from my shelf. Stories of the Great Wars, maps of the Lunar Peaks—stuff Grayson could use to see beyond that scrap yard.

The day of the feast was sweltering. The pack grounds were teeming with wolves in human form, the smell of sweat and charred meat heavy in the air. I stood by the big oak, shifting my weight, watching the entrance.

They didn't show.

Hours passed. The sun started to dip, casting long, bloody shadows across the grass. I felt like a fool. My dress felt too tight, and the pitying looks from the other pups were starting to grate on my nerves.

"Told you they wouldn't come," a voice sneered.

I turned to see Trent Maddox, the Beta's son. He was ten, already broad-shouldered, and a total prick.

"Shut up, Trent," I snapped.

"They're probably in a ditch somewhere," he laughed. "Or his old man found a fresh bottle."

I was about to lung at him when I saw a movement at the edge of the clearing. Two figures.

Grayson was wearing a shirt that was three sizes too small, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. He held Lily’s hand, leading her toward the light like he was walking into a war zone. He looked defiant, his jaw set, his eyes scanning the crowd for threats.

"Grayson!" I shouted, running toward them.

The crowd parted. The silence was deafening. Every Reed wolf stopped eating to stare at the two "scrappers" entering their holy ground.

"You came," I said, reaching them.

Grayson’s eyes were hard. "The kid wanted to eat. We aren't staying."

"Just stay for the games," I begged.

I led them toward the food tables. I could feel the heat radiating off the pack—the judgment was a physical weight. I grabbed two plates and piled them high with meat and bread, handing them over. Lily started eating like she hadn't seen food in a week. Grayson just held his plate, staring at Mason, who was watching from the head table.

"Come on," I whispered, pulling Grayson toward the trees. "I have the scrolls."

We sat in the shadows of the sweet gums. I handed him the bundle. He took them, his fingers brushing mine, sending that weird jolt through my arm again.

"Why are you doing this, Peewee?" he asked, his voice low and rough.

"I told you. I’m special."

He looked at the scrolls, then at me. For a second, the wall dropped. "Nobody’s ever given me anything before."

Suddenly, the brush behind us exploded.

Trent Maddox and two of his cronies stepped out, grinning. "Look at this. The wolfless freak and the scrap-yard dog. Having a little meeting?"

Grayson stood up, his body shifting into a low, predatory crouch. He didn't have a wolf, but he had the instincts.

"Walk away, Maddox," Grayson warned.

"Or what? You'll hit me with a wrench?" Trent laughed, stepping closer. He reached out and snatched one of the scrolls from Grayson’s hand. "What’s this? Fairy tales for the weak?"

Trent started to rip the parchment.

Grayson didn't roar. He didn't growl. He just moved.

He was a blur of violence. He slammed into Trent, his fist connecting with the other boy's jaw with a sickening crack. Trent went down hard, blood spraying onto the grass. The other two boys jumped in, but Grayson was a whirlwind of rage. He fought dirty—thumbing eyes, kicking knees, using the raw strength of a boy who’d spent his life lifting engine blocks.

"Stop it!" I screamed.

Mason and the Sentinels were there in seconds, pulling Grayson off a bleeding Trent.

"He started it!" I yelled, grabbing Mason’s arm. "He stole the scrolls!"

Mason looked at Trent, then at Grayson, who was vibrating with fury, his eyes almost black.

"Get them out of here," Mason ordered his men, his voice like ice.

"But—"

"Now, Savannah!"

Grayson didn't look at me as they hauled him toward the gate. He didn't look at Lily. He just stared straight ahead, his face a mask of cold, hard hate.

"Grayson!" I called out.

He stopped for one second, looking back over his shoulder. The look in his eyes wasn't anger anymore. It was a promise.

"I'll see you at the bridge, Savannah," he mouthed.

The Sentinels pushed him through the gate and slammed it shut.

I stood in the middle of the celebratory feast, surrounded by my "respected" family, and I realized I’d never felt more like an outsider. I looked down at the grass. The scroll Trent had ripped was lying in the dirt, the words "The History of the Fallen" smeared with mud.

I picked it up, my hands shaking.

That night, I didn't go to bed. I waited until the house was silent, then I climbed out my window. The woods were screaming with the sound of cicadas, but I didn't care. I ran all the way to the iron bridge.

Grayson was there. He was sitting on the railing, his face a mess of bruises, his knuckles raw.

"You're late," he said.

"I had to wait for Mason to pass out." I climbed up next to him. "Are you okay?"

"I've had worse." He looked at the water. "Your pack hates me, Savannah. They always will."

"I don't hate you."

He turned to me, his face inches from mine. "You should. I'm a Cole. I'm built for breaking things."

"Then break something else," I whispered.

He grabbed the back of my neck, his hand hot and heavy. He pulled me into a kiss that tasted like blood and iron. It wasn't sweet. It was a desperate, clashing of teeth and tongues. I felt his hand slide down to my waist, pulling me hard against his chest.

He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. "I'm leaving, Savannah. My old man... he’s getting worse. I can't stay here."

"Where will you go?"

"North. To the Wilds. I'll find a way to shift. I'll find a way to be something more than a punching bag."

"Take me with you," I said, the words falling out before I could stop them.

He looked at me, a sad, twisted smile on his lips. "You're a Reed, Peewee. You belong in a manor. Not in the dirt."

He stood up, looking toward the dark horizon.

"I'll come back for you," he promised. "When I'm an Alpha. When I have a pack of my own. I'll come back and I'll burn this whole valley down to get to you."

He jumped off the bridge into the brush below.

"Grayson!"

There was no answer. Only the wind in the sweet gums.

Ten years later.

I stood on the balcony of the Reed manor, watching the scouts return. I wasn't the little girl with pigtails anymore. I was the Regent of the Reed Pack, holding things together while Mason’s health failed.

"Savannah!" Dominic Russo ran up the stairs, his face pale. "The border scouts... they’re dead."

"What? Who did it?"

"We don't know. But they left a message on the iron bridge."

I ran to the stables, my heart thundering. I rode to the bridge, my breath catching in my throat as I saw the scene.

The bridge was covered in blood. And there, nailed to the center wooden beam, was a single, weather-worn scroll.

I jumped off my horse and grabbed it. I unrolled the parchment. It was the same scroll Trent had ripped a decade ago. But someone had stitched it back together with silver wire.

And at the bottom, in bold, black ink, was a single sentence:

I told you I’d come back for you.

A howl erupted from the woods—a sound so powerful it made the stones of the bridge vibrate. It wasn't a normal wolf. It was the howl of an Ancient. A Shadow Alpha.

And then, out of the trees, he stepped.

Grayson Cole.

He was massive now, his shoulders a mile wide, his eyes glowing with a lethal, silver light. Behind him, a hundred wolves emerged from the shadows, their eyes all fixed on me.

"Hello, Savannah," he growled, his voice a weapon. "Did you miss me?"