"I guess."

The words were barely a whisper, but they hit me like a physical punch. Grayson Cole was actually talking to me. For a wolfless reject from the Reed pack, this was basically a miracle.

"I help Mason with the patrol rigs sometimes," I blurted out. I wanted to sound useful.

Grayson didn't look up from the rusted-out shell of the truck he was gutting. He just snorted, a low, vibration in his chest that felt too much like a growl. "You're too small to even reach the spark plugs, Savannah."

My face burned. I stepped closer, my boots crunching on the oil-slicked gravel of the salvage yard. "I'm not small. My mother says I’m just... lithe. Besides, I don't do the heavy lifting. I just hand him the tools he needs."

He didn't bite back. I took that as a win.

"Everyone in the territory knows who you are, Reed," he said, his voice dropping an octave.

I felt like shrinking into the dirt. I knew exactly what people said. The Alpha’s daughter who couldn't shift. The freak. The girl who once tried to join the pack hunt on foot and ended up getting treed by a rogue until Mason had to come pull her down. Being a local legend sucked when you were just trying to exist.

"I'm hunting a Shadow-Mane today," I said, trying to sound tough. "Down by the old iron bridge."

Grayson finally looked at me. His eyes were the color of a winter storm, sharp and cold. "What the hell is a Shadow-Mane?"

"It’s a fifty-pound beast with eight legs and nine holes for its guts to leak out of. Meaner than a silver-tipped arrow. I’m gonna break it and bring it home."

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. It was the first time I’d seen him look almost human. "Even if that thing was real, why would you want it in your house?"

"To keep my sisters out of my room," I lied. The truth was, I felt a weird kinship with things that didn't fit. "You think I'm making it up?"

He turned back to the truck, grabbing a rusted crowbar. "Sounds like Mason told you a bedtime story to keep you away from the border. Those tracks are dangerous for someone who can't heal from a train hit."

He leaned over the fender, the fabric of his threadbare shirt riding up. I froze. The words I was about to say died in my throat.

Crossing his lower back was a jagged, angry welt. It wasn't a wolf scratch. This was a lash mark. Two inches wide, curved around his ribs, the edges crusting with dried blood and turning a sickly shade of violet.

I reached out before I could stop myself. My finger brushed the edge of the wound. "Does it still hurt?"

Grayson's entire body went rigid. He spun around so fast I stumbled back. His eyes were dark, swirling with a predatory heat that made my skin prickle. He looked ready to kill, but I didn't flinch. I knew what pride felt like when it was being suffocated by shame.

"Why did he do it?" I asked.

Grayson’s knuckles turned white around the crowbar. "He doesn't need a reason." He cut his eyes toward the main office where his old man was probably nursing a bottle of cheap rotgut. "Keep your mouth shut about it. I stay out of his way mostly."

"You need a healer," I said, my heart thumping. I pictured the infection setting in—the fever, the rot. "I’ll be right back."

I ran to Mason’s truck, my heart hammering against my ribs. I dug through the compartment until I found it. Wolf-balm. It was a thick, pungent salve Mason swore by. He’d used it on me a dozen times for everything from scrapes to splinters.

When I got back, Grayson had managed to pry one end of a fuel pump loose.

"Lift your shirt," I commanded.

He eyed the tin in my hand. "What’s that shit?"

"Medicine. Unless you want your skin to fall off."

He hesitated, then let out a sharp breath and hiked the shirt up. His skin was radiating heat, the kind of warmth only a shifter carried. He smelled like iron, old grease, and something raw—like rain hitting dry earth.

I scooped out a glob of the balm and pressed it against the welt. His muscles jumped under my touch, hard as mountain stone. I worked the salve in, my fingers moving over the ridges of the wound. He watched me, his expression unreadable, his breathing shallow and heavy.

"There," I muttered, snapping the lid shut. "Keep it. We have crates of the stuff."

He slid the tin into his pocket, his gaze lingering on me. "You gonna be a pack medic or something?"

"Nope. I’m gonna write the history of this place. The real version."

His eyebrows shot up. "Takes a lot of guts to put words on paper."

"Well, I've got plenty of those."

"Maybe you do, Little Reed." He reached out, tugging one of my messy braids. His voice was suddenly warm, and for a second, I forgot I was the pack's biggest disappointment.

"Do you ever read?" I asked, leaning against the warm metal of the truck.

"When I can find something that isn't soaked in oil," he said, his jaw tightening. "My old man thinks books are for the weak. He'd rather spend the coin on whiskey."

I couldn't wrap my head around that. In my house, books were life. I’d been reading since I was four, hiding in the library to escape the pitying looks of the warriors. I couldn't imagine a world where words were a waste of time.

Grayson stood up, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. The air between us suddenly felt thick, charged with something I didn't understand.

"You should get home, Savannah," he said, his voice low. "The sun's dipping. Woods get mean after dark."

I wanted to stay. I wanted to ask him a thousand more questions. But the way he was looking at me—like he was seeing something more than just a wolfless girl—made me nervous.

"See you around, Grayson," I said, turning to head for the gate.

"Count on it," he muttered.

The sun was a dying ember on the horizon when I finally slipped back into the Reed compound. I tried to go for the back stairs, but the heavy oak doors swung open before I could reach them.

"Where the fuck have you been?"

Mason Reed stood in the entryway, his massive frame blocking the light. His eyes were glowing amber, a sure sign his wolf was close to the surface.

"I was at the salvage yard," I said, trying to sound bored. "Getting parts."

"You were with that Cole boy," Mason growled, stepping into my space. The scent of woodsmoke and anger rolled off him. "I told you to stay away from that trash. His father is a drunk, and the boy is a time bomb."

"He’s just a guy, Dad. And he’s a better mechanic than half your Sentinels."

Mason’s hand lashed out, slamming against the doorframe next to my head. "He’s a Cole. They’re unstable. You’re wolfless, Savannah. You have no protection if he decides to snap. Do you understand me?"

I stared at his bruised knuckles, then back at his face. "I'm fine."

I pushed past him, my heart racing. I hated the way he looked at me—like I was a piece of glass that would shatter if someone breathed on me too hard.

I made it to my room and slammed the door, leaning my back against the wood. My skin still felt hot where I’d touched Grayson’s back. I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against a stray scrap of paper.

I pulled it out. It was a small, hand-drawn map. At the center was the iron bridge, and next to it, a small X.

My breath caught. He must have slipped it into my pocket while I was doing the salve.

There was a note on the back, the handwriting jagged and rushed: Tonight. Midnight. Don't be late, Little Reed.

A thrill of pure, unadulterated terror and excitement shot through me. I shouldn't go. It was a death wish. But as I looked at the map, I knew I was already halfway out the window.

The forest was a cathedral of shadows. Every snap of a twig sounded like a bone breaking. I reached the bridge just as the moon hit its peak.

Grayson was already there, leaning against the stone railing. He wasn't wearing a shirt this time. The moonlight hit the muscles of his chest, carving deep shadows into his torso. He looked like something carved out of the earth itself.

"You actually came," he said, his voice a low vibration in the night air.

"I wanted to see if the Shadow-Mane was real," I said, stepping onto the bridge.

He walked toward me, his movements fluid and silent. He stopped inches away, his heat wrapping around me like a blanket. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip.

"Forget the beast, Savannah," he whispered. "I want to see if you're as brave as you think you are."

He leaned down, his mouth hovering just over mine. I could taste the heat of him. My hands found his waist, my fingers digging into the hard muscle.

He didn't wait. He crashed his lips against mine, a brutal, hungry kiss that tasted of salt and desperation. He tasted like a storm. I groaned into his mouth, my body arching into his.

He lifted me up, my legs wrapping around his waist as he backed me against the cold stone of the bridge. The contrast of the freezing stone and his burning skin made me gasp.

"Grayson," I breathed, my head lolling back.

He didn't speak. He just tore at the buttons of my shirt, his eyes dark with a hunger that terrified and exhilarated me. He moved his mouth to my neck, his teeth grazing my skin, leaving marks I knew would turn blue by morning.

"You're mine," he growled against my throat. "Do you hear me? Mine."

I didn't care about the pack. I didn't care about the war brewing between our families. In that moment, on that bridge, there was only the heat, the moon, and the weight of him pressing me into the stone.

And then, a howl ripped through the silence of the woods.

A howl I recognized. Mason.

Grayson froze, his eyes snapping toward the tree line. "Fuck."

"He’s coming," I whispered, my heart plummeting.

"Go," Grayson said, dropping me to my feet. He shoved his shirt back on, his face hardening into a mask of ice. "If he finds us here, he’ll kill me, and he’ll lock you in a cage."

"Grayson—"

"Go, Savannah! Run!"

"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?"

"Damn right I do."

My mother’s voice, low and lethal, sliced through the steam of the kitchen. Mason Reed might have been the Alpha, but Vanessa Whitmore was the one who kept the pack from cannibalizing itself. "I also know the pup isn’t to blame for the sire's rot. You’d punish the cub for the beast's sins, Eleanor?"

I heard my aunt’s sharp, disgusted sniff. "The wolf doesn't change its coat, Vanessa. Give Grayson Cole another cycle and he’ll be just as broken and blood-drunk as Frank. It's in the marrow."

"And whose fault is that? We’ve watched Frank Cole beat the life out of his kin for years and we turned our noses up because it wasn't 'respectable' to interfere. Who’s the real wolf here? Us, for ignoring the boy, or Savannah for having the guts to try and pull him out of the dirt?"

Mother slammed a rolling pin onto the floured board. Thwack. "If he shows up for the Lunar feast tomorrow, he’s coming inside this house. I'm done looking away. Maybe we can show that pup there’s a world that doesn't involve the end of a belt."

I stood frozen on the bottom step, a wild surge of heat hitting my chest. Revenge and victory. Mama was the wall behind me. She was going to help me haul Grayson out of the darkness. How could we lose?

A floorboard groaned above me. I jumped, my heart hammering.

Aunt Harper stood at the top of the stairs, her arms crossed over her thin chest. She didn't look like the rest of the Reed women. While we were all dark manes and piercing amber eyes, Harper was honey-gold, her eyes like deep, shadowed ink. Mama said she was the ghost of a great-grandmother, a beauty from a line that had nearly faded out.

Gossip whispered that Harper had lost her fated mate to a rogue raid years ago—a tragedy that left her a hollowed-out shell, a sleeping wolf waiting for a call that would never come.

She pressed a finger to her lips and jerked her head toward the end of the hall. Once we were clear of the kitchen's eavesdropping range, she gripped my shoulder. Her hand was cold.

"Savannah, eavesdropping is a dangerous game for a girl with no claws."

"Yes, ma'am." I looked at my boots.

She hooked a finger under my chin, forcing my gaze up. "Tell me the truth. Why this obsession with the Cole boy?"

"I don't know. I just... I hate seeing him like that."

"Pity?"

"No," I snapped, my voice cracking with defiance. "I like him. He’s not his father. He’s got fire in him."

A ghost of a smile touched her mouth. "Good. Helping out of pity is just feeding your own ego. Doing it because you give a damn about the soul behind the skin? That’s different. That’s pack."

"Aunt Eleanor says charity is for the weak."

"Eleanor treats charity like a ledger. She gives to the orphanages to feel superior. But Grayson Cole isn't a project, Savannah. He’s a person. How do you think he’d react if he thought you were looking down on him like some stray?"

I thought of the way his jaw locked and the silver fire in his eyes. He’d bite my throat out. "He’d hate it. I don't pity him, Aunt Harper. I swear."

She nodded slowly. "Then be his friend. But don't you dare look down on him. No wolf wants to be a charity case."

"I won't."

I had another ally. And little did I know, Mason Reed—the iron-fisted Alpha—would end up being the biggest lure for a boy who had never known what a real leader looked like.

The Black Ridge territory had one neutral ground: The High Meadow. Ten acres of manicured grass on a plateau overlooking the valley. It was where the packs met for the Great Moon. It had the basics—stone pits for roasting, a running track for the pups, and a few heavy timber swings under the ancient oaks and sweet gums.

The morning sermon at the Pack Chapel was pure hell. I was a coiled spring. I sat on the hard cedar pew, wedged between Mama and Mason, my leg bouncing. Mama hissed at me twice to be still. Mason kept shoving strips of dried elk jerky at me to keep me quiet. I had so much tucked in my cheek I could barely swallow.

The second the final howl ended, I bolted. I dodged through the crowd like a rabbit through briars, lunging for the changing rooms. I ripped off the stiff ceremonial dress and shoved myself into my frayed denim and a red tunic.

By the time I made it back out, the women had already swarmed the High Meadow. They were shoving heavy trestle tables together, flinging linen cloths over the scarred wood, and marking territory with bowls of stew and roasted meat. The men were huddled in thick circles, the air heavy with the scent of pine-tobacco and the low rumble of pack politics.

I found Mason in a cloud of pipe smoke. I yanked on his hand until his knuckles turned white. What if Grayson showed up and I wasn't there? What if he saw the Reeds and turned tail?

Mason sighed, excused himself from the other Elders, and headed for the truck.

The Lunar feast was a god-level spread. Six tables groaned under the weight of ceramic platters. Whole roasted boars, bowls of berries, heaps of dark bread. The women moved like generals, stripping foil and lids, eyes darting to see whose venison was the most tender, whose ale was the strongest.

The truck hadn't even fully stopped before I was out the door. I sprinted toward Mama. She was laughing with Vanessa Whitmore’s inner circle.

"Are they here?" I hissed, pulling on her sleeve.

She leaned down, her breath warm against my ear. "Edge of the tree line, Savannah. Near the shadows. Don't let him leave."

"I won't."

I scanned the dark fringe of the forest. It took a minute. Grayson’s dark clothes made him a ghost against the oaks. He stood perfectly still, a statue of tension. He was alone.

I took a breath, smoothed my hair, and forced myself to walk—not run—toward him. I could feel his eyes on me long before I reached him. They felt like silver needles against my skin.

"Hi." I stopped five feet back. He straightened, his gaze raking over me like I was a trap he hadn't spotted yet. "I’m glad you made it."

"I'm not staying." His voice was a low, jagged rasp. "I only came to tell you not to wait. Lily... she doesn't like crowds. Too many smells."

I looked at him. Really looked. His shirt was crisp, the grease scrubbed from under his nails. He’d even ironed his jeans. If he wasn't staying, why go through the effort of looking like a Reed?

The realization hit me like a physical weight. He wanted to be here. He just didn't think he was allowed to be.

"Lily's fine," I said, stepping closer, my voice dropping. "There’s enough meat over there to feed a rogue pack for a month. You’re going to walk away from that?"

He shifted his weight, his eyes darting toward the feast. "I don't belong here, Savannah."

"Who says?"

"Everyone." He looked at the scars on his knuckles. "Including me."

I reached out, my fingers just barely brushing the rough fabric of his sleeve. The air between us suddenly felt electric, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and something primal.

"I say you belong," I whispered. "And in this pack, my word actually means something. Now, are you going to stand here in the dark like a stray, or are you going to come eat?"

Grayson’s jaw worked. He looked at the shadows, then back at me. Slowly, he stepped into the light.

"Fine. But if your aunt starts talking, I'm out."

"Deal."

I led him toward the tables, my heart thrumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I had him. For now, the boy with the broken heart was stepping into the light, and I wasn't letting go.