"A celebration is one thing, but your pack isn't going to let a Cole lounge around the Reed estate."

"I told you already," I said, leaning back against the truck. "Mama said you're welcome anytime. She doesn't say things she doesn't mean."

Grayson snorted, his eyes tracking a hawk circling the valley. "She was just being civil because of the moon."

"She’s always civil, but she isn't a liar."

He didn't buy it. Not until the meat was off the fire and the jars of moonshine were uncapped. It was Mason who finally cracked that iron shell of his.

Our pack feasts follow a blood-deep order. The Alpha offers the kill to the spirits, then the frenzy starts. The pups eat first, grabbing ribs and bread with greasy fingers. Once they’re settled, the warriors and hunters line up. The women go last, tasting every dish to ensure the seasoning is right and the gossip is fresh.

When the pups were called, Grayson trailed me like he was walking into an ambush. We were an island of two in a sea of Reeds. The other kids gave us a wide berth, their instincts telling them to stay clear of the scrapper. Grayson wouldn't touch the platters, so I did it for him. I piled his plate high until the ceramic groaned. Smoked venison, heaps of wild tubers, charred corn, and thick slices of honeyed bread.

I left him staring at the food like it was a trap and ran to the creek to snag two cold ales from the stone basin. By the time I got back, Mason had claimed the seat across from him. He wasn't talking pack politics. He was talking steel. One thing about Mason Reed—he treated every male like a warrior, no matter the age.

"You have a knack for the scout rigs?" Mason asked as I set the ale down.

"Yes, Alpha." Grayson’s voice was steady, but his knuckles were tight. "Steel makes sense. It doesn't lie. Every gear has a slot. If it’s not in place, the machine dies."

Mason gave a slow, appreciative nod. "The problem is finding the fracture before the whole thing snaps. I’ve been messing with that old iron-clad transport for three winters. Still haven't heard it roar."

"What’s the sound when you turn the ignition?" Grayson asked, leaning in.

Just like that, the world around them vanished. They spent the rest of the afternoon dissecting combustion and torque. Grayson cleaned his plate without even noticing, one hand anchored protectively on the scrolls I’d given him while he and the Alpha debated mechanical failures. Not even Eleanor’s sharp glares slowed them down.

I stayed right there. I skipped the ritual wrestling and the spear-throwing games. I just wanted to watch him. I’d never seen him this alive. He was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.

His black hair caught the sun, flashing like obsidian. His silver eyes were bright, moving fast as he followed Mason’s hand gestures. And when he laughed—a real, raw sound—dimples cut into his cheeks, making him look less like a stray and more like a prince of the scrap heaps. I saw Mama and the aunts watching him from the shade, their expressions unreadable, trading those silent looks women use when they see something coming before it hits.

That was the day the crush took root. I was eight. I didn't know a damn thing about heat or mating cycles, but watching him made me feel like I’d finally found my own pack.

My mission shifted. It wasn't just about saving him anymore; it was about keeping him close. My head was spinning with ways to lure him back, but Mason solved it for me. By the time the fires were dying down, Grayson had agreed to help the Alpha with the transport whenever he could slip away from his father’s territory.

The Academy was set to start the Friday after the feast. Only a few days of freedom left. On Wednesday, Lily Brooks got a pass from the old widow who watched her to spend the day at our farm. We were entering the fourth cycle of training, and we spent the morning tearing apart everything from the new combat instructors to the boys in our class.

I didn't mention Grayson once. He was my secret. My find. I wasn't sharing him with anyone, not even my best friend.

Lily reminded me of a wild fox. She had a shock of red hair, a tangled mess of copper curls that no comb could survive. She was a live wire—always moving, always talking. I was the quiet one, the one who’d rather disappear into a book than lead a charge. It made us a perfect match.

We were in the hayloft, messing with a new litter of barn kittens. They were three weeks old, stumbling on shaky legs. Their mother, a half-feral tabby, watched us from the rafters with glowing eyes.

"Hugh likes you," Lily said suddenly.

"Gross. No, he doesn't." I let a black kitten needle its claws into my shirt.

"That’s why he’s always trying to trip you or steal your lunch."

"He’s just an idiot. That’s just Hugh."

"Well, I think he’s sharp. For an Alpha’s nephew."

"You think every boy with a pulse is sharp."

Movement caught my eye. I looked toward the barn doors. Grayson was there. His gaze hit mine, a small, quick smile tugging at his lips before he vanished toward the workshop. Over the last few days, he’d developed a sixth sense for when Mason was opening the hood of the transport. They’d huddle over the engine like healers over a dying king, muttering about valves and spark. Usually, I was the one standing by, acting as the medic.

"Wrench." Snap.

"Pliers." Snap.

But today, I had Lily. They’d have to survive without me.

"What is he doing here?" Lily’s eyes narrowed as she watched the door.

"Helping the Alpha with the rig."

She dragged a piece of straw across the floor, watching a kitten pounce. "Peggy Treece is telling the whole school you’re obsessed with him because you brought him to the feast. She calls him 'Garbage Grayson'."

I felt the growl before I heard it. "He isn't garbage. He’s cleaner than Peggy. She smells like sour milk and desperation."

"I know." Lily wrinkled her nose. "I had to sit next to her in history. So, why did you actually bring him?"

I looked at the workshop where Grayson was lost in the steel. I didn't have the words for it then—the way his eyes looked when he talked about fixing things, or the way the mark on his back made me want to burn the world down.

"Because he’s the only interesting thing in this valley," I said.

The workshop door creaked open. Grayson walked out, his hands covered in black oil, his face smeared with grease. He looked up at the loft, his eyes finding mine instantly.

"Savannah!" Mason’s voice boomed from the shed. "Get down here. I need someone with small hands to reach this fuel line."

I looked at Lily. She just shrugged. I scrambled down the ladder, my heart doing that annoying thumping thing again.

"You’re a mess," I said as I reached Grayson.

"And you're late for duty," he countered, a spark in his eyes.

I followed him into the dim heat of the workshop. The transport sat there, a hunk of dead iron. Mason was cursing under his breath.

"Get in there, Savannah. Reach under the manifold and tell me if the line is kinked."

I slid onto the oily floor, my back against the cold metal. It was cramped and smelled of gas. I reached up, my fingers searching for the rubber hose.

"I got it," I grunted. "It’s pinched."

"Hold it right there," Grayson said.

He slid in next to me. The space was tiny. His shoulder was pressed hard against mine, his heat radiating through my thin shirt. I could smell the soap he used to scrub off the salvage yard scent, mixed with the raw, metallic tang of the shop.

"Move your hand a half-inch left," he whispered.

His hand covered mine, guiding my fingers. His skin was rough, calloused, and so hot it felt like it was branding me. My breath hitched. We stayed like that for a heartbeat too long—two kids under a broken machine, our pulses thrumming against each other in the dark.

"Got it," he said, his voice a bit huskier.

He pulled back, and the cold air rushed in to fill the gap. I scrambled out from under the rig, my face burning. Mason was grinning.

"That’s it! She’s breathing!"

The engine turned over, a coughing, sputtering roar that filled the shed with blue smoke and the song of victory. Mason was cheering, slapping Grayson on the back. Grayson was beaming, the most honest expression I’d ever seen on him.

But as the smoke cleared, I saw a figure standing in the doorway.

It was Frank Cole. Grayson’s father.

He looked like a corpse brought back to life by spite. His eyes were bloodshot, his clothes rags, and the scent of cheap whiskey rolled off him in waves. He didn't look at the engine. He didn't look at Mason. He looked at Grayson.

"Get in the truck, boy," Frank rasped.

The light died in Grayson’s eyes. He stood up, the joy vanishing as if it had never existed.

"I was just helping the Alpha, Dad."

"I don't care if you were helping the Moon Mother herself. I told you we don't mix with Reeds. Now move, before I move you."

Mason stepped forward, his eyes glowing amber. "He was doing me a favor, Frank. Leave the lad be."

"He’s my blood, Reed. Not yours. Don't forget it."

Grayson didn't look at me as he walked toward the rusted truck idling in the driveway. He didn't look at the transport they’d just fixed. He just got in and stared straight ahead.

As they drove away, I saw something hit the dirt.

I ran out and picked it up. It was one of the scrolls I’d given him. It was crushed, the leather casing cracked where Frank had clearly stepped on it.

"Savannah," Mason said, his hand heavy on my shoulder. "Stay away from that house. It’s a tomb."

I didn't answer. I wiped the dirt off the scroll and held it to my chest.

That night, the sky turned a bruised purple, and the first storm of the season broke over the valley. I sat by my window, watching the lightning strike the distant peaks. I thought about Grayson in that 'tomb' of a house.

I waited until the house was silent, then I grabbed my cloak. I didn't care about the rain or the wolves in the woods. I had to know if he was okay.

I made it to the edge of the Cole territory, my boots sinking into the mud. Their house was a shack, the windows dark. But then, a light flickered in the shed.

I crept closer, my heart in my throat. I peered through a crack in the boards.

Grayson was there. He was shirtless, hunched over a workbench. But he wasn't fixing an engine.

He was holding a piece of jagged glass, and he was carving something into his own forearm.

I stifled a scream. He stopped, his head snapping toward the wall.

"Who’s there?" he snarled.

I stepped into the doorway, dripping wet. "Grayson, stop! What are you doing?"

He tried to hide his arm, but it was too late. Blood was dripping onto the floor. I grabbed his wrist, pulling his arm into the light.

It wasn't just a cut. He was carving a symbol. The Reed pack crest.

"Why?" I whispered, tears blurring my vision.

"Because he can beat me until I break," Grayson said, his voice cold and hard as flint. "But he can't beat you out of me. I won't let him."

He pulled me into him then, his bloody arm wrapping around my waist. He kissed me—not the desperate kiss of the bridge, but something deeper. It tasted of rain and copper.

"Go home, Savannah," he whispered against my lips. "Before he wakes up."

I turned to run, but a shadow blocked the door.

Frank Cole was standing there, a heavy iron rod in his hand.

"I knew you'd bring the bitch here," Frank sneered.

He swung the rod.

I shrugged, watching Lily’s red curls bounce. "He’s decent, once you get past the bristling. I like him. He isn't some mindless brute like his old man. He studies the old lore. He reads."

Lily rolled her eyes toward the rafters. "Of course. To you, anyone who cracks a scroll is a saint. He’s probably your fated mate."

"I don't believe in that fated mating crap," I snapped, though my skin prickled. "I'm going to be a Pack Chronicler. I’m not getting tied down."

"What about pups? Don't you want a litter?"

I paused, thinking of the tiny, fat-bellied cubs that tumbled around the Pack House during festivals. "Maybe. One day."

"Well, you need a mate for that. Unless you're going to end up like Harper Cole."

We both went quiet, pondering the mystery of the Cole family's messy lineage.

"Maybe if she’d been claimed properly, she wouldn't have so many pups from different sires," Lily whispered. "Let’s go ask your mom."

"Fine."

Vanessa solved it by telling us we had too much time on our hands and shoving a plate of warm, honey-glazed biscuits into our paws.

Lily took off shortly after, but the thought stuck in my head like a burr. Grayson would know. He lived in that den of secrets. The problem was catching him away from Mason. My gut told me the Alpha wouldn't want me poking around the specifics of Grayson's home life.

I missed my chance that evening. By the time I reached the workshop, the scent of oil and woodsmoke was cold. He was gone. I didn't see him again until the following night, and the sight of him burned the questions right out of my throat.

"Savannah? Take the elk trimmings out to the barn for the strays," Mama called from the hearth.

"On it." I had been sprawled on the rug, lost in a history of the Great Shift while the cicadas screamed in the dusk outside. Mason was in his chair, his pipe clenched between his teeth, eyes buried in a map of the northern borders.

The barn hadn't held livestock in years, but it was a sanctuary for the half-wild creatures of the valley. We had owls, foxes, and a rotating population of cats that kept the mice down. I wasn't rattled when I heard a heavy rustling from the shadows at the back of the building.

I dumped the meat into the tin trays near the door. The bolder cats hissed and darted forward. The shy ones waited.

Then came the rustling again. A low, jagged moan that made the hair on my arms stand up. That wasn't an animal. "Who's in there?"

No answer. I backed toward the wall and slapped the light switch. Mason had wired the barn back when Mr. Bob, our old scout, lived in the loft room. The room was still kept clean, though it had been empty for a year.

The light flickered on, and I nearly choked. Grayson was curled on the dirt floor, his body hunched protectively over something clutched against his ribs. I dropped the bowl and sprinted across the barn, hitting the dirt on my knees beside him.

"Grayson? What happened?" He was so still I thought his heart had stopped. "Grayson!" I gripped his shoulder to roll him over. He let out a strangled groan, his silver eyes fluttering open, glazed with a film of agony.

"Your... the scrolls," he wheezed. "I tried to hide them. He found them... was going to toss them in the fire. Couldn't let him. I had to bring them back."

Slowly, his trembling arm shifted to reveal the leather-bound scrolls he’d been shielding with his own body.

I reached for them, and my hand came away warm and slick. I stared at the dark red coating my fingers. "You're bleeding! Grayson, your back..."

"I'm fine. Just gotta... gotta get out of here."

He tried to push himself up, but I shoved him back down. How he’d crawled the three miles from the Cole scrap yard to our gates, I didn't know. His shirt was a red rag, the fabric shredded and fused to his skin by dozens of jagged lash marks. This wasn't a wolf fight. This was a beating.

"Don't you dare move. I'm getting Mama."

"No!" His fingers clamped around my wrist, his grip surprisingly strong for someone dying. "You promised. No one knows. If the Council finds out... they'll throw me in the pits or a state cage."

Tears blurred my vision as he struggled to stand. He'd collapse before he hit the driveway. "Wait. Please. Let me get Mason. I’ll make him swear a blood oath not to report it before he sees you. He’ll know how to fix this."

A shiver racked his lean frame, and he slumped back into the dirt like a broken doll. Grayson lived in a world of absolutes. You were either pack or predator. He’d decided Mason and I were pack.

"Make him swear," he whispered, his eyes sliding shut.

I bolted. I didn't stop until I hit the kitchen, hiding my blood-stained hand behind my back as I passed the table where my aunts were still gossiping.

"Savannah? Where’s the bowl?"

"Left it in the barn. I'll grab it in a second."

I moved to Mason’s chair, leaning over the armrest. "Come outside. Now. It’s an emergency," I breathed into his ear.

His brow furrowed, but he folded his map and followed me into the dark. "What is it, Savannah?"

A firefly drifted between us as I spun to face him. "Before I say a word, you have to swear. On your Alpha's honor. You won't tell the Council. You won't send him away."

"Who, Savannah?"

"Grayson. Please, Mason. He thinks he'll be caged if you find out."

The Alpha’s expression shifted as he saw the desperation in my eyes. He nodded once, short and sharp. "I swear. No cages."

"He’s in the barn. He’s... he’s torn apart." I held up my hand, showing him the dark, sticky evidence in the moonlight.

Mason’s jaw locked so hard I heard the bone creak. He headed for the barn. "Stay back."

"No way. He won't trust you if I’m not there."

He didn't argue, which was as good as permission. I’d already decided Grayson was my responsibility.

They used to say Mason Reed was a judge of blood and iron back in his younger days, but I’d only ever seen the grandfather side of him. Tonight, the Alpha was out.

Grayson had managed to haul himself into a sitting position, his head lolling. Mason reached him in three strides. My grandfather’s entire body went rigid, his eyes flashing a predatory amber that seemed to set the shadows on fire. A string of curses I’d never heard him use hissed through his teeth, but when he looked at Grayson, his voice was like velvet.

"I’m going to lift you, pup. Savannah, get the door to the scout room open."

I scrambled to obey, flicking the lights and tearing the blankets back on the narrow bed. The room was basic—a cot, a chair, and a small washbasin.

Grayson’s face was the color of bone as Mason lowered him onto the mattress. He didn't make a sound, but the way he bit his lip made my own blood run cold.

"You’re burning up," Mason said, gently peeling away the blood-soaked tatters of Grayson’s shirt. "Get on your stomach. Savannah, get the healer’s kit and a basin of hot water. Now."

I grabbed the kit from the bathroom, along with a bottle of willow-bark extract for the pain. For the water, I ran back into the barn and grabbed the elk-scrap bowl. I scrubbed it with lye soap until it sparkled, then filled it with steaming water from the pump. I brought it back to Mason.

"I’m going to be as gentle as a wolf can be, son, but this is going to sting like a bitch." Mason dipped a cloth and began cleaning the carnage on Grayson's back. I sat on the floor, anchoring myself to Grayson’s hand.

"Did Frank do this?" Mason’s voice was eerily calm.

Grayson didn't answer. He just squeezed my hand until my bones groaned.

"You need a real healer."

"No. You swore. He just... he had too much moonshine, is all."

Mason’s teeth ground together with a sound like crushing gravel. "From now on, the second he touches a bottle, you run here. This room is yours. You understand me?"

"I can't. He'd come for me. He’d cause trouble for your pack."

"Let him try. I made you a promise, now you give me one. When the old man turns, you come to the Reed gates."

Grayson hesitated, then gave a weak nod. "I promise."

Once the wounds were dressed and coated in salve, Mason found a clean tunic for him and tucked him in. He turned to me, his eyes dark with a purpose I couldn't yet name. "Savannah, stay here. Keep him down. If he tries to bolt, yell. I have business to settle."

"Where are you going?"

"To remind a dog why he shouldn't bite."

I didn't find out until much later what happened that night. Mason, with the Pack Enforcers at his back, had paid a visit to the Cole scrap yard. They didn't just threaten Frank; Mason told him that if he ever touched the boy again, they wouldn't find enough of Frank to bury. He made it official—Grayson had 'Scout Sanctuary' at the Reed estate.

And though they never admitted it, the women of the house knew. The barn cats started getting served steak on our best ceramic plates, with a side of medicinal tea. Aunt Eleanor didn't say a word.

I sat by Grayson’s bed, watching his chest rise and fall. His fever broke around midnight. He reached out in his sleep, his hand finding mine.

"Savannah?"

"I'm here."

He pulled me closer, his eyes half-open. The heat of the fever was gone, replaced by a different kind of burn. He hauled me onto the bed, his weight shifting as he pinned me beneath him, mindful of his back.

"You shouldn't be here," he whispered, his face inches from mine. "I'm a mess."

"You're a stubborn idiot," I countered.

He didn't argue. He just lowered his head, his mouth finding mine in the dark. It started as a comfort, but quickly turned into something more—a desperate, hungry claim. His hands slid under my tunic, his palms rough against my ribs. I arched into him, my body igniting.

He worked my leggings down with a frantic energy, his breath hot against my neck. "I need you, Savannah. I need to know something is good."

He didn't wait. He moved between my legs, his cock thick and pulsing as it brushed against my entrance. I was already slick, my body screaming for the contact. He pushed inside, a slow, agonizing slide that filled me completely. I cried out into his shoulder, my legs locking around his waist.

He set a brutal, rhythmic pace, the bed creaking in time with his thrusts. Each strike sent a jolt of lightning through my core. I could feel the salt of his sweat, the heavy weight of him pressing me into the mattress, the raw power of a wolf who refused to be broken.

"You're mine," he growled, his teeth grazing my ear. "Reed or not, you're mine."

I couldn't speak. I could only scream as the climax hit, a tidal wave that left us both gasping and tangled in the sheets.

The hangover of the pleasure left us limp. He stayed inside me for a long time, his head buried in the crook of my neck.

But as the sun began to peek over the horizon, the door to the barn creaked open.

"Savannah?" It was Trent Maddox’s voice.

Grayson froze.

"Savannah, your dad wants you—" Trent stopped in the doorway of the room, his eyes going wide as he saw us.

"What the hell is this?" Trent snarled, his hand going to the knife at his belt.