Chapter 63
Elara's POV
I pushed the window open slowly. Cold air hit my face. Made my eyes water.
Below me—two stories down—the street was empty. No cars. No people. Just yellow streetlights throwing long shadows across the pavement.
Behind me, through the crack under my door, I could see the hallway light. Downstairs, the TV was on. I heard Dad's low laugh at something. Mom said something back. Normal family evening sounds.
My chest tightened.
I swung my leg over the windowsill. Found the first foothold—the decorative molding Dad had installed last summer. My fingers gripped the window frame.
Three seconds. That's all I needed.
I dropped to the next foothold. Then the next. My sneakers hit the grass without a sound.
I straightened up. Adjusted my backpack. Started walking.
The residential area was quiet. I kept to the edges, away from the streetlights. My breath made small clouds in the cold air.
Then I saw Kael's house.
My feet slowed down before I could stop them.
Warm light glowed through his curtains. I could see his silhouette moving inside. Tall. Broad shoulders. He was pacing.
I stopped walking completely.
My brain started doing that thing again. That stupid calculation thing.
If I knocked on his door right now. Told him about Vivian. About the kidnapping. He'd come. I knew he would. He was an Alpha. He had resources. Combat experience. He'd fought off that wolf in the alley without breaking a sweat.
Two people were better than one for a rescue mission.
But then I remembered this afternoon. Him in that towel. Water dripping down his chest. The way my whole body had reacted like I'd been electrocuted.
And last night. The cave. His arms around me. The heat of his body keeping me warm.
And the club. That kiss. His mouth on mine. The way I'd completely lost control.
No.
No no no.
I couldn't handle that right now. Couldn't handle him looking at me with those amber eyes while I was trying to focus on keeping Vivian alive.
I started walking again.
Made it three steps.
Stopped.
Fuck.
If something went wrong tonight. If the kidnappers were actually Wild Hunt. If I didn't make it back.
Someone should know where I went.
I pulled out my phone. Opened the encrypted file Derrick had sent me. Stared at Vivian's photo again.
The concrete walls. The oil stains. That metal shelving in the corner.
I'd spent the last hour zooming in on every pixel of this image. Looking for anything. My eyes were burning from squinting at the screen.
There. In the upper right corner. A window. Tiny. Maybe eight inches visible in the frame.
The glass was filthy. Covered in years of grime. But I could just barely make out trees through it. Pine trees. Dense. The light coming through was dim—late afternoon, maybe. The angle suggested northwest exposure.
Not much. But it was something.
I zoomed in on the metal shelving. The label on the side was almost completely faded. Most of the letters were gone. But I could make out parts of two words.
...wood and ...Ridge...
Could be anything. Driftwood. Ridgeway. Redwood Ridge.
But combined with those pine trees...
I opened a new browser tab. Searched "lumber companies Black Ridge Forest."
The first result was a historical society page. Blackwood Lumber Co. - Ceased Operations 2008.
I clicked through. Found a property map. Blackwood had owned seven facilities around Black Ridge. Most had been demolished. Three were still standing—abandoned, condemned, probably full of rats and black mold.
I cross-referenced the locations with the photo.
The first facility was too close to the main road. Too exposed. Kidnappers wouldn't use it.
The second was in a clearing. No dense pine forest. Didn't match the window view.
The third was five kilometers southeast of the forest entrance. Deep in the trees. The old foreman's cabin. Property records showed a single-story concrete structure with high windows—storage facility design.
That had to be it.
Had to be.
I wasn't a hundred percent certain. Maybe seventy percent. But it was the best lead I had.
I dug through my backpack. Found a pen and a sticky note.
My handwriting looked shaky in the dim light.
K—I'm handling something urgent. If I'm not at school tomorrow morning, check the abandoned cabin 5km southeast of Black Ridge Forest. Old Blackwood Lumber property. Don't tell my family. —E
I folded it twice. Walked back to his door.
Crouched down. Slid it through the gap at the bottom. Made sure it was pushed all the way in so no one could see it from outside.
Then I ran.
My lungs were already burning by the time I reached the end of the street.
Fucking asthma.
I slowed to a fast walk. Pressed my hand against my chest. Forced my breathing to steady.
Vivian had less than twelve hours. Noon tomorrow. That's when the kidnappers' deadline hit.
And I was wheezing after a two-minute jog.
If I went into that cabin right now—weak, slow, one bad breath away from an asthma attack—I'd get Vivian killed. And probably myself.
I needed the treatment first. Needed my lungs fixed. Needed to be able to move without my body giving out.
Then I could save her.
The library parking lot came into view. Empty except for one black SUV in the far corner.
I could see Warren through the windshield. He was looking at his phone.
I pulled open the passenger door. Slid into the seat.
He didn't say hi. Just handed me a tablet.
"Guard profiles. Read them."
The engine started. We pulled out onto the main road.
I looked down at the screen. But part of my brain was still doing math.
Treatment tonight. Recovery—maybe a few hours. Then weapons. Then the cabin.
I could make the deadline.
I had to.
Frank Stone. Age 32. Former Special Forces—Wolf Division. Specialized in close-quarters combat and night patrol. Honorable discharge after six years. Current assignment: Council residential protection detail.
There was a photo. Buzz cut. Scar through his left eyebrow. The kind of face that had seen some shit.
I swiped to the next file.
Sarah Wood. Age 28. Council Intelligence Division, retired. Expert in counter-surveillance and covert protection. Successfully protected three Council members' families with zero security breaches.
Her photo showed a woman with sharp eyes and dark hair pulled back tight.
"They're acceptable," I said.
Warren glanced at me. "Just acceptable?"
"Their records are solid. Stone's combat experience is relevant. Wood's intelligence background means she'll spot threats before they get close."
"When do they arrive?"
"Stone takes night shift. He'll be in position by ten. Wood relieves him at six a.m."
I nodded. Set the tablet on my lap.
We drove in silence for a few minutes. Trees started replacing houses. The road got darker.
"So," I said. "This treatment. How exactly does it work?"
Warren's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
"Your asthma—it's not a normal human condition. Wolves don't get asthma. Our healing factor prevents it."
"But I have it."
"Because you can't shift. Your wolf genetics are there, but they're locked. Dormant. The healing factor can't activate without the shift."
I waited.
"The doctor we're seeing tonight—she has a way to bypass that. Activate your wolf healing directly. Without requiring a full shift."
My stomach did something weird. Hope. That's what that feeling was.
"How?"
Warren hesitated.
"She's... not exactly a traditional doctor."
"What kind of doctor is she?"
Another pause.
"A witch."
I stared at him.
"You're taking me to a witch."
"We call her a doctor. Officially. But yes. She's a witch. She works with the Council on cases that require... alternative methods."
"And she can fix my asthma."
"She can activate your healing factor. Which should eliminate the asthma, yes. Along with improving your overall physical resilience."
I leaned back in my seat.
A witch.
Of course. Because my life wasn't complicated enough already.
"Does she have a name?"
"Dr. Helena. And—" Warren shot me a look. "Be respectful. She doesn't have much patience for attitude."
"I'm always respectful."
Warren actually smiled. Just a little. Then his face went serious again.
"I mean it, Elara. Helena is powerful. And temperamental. Don't piss her off."
"Got it. Be nice to the witch doctor."
We turned off the paved road onto a dirt path. Trees pressed in close on both sides. The SUV's headlights cut through the darkness.
After about five minutes, we stopped.
In front of us was a stone house. Small. Old-looking. But the windows glowed with warm light.
Warren killed the engine.
"We're here."
I opened my door. Cold air rushed in again. But this time it smelled different.
Herbs. Something sharp and medicinal. And underneath that—something else. Something that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.