Chapter 18
The day's revelations weighed on me as I trudged back to my cabin that evening. The sunset painted the California sky in brilliant oranges and pinks, casting long shadows across the estate grounds. My footsteps crunched softly on the gravel path, each step carrying me deeper into a world I no longer recognized.
I paused briefly to look at Ken Jungle in the distance. Just yesterday, it was simply a beautiful patch of wilderness. Now I knew it concealed secrets beyond imagination—a hunting ground for creatures I'd believed existed only in fiction. The thought sent a shiver down my spine.
I pulled my cardigan tighter around my shoulders against the evening chill. All I wanted was the sanctuary of my cottage, a hot shower, and the distraction of work. FaunaSphere's quarterly report wouldn't write itself, and focusing on wolf behavioral patterns seemed darkly ironic now.
As I rounded the corner of the main house, a tall figure emerged from the shadows of the porch. My heart leapt into my throat. The man's silhouette was unfamiliar yet somehow recognizable—broader in the shoulders than Ara, more rigid in his posture than either of the twins. Carl.
His imposing frame was silhouetted against the warm light spilling from inside, his face half in shadow. Unlike his brothers, who radiated a kind of magnetic energy that pulled me toward them, Carl exuded cold authority that pushed everything away.
I froze mid-step, desperately trying to remember Ara's instructions. Act normal. Don't let on that you know anything. My fingers curled nervously into my palms as I fought to maintain a neutral expression.
Before I could decide what to do, Carl's gaze found me in the gathering darkness. His eyes—the same striking gold as his brothers', but somehow colder—seemed to pierce right through me. The mark on my neck burned under his scrutiny, though it remained hidden beneath my collar.
"Go back to your cottage," he said curtly, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the space between us.
There was no greeting, no introduction, just a command delivered with absolute certainty it would be obeyed. Carl glanced up at the darkening sky where the moon was beginning its ascent, nearly full but not quite. Something in his expression shifted—a hunger, perhaps—before his features hardened once more.
Without waiting for my response, Carl descended the porch steps with predatory grace. He strode past me, close enough that I could feel the unnatural heat radiating from his body.
I caught a scent as he passed—pine and something wilder, an earthy, primal smell that made the hair on my arms stand on end. It reminded me of the forest after rain, of dark soil and fallen leaves and something not entirely human.
He disappeared around the side of the house, headed toward the jungle that loomed dark and mysterious in the distance. I stared after him until his figure melted into the shadows at the forest's edge, moving with a speed no ordinary man could match.
Inside my cabin, I locked the door behind me—a futile gesture, I realized, against creatures who could probably tear it from its hinges without effort. I kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto the couch, allowing myself a moment to process the brief but intense meeting. So that was Carl—the Alpha King who knew what I meant to his brothers but rejected the bond regardless.
After a quick shower, I wrapped myself in a soft robe and settled at my desk by the window. The moon cast silver patterns across my workspace as I opened my laptop. I pulled up the half-finished report on wolf interaction protocols for FaunaSphere's wildlife management teams.
"When approaching wolf packs in controlled environments, researchers should maintain non-threatening postures and avoid direct eye contact, which may be interpreted as a challenge to the pack hierarchy..."
I paused, struck by the absurdity. Here I was, writing guidelines for humans to safely interact with wolves, when I was apparently bonded to four men who could transform into them at will. Did these same principles apply to werewolves? Should I avoid eye contact with Carl?
I laughed despite myself, the sound hollow in the quiet cottage. How would my report read if I included what I now knew? "Note: Some wolves may actually be werewolves..."
Hours passed as I lost myself in work, the familiar rhythm of research providing the escape I needed. Outside, the moon had risen fully, casting silver light through my windows. I glanced at the clock—just past midnight.
That's when I heard it. A howl, deep and resonant, rising from the depths of Ken Jungle. The sound vibrated through me like a physical touch. It was followed by another, then another, until a chorus of wolf calls echoed through the night. The sound sent a shiver through me, not of fear, but of something else—recognition, perhaps, or longing.
My hand drifted to the mark on my neck, which seemed to pulse in time with the distant howls. Were they all out there now, running as wolves under the moonlight? Was Carl among them, his human coldness replaced by lupine freedom?
I found myself moving to the window, drawn by the sounds. The jungle's edge was just visible, the trees silvered by moonlight. For a moment, I saw movement—shadows flowing between the trunks, too large to be ordinary wolves, too fast to track with human eyes.
The howling faded, leaving an aching silence. I stood at the window, feeling strangely bereft—as though I should be out there with them, running wild beneath the moon instead of trapped inside these four walls. The longing was so intense it almost frightened me.
A soft creak from outside scattered my thoughts. I squinted into the darkness, my pulse quickening as I noticed a figure approaching my cottage. Tall and impossibly graceful, it moved through the moonlight like a shadow given form, barely disturbing the grass beneath its feet. There was something otherworldly about the way it crossed the yard—too smooth, too silent for a human.
It paused at the edge of my porch, a silhouette framed by moonlight. Then, before I could decide whether to be afraid, there was a gentle knock at my door.