Page 27 of Alpha Charmed

He’s done being steady.

I give up on sleep. The wooden floor is cold beneath my bare feet.

Torin would tell me to go check on her. Make sure she’s safe. It’s been hours since I’ve seen her, after all. Anything could have happened. The bear has become insufferably romantic since claiming Sakura—apparently proximity to happiness is contagious.

I remind myself that “checking on her” in the middle of the night would be inappropriate. Possibly alarming. Definitely behavior that makes people question your sanity.

But patrolling near her street? That’s different. That’s professional duty. That’s what the head of the Protection Network should be doing.

I’ve been using that excuse for years. The fact that my nightly runs have consistently taken me past her apartment building is purely coincidental. Strategic, even—she’s an important figure in Mistvale’s leadership. Her safety is a legitimate concern.

The fact that I’ve memorized which window is hers has nothing to do with anything.

I grab a shirt—one of the older ones I don’t mind destroying if I need to shift quickly—and pull it over my head. Pants follow. Boots would slow me down, so I leave them. The forest doesn’t care about footwear.

The cabin door creaks as I push it open, letting the cool night air wash over me. The scent of pine and earth fills my lungs, familiar and grounding. But underneath it, I catch traces of other things: the pack’s recent paths, a deer that passed through hours ago, the particular magical signature that tells me the Warding Line is holding for now.

And beneath all of that—faint, distant, but unmistakable—herbs. Her particular blend of herbs, carried on the wind from miles away, barely detectable even to shifter senses, but there.

Anouk.

I start running.

The shift happens between one stride and the next.

One moment I’m human, bare feet pounding against packed earth. The next, I’m wolf—four legs covering ground in long, loping strides, senses expanding to take in the night. My fur is dark gray streaked with silver, matching the hair I’ve had since thirty. My pack says I went gray early from the stress of leadership. I’ve never bothered to correct them.

The truth is I went gray the year I met Anouk Darkwater. Correlation isn’t causation, but the wolf has opinions about the matter.

The forest parts around me as I run. Other wolves catch my scent and yield the path—their alpha on the move, heading toward town with purpose they don’t question. I sense their curiosity but no alarm. Good. The last thing I need is the entire pack wondering why I’m racing toward The Hollow at four in the morning.

The town’s magic is responding to something. To whatever she felt tonight that left traces in the air strong enough to reach me miles away.

I slow as I enter The Hollow’s outskirts, trading speed for stealth. The cobblestone streets are empty at this hour, shop windows dark, ward-bells silent. Even Mistvale sleeps sometimes—though not as deeply as human towns, and never for long.

Sunny’s bakery is closed, but I can smell tomorrow’s pastries already baking. Some sort of mood-enhancing muffin, if I’m reading the magical signature correctly. Biscuit the toad is probably judging the results from his usual spot near the ovens.

Her scent grows stronger as I approach the residential district. Herbs and magic and the particular signature that I’ve been tracking without admitting it to myself. I follow the trail with single-minded focus, weaving through narrow streets until⁠—

There.

Thornveil Apothecary rises against the pre-dawn sky, a converted townhouse that’s been spelled larger on the inside—the shop occupying the ground floor, her living quarters on the third. The windows up there are hers. I’ve watched them often enough to know which light belongs to her bedroom, which to her study, which to the small kitchen where she makes tea when sleep won’t come.

Tonight, all her windows are dark.

I settle into the shadows across the street, shifting partially back to human form—enough to think clearly, to make decisions, to recognize that lurking outside a woman’s home in the middle of the night crosses several lines I should probably respect.

Aslan would laugh himself sick if he could see me now. The tiger has been unbearable since claiming Leire, full of advice about “embracing the hunt” and “trusting instincts.” Easy for him to say—his claiming involved dramatic confrontation and public declaration. Mine involves skulking in shadows like a lovesick adolescent.

Dignified. Very dignified for the head of the Protection Network.

I’m about to turn back—about to admit that this midnight patrol has crossed from “professional concern” into “behavior that requires serious self-examination”—when I catch it.

A different scent. Unfamiliar. Wrong.

Multiple sources, coming in the direction of her apothecary. Magic that doesn’t belong to any witch I know, carrying undertones of hostility and intent.

Preservers.