Chapter Eight - Whispers at the Edge ( Aria )

The storm hadn’t broken in days. Rain slicked the streets, painted the world in shadows and silver, and left everything smelling of damp earth. I told myself the weather explained the tension crawling under my skin. But it wasn’t the rain. It was something else, something older, darker, inevitable.

I wiped down the diner counter for the third time though it was already spotless. My hands wouldn’t stop moving. My body wouldn’t stop listening. Every scrape of a fork, every squeak of a shoe against linoleum made me jump. My senses had sharpened again, unbearably so. I could hear the heartbeat of the cook in the kitchen, steady and strong. I could smell the coffee beans, sharp and bitter even from the storeroom.

And outside, beyond the glass door, something lingered. A trace of fur and soil. A scent I shouldn’t know, but did.

“You okay, hon?” Sarah asked, pausing as she balanced a tray of plates. “You’ve been jittery all week.”

“I’m fine,” I lied quickly, too quickly.

She raised a brow. “Fine looks like you’re waiting for the sky to fall.”

If only she knew.

That night, the whispers began. Not in my head, but in town. Customers spoke in low voices, rumors weaving through the booths like smoke.

“Coyotes, maybe,” one man said.

“No, bigger,” another countered. “Tracks out by the creek. I swear I heard howling.”

“Wolves? Here?” Sarah scoffed. “Not in this part of the state.”

But the words hooked sharp into me. Wolves.

I gripped the coffee pot so hard it rattled against the counter. Wolves weren’t supposed to be here. I’d come this far to escape them. To escape him.

The baby rolled inside me, restless as if sensing my dread.

When I left the diner, the night felt alive. The town was too quiet, the air heavy with something electric. My steps echoed on the sidewalk, too loud in my own ears. I kept glancing behind me, certain I wasn’t alone.

Halfway home, I froze.

A shadow moved at the edge of the trees, just beyond the streetlights. Not human, too fluid, too deliberate. My blood chilled.

I forced myself to keep walking, but my senses betrayed me. The wind carried it to me: musk, wild grass, iron. Wolf.

Panic clawed at my chest. If they were here, it was only a matter of time before they found me. Found us.

Sleep didn’t come. I lay awake listening to every creak of the building, every whistle of wind through the cracks. My body was thrumming with energy I couldn’t burn off, a restless hunger that wasn’t mine alone.

Because in my dreams, he was there.

Kael.

Always Kael.

I saw the line of his jaw, the fire in his eyes, the wolf in his skin. I felt the pull of the bond I’d tried so desperately to sever. And I woke with his name on my lips, breathless and shaking.

I pressed a hand to my belly, whispering, “You’re mine. Not his. He’ll never take you.”

But even as I said it, the bond hummed faintly inside me, a tether that refused to break.

The next day, I heard more. A delivery man mentioned hearing howls at dawn. A hiker swore he saw glowing eyes in the treeline. Whispers in the wind, always circling back to wolves.

Each rumor tightened the thread between me and the past I’d fled. Each whisper drove home the truth. Kael’s world was bleeding into mine.

I found myself lingering by the window, staring toward the dark stretch of forest. My senses reached farther than they should, listening for sounds only a wolf could catch. Sometimes I swore I heard it, soft padding footsteps, a howl so low it vibrated in my bones.

Fear warred with something far more dangerous. Longing.

I hated myself for it.

That evening, as I left work, a breeze swept down the street. It carried with it a faint, familiar scent. Cedar, smoke, and something purely him.

My breath caught.

Kael.

My knees nearly buckled. The scent was faint, barely there, but real enough to unravel me. He was close. Too close.

I staggered home, locked every bolt, pulled the curtains tight. But I couldn’t lock out the bond. I couldn’t stop my wolf blood from recognizing him across distance and storm.

The baby shifted again, strong and insistent. His blood lived in my child, calling back to him, pulling him nearer with every heartbeat.

I curled on the couch, trembling, whispering, “Please, not yet. Please don’t find us.”

But deep down, I knew the truth.

The wind didn’t carry rumors. It carried warnings. And the bond between us wasn’t breaking. It was pulling tighter, dragging us both to the moment we could no longer run.