All Chapters of Undercover Wolf: My Target, My Girlfriend: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

The truck drove in darkness for about twenty minutes. Lane didn't count the time, but he felt the vibration pattern shift—from short, sharp jolts to longer, smoother undulations, like the road had changed from cracked stone to packed earth. He lifted his head from the crate, opened his eyes. The light in the truck bed was dimmer than before—no streetlights bled through the tarp's gaps, only moonlight seeping through the fabric's folds, a thin silver-white film pressed against the inner wall.His breathing was deeper than usual. In wolf form, he was curled between the crates, forepaws resting where his knees would be. He felt his shape in the dark—took stock of his position, his state. Evelyn's hand still rested on the back of his neck. Her fingers lay on the surface of his fur, warmth seeping through the gaps, a slow-spreading heat. He could feel her breathing—slow, steady, like when she sat by the hearth, holding a certain rhythm.The truck slowed. Stopped. The engine died, the vibra

The light in the underground lab was yellow, steady, radiating evenly from the oil lamp's wick—like a flattened star. Lane sat on the edge of the iron bed, back against the brick, the dull ache in his left shoulder slowly settling—shifting from a sharp pain to a vague background sensation, something his body was adapting to rather than something that needed attention. He kept his eyes closed, listening to the wind drifting down the stairwell—continuous, low, like someone blowing slowly through a pipe far away. Evelyn sat at the table, holding half a piece of flatbread, not eating. She set it down, ran her finger along its edge once, then stopped. Adrian sat at the workbench, lamplight falling across his open sketchbook. He drew a few lines, paused, set down his pencil, and looked at the things on the tabletop, like he was confirming their positions."They won't stop." Adrian's voice came from the table, level, like he was stating already-sorted information. "Klaus will send trackers.

Adrian left at dawn. He made no sound as he left—pushed the door gap open, slipped sideways, his footsteps echoing a few times in the passage, then fading, until they were absorbed by the pipe's wind. Lane leaned against the wall, listening to the sound move from near to far, then gone. He didn't move. Evelyn leaned against the opposite wall, her breathing still steady. The oil lamp's light, in the early morning, had taken on a paler tone—shifting from yellow to white, like the light itself was adjusting its intensity with the time.Lane sat for a while, then stood. His left shoulder gave a faint, dry click as he rose—like a piece of wood returning from a bent position. He took two steps in the small space, stopping at Adrian's workbench. Several things lay on the surface: a notebook, dark cover, edges curled from repeated flipping; an iron box, its lid ajar; an oil lamp, a thin ring of wax at its base. He looked at them, didn't reach out. But he noticed a thin worn line on the drawer

Evelyn sat on the sacks for a long time. She leaned against the wall, legs straight, ankles crossed, hands on her knees, her gaze fixed on the door's direction. Her breathing was steady, her shoulders not tense, but her fingers weren't touching each other—they rested apart on either side of her knees, fingertips pressing lightly against the fabric, like she was measuring the edge of something.The oil lamp burned steady on the wall, casting her shadow across the brick behind her—its outline clear, unshaken. She could hear Lane's breathing from the bed's direction, steady and slow, like he'd fallen asleep. She could also hear Adrian's pencil moving across paper—intermittent, sometimes stopping for long stretches, sometimes making several strokes in succession, like he was recording things that didn't need to be fully seen.She didn't turn her head.She rearranged the things Adrian had said earlier in her mind, like disassembling a used tool, separating its components, identifying which

Before dawn, Lane opened his eyes.The oil lamp had burned down to almost nothing—the wick blackened, a single grain of orange light still holding in the shade, like something slowly contracting. He sat against the wall, hadn't lain down. He heard Evelyn's breathing from the sack pile—steady, even, like she was asleep. He heard Adrian's pencil moving across paper, intermittent, like he was drawing or writing something.He stood. His left shoulder gave a light click as he rose—he shifted the joint once, let the sound settle, then walked to the table. Adrian looked up at him. Dawn light hadn't seeped through any gaps yet—the room was lit only by the dying lamp, slowly releasing the last of its heat. The open notebook on the table showed a sketch—not a person, but a building's outer wall, an X marked at the northwest corner, a thin line beside it indicating the windowsill. The bell tower."What are you drawing that for?""Finished." Adrian didn't answer the question. He closed the notebo