The road hummed beneath the tyres like a low, steady heartbeat.
Kade's hands stayed at ten and two, knuckles white, the silver scar on his wrist catching every sweep of passing headlight.
Beside him, Lily stared at the side mirror; the lake was long gone but she kept watching, as if the water might rear up and chase.
In the back, twins slept—Daisy's head on Sage's lap, Finn curled like a comma across the seat, both breathing in small, even puffs that fogged the windows.
No-one spoke.
The truck cab felt too full of everything unsaid.
Kade flexed his fingers, felt the scar throb once—like a second pulse counting down.
He told himself it was nothing.
The reflection had been tired eyes and diesel fumes.
Still, the corner of his vision prickled, waiting for the red dot to blink again.
Lily reached across, touched the scar without looking.
"Cold?" she asked.
"Just air-con," he lied.
She didn't press.
Outside, pines strobed past, moon flicking between branches.
The elder's convoy rolled ahead and behind—headlights off, running on wolf sight and urgency.
They were aiming for the old den high in the Silver Pines, a place with walls thick enough to guard secrets.
Kade's phone buzzed on the dash—unknown number.
He declined.
It buzzed again.
Lily picked it up.
Speaker crackled, then a voice smooth as wet stone: "Mr. Marwood, your account shows unusual after-hours activity. Would you like to dispute the charges?"
Kade's blood iced.
He grabbed the phone, killed the call, powered it off.
Lily's eyes stayed on him.
"Victor's company?" she asked.
"Was," he said. "Should be dead."
The scar gave another throb, sharper.
He swallowed.
Ten miles later the road narrowed to dirt.
He slowed, tyres crunching.
A shape stood in the beams—human, arms slack, face blank.
Kade braked hard.
Seat-belts snapped tight.
The figure didn't flinch.
Headlights showed a man in a courier uniform—same one Kade had yanked through a window days ago.
Eyes milk-white, skin wax.
In his hand: a silver envelope.
Kade shifted to neutral, left the engine running.
"Stay," he told Lily.
He climbed out, claws half out.
Cold air bit.
The courier lifted the envelope like an offering.
Kade took it.
Paper was warm—body-warm.
The man turned and walked into the trees, vanishing between trunks.
No footfalls.
Just stillness and engine idle.
Kade climbed back in, sealed the doors.
Lily watched the woods.
"What is it?"
He slit the flap.
Inside: a single photograph.
He held it to the dash light.
Image: the half-built house, sky-blue walls gleaming under moon.
On the porch steps sat the silver collar, open, waiting.
Time-stamp read 02:17—tonight.
Lily's breath hitched.
"They're at home," she whispered.
Kade shoved the photo into his pocket, slammed the truck into drive.
Tyres spun, throwing gravel.
The convoy picked up speed, engines growling.
He pressed the radio. "Elder, we've got eyes on the house. Possible breach. Split and surround."
Static crackled back: "Copy. No lights. No noise."
Kade killed the beams, drove by moon.
Every mile stretched longer than the last.
The scar pulsed faster—throb-throb-throb, matching the speedometer.
Lily checked her rifle, sliding a round into the chamber.
In the back, Sage covered the twins with her body, whispering lullabies to keep them under.
Trees thinned.
The clearing appeared—dark, quiet.
House sat exactly like the photo: walls blue, roof half-framed, porch raw pine.
And on the bottom step—glint of metal.
Kade stopped fifty yards out, engine off.
He handed Lily the binoculars.
She glassed the building.
"No movement. No heat signature."
He scanned with wolf eyes—same result.
Yet the collar shone, open jaw resting on fresh sawdust.
The elder's truck pulled alongside.
He stepped down, sniffed the wind.
"Scent's old. Trick, maybe."
Kade's scar burned—one hard pulse that blurred his vision.
He blinked, saw the red dot again—super-imposed on the house wall, collar-shaped.
It blinked once.
His limbs moved without permission.
Step forward.
Another.
Lily caught his arm. "Kade?"
He shook his head, but the dot pulled—string tied to his bones.
He shoved past, walking open-ground toward the porch.
Lily hissed his name.
The elder signalled; wolves fanned, rifles ready.
Kade kept walking—thirty yards, twenty.
The collar grew larger, brighter, filling vision.
His hand lifted of its own accord, reaching.
Lily sprinted, tackling him sideways.
They hit dirt, rolling.
The dot vanished.
He gasped, control snapping back.
"What was that?" she demanded.
"Brand," he rasped. "It drives."
She pulled him behind a woodpile.
From the house, a voice drifted—Victor's, amused. "Did you like the photograph?"
Lily raised her rifle, scanning windows.
No silhouette.
Kade answered through clenched teeth. "Show yourself."
Victor laughed. "Can't. I'm at the bottom of the lake. But you brought me home in your skin. Let the collar click, Kade. End the ache."
The scar throbbed harder.
Kade doubled over.
Lily steadied him.
The elder motioned; two wolves crept toward the porch.
They reached the steps.
One kicked the collar.
It snapped shut on empty air, then burst open again—jaws spring-loaded.
A low hum started—metal vibrating.
The wolf kicked again; the collar flew sideways, landed near the woodpile.
It began to roll—slow, deliberate—toward Kade's hiding spot.
Lily's breath caught.
She aimed, fired.
Bullet sparked off silver; collar kept coming.
The elder shouted, "Fall back!"
Wolves scattered.
Kade couldn't move—leaden, pulse syncing to the hum.
The collar rolled closer, ten yards, five.
Lily dropped the rifle, threw her arms around him, pressing her forehead to his.
"Choose me," she whispered. "Not metal."
His eyes focused on hers—gold steadying.
He forced his hand into his pocket, drew the photograph, crumpled it hard.
The hum faltered.
He dropped the paper, stomped it into dirt.
The collar stopped an arm's length away, quivering.
He reached—not for silver, but for Lily's hand.
Their fingers laced.
The scar cooled to ordinary ache.
The collar's hum died.
Silence returned—crickets, wind, distant engines.
He exhaled, shaky.
The elder approached, bolt cutters ready.
He snapped the collar in half.
Metal fell, dull and dead.
No red dot.
No voice.
Just dawn breaking behind pines.
Kade pulled Lily close, burying his face in her hair.
Behind them, the house stood quiet, blue walls warming with first light.
The twins stirred in the truck, waking to a world free of collars.
For one breath, everything felt finished.
Then Sage screamed.
They turned.
Sage pointed at the porch steps.
Fresh sawdust now bore a single line of wet footprints—adult, barefoot—leading from the house to the woodpile.
They ended where Kade stood.
Water soaked his boots.
He looked down—footprints matched his exactly.
But he'd never stepped on the porch.
A chill crawled his spine.
From the chimney, water dripped—steady, rhythmic.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Like a heartbeat waiting to be worn.