I make it exactly three steps inside before my legs give out.
Not dramatically—I don't collapse or faint like some Victorian heroine. I just... sink down onto the couch, boneless, my brain finally catching up to what my body just experienced. The scarf is still warm around my throat, pulsing gently like a second heartbeat.
"Okay," I say out loud to the empty room. "That happened. That was real. I just had a conversation with a several-centuries-old supernatural wolf-creature who is—was—in love with my grandmother and is now... what? Interested in me? Waiting for me?"
The house settles around me, boards creaking in what I choose to interpret as agreement.
I pull out my phone, fingers hovering over Jen's contact. I could call her. Tell her everything. She'd believe me—Jen has always had a high tolerance for weird. She'd probably drive out here with sage and salt and a baseball bat, ready to defend me from supernatural threats.
But something stops me. This feels... private. Like a story that's still being written, and inviting someone else in would change the narrative in ways I can't predict.
Instead, I open my notes and keep writing:
9. He can look human but isn't.
10. His mother made the scarf for Elara.
11. The scarf protects me. Even from him.
12. Elara counted to thirteen THOUSAND before she kissed him.
My finger hovers over the screen. Then I add:
13. I don't think I have thirteen thousand in me.
I stare at that last line for a long time. It's the truth, even if I don't want to admit it. Whatever Elara had—that incredible patience, that ability to want something and wait for it—I don't have it. I'm eighteen and impulsive and I've spent my whole life grabbing at happiness before it could slip away because everything always slips away eventually.
My parents. My temporary homes. Elara.
Everything leaves.
"Not helpful thoughts," I mutter, shoving my phone in my pocket.
I need normal. I need to remember what it feels like to be a regular person with regular problems. And the most normal thing I can think of is going into town, getting groceries, pretending I'm not wearing a magical scarf and being courted by an ancient wolf creature.
The drive into Hollowpine takes twenty minutes down a road that probably hasn't been repaved since the eighties. My car—a fifteen-year-old Honda Civic that Elara helped me buy with babysitting money—complains the whole way, rattling over potholes like it's personally offended by their existence.
The scarf stays on. I've given up trying to take it off. Every time I reach for the knot, my hands just... don't. Like my body knows something my brain hasn't accepted yet.
Hollowpine is exactly as I remember it: one main street, a handful of shops, a diner that serves breakfast all day, and a population of maybe three thousand people who all know each other's business. The kind of town where strangers are noticed and gossip spreads faster than wildfire.
I park in front of Miller's Market, the only grocery store for twenty miles. The bell above the door jingles when I walk in, and Mrs. Miller looks up from behind the counter with a smile that falters when she sees me.
"Scarlett Rowan," she says, her voice doing that thing where sympathy and curiosity fight for dominance. "Honey, I'm so sorry about Elara. She was a wonderful woman."
"Thank you," I say automatically, grabbing a basket. "She really was."
"Are you staying out at the cottage?" Mrs. Miller leans on the counter, her eyes sharp despite the kind smile. "All alone?"
"For now, yes."
"That's awfully brave of you." She emphasizes the word brave in a way that clearly means foolish. "It's so isolated out there. Your aunt mentioned you might be selling?"
Of course Aunt Maeve has been talking. "I'm keeping it," I say firmly. "It's my home."
Mrs. Miller's eyebrows rise. "Well. That's... that's very independent of you, dear."
I've already learned that in small-town speak, independent means stubborn and going to regret this.
I grab milk, eggs, bread—real bread, not mysterious supernatural offerings—coffee, and enough frozen dinners to last me through finals week if I were still in high school. The scarf gets warm when I reach for the pasta, and I have a wild moment of wondering if it has opinions about my nutritional choices.
"That's a beautiful scarf," Mrs. Miller comments as I'm checking out. "I don't think I've seen you wear it before."
"It was Elara's," I say, running my debit card through the ancient machine that sounds like it's grinding rocks.
"Oh?" Her interest sharpens. "I don't remember seeing her wear it either."
Because she saved it for the nights when a wolf came to her porch. Because it was too precious, too powerful, too intimate to wear to the grocery store.
"Family heirloom," I say vaguely. "She kept it put away."
Mrs. Miller hands me my receipt and the bags, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Well, you take care of yourself out there, sweetheart. If you need anything—anything at all—you call the store. We can deliver."
"Thank you. I appreciate that."
I'm loading groceries into my car when I see him.
My breath catches before my brain catches up. Blonde hair catching the afternoon sun, broader shoulders than I remember but the same careful way of moving, like he's always aware of the space he takes up. Green eyes that used to be softer, kinder, before whatever the Huntsman Corps did to sharpen them.
"Elias," I say, and it comes out halfway between a question and a statement.
He stops mid-stride, and for a moment he just stares at me. Then something breaks in his expression—surprise and relief and something that looks like pain all mixed together.
"Red." His voice is different too. Deeper. More controlled. "I heard you were back."
"I live here now." I lean against my car, studying him. The Elias I remember cried at everything—kites stuck in trees, hurt animals, the injustice of a world that took parents away. This Elias stands like someone who learned how to lock all that softness somewhere no one can reach it. "You're... different."
"So are you." He takes a careful step closer, like he's not sure if we're still the kind of friends who hug or if time and distance have made us strangers. "I'm sorry about Elara. I wanted to come to the funeral, but I was—"
"Training," I finish. "Aunt Maeve mentioned something about the Huntsman Corps?"
Something shutters in his expression. "Yeah. I just finished the final trials. Got my first Mark last month." He seems to catch himself, like he said more than he meant to. "How are you? Really?"
"Complicated." I gesture at the cottage direction. "Staying in Elara's place. Everyone thinks I'm crazy."
"Are you?"
"Probably." I manage a smile. "But I'm doing it anyway."
He studies me for a long moment, and I can see him cataloguing—the shadows under my eyes, the way I'm standing, the scarf around my neck that I still haven't taken off. His gaze lingers on the scarf, and something shifts in his expression.
"That's new," he says carefully.
"It was Grandma's. I found it in a trunk." My hand goes to it automatically, protective. "Why?"
"No reason." But his colors—those emotional shadows I can see bleeding off him—spike with concern. Gold discipline, silver wariness, and underneath it all, that persistent green that I remember from when we were kids. The color that means I care about you and I'm worried.
We stand there in the awkward space of people who used to know everything about each other and now know almost nothing.
"There's a bonfire Friday," he says finally. "At the lake. Remember that spot where you fell out of the tree trying to get my kite?"
I laugh despite myself. "How could I forget? I still don't understand how I didn't break anything."
"Lucky." His smile is crooked, almost sad. "Anyway, bunch of people from town are going. You should come. Might be nice to have some normal for a change."
"Normal sounds good," I admit.
"Can I—" He hesitates. "Can I get your number? We should catch up properly. And honestly, I'd feel better knowing I could reach you if..." He trails off, looking uncomfortable. "The cottage is pretty isolated."
"You sound like Aunt Maeve."
"Your aunt is a smart woman."
I roll my eyes but pull out my phone. We exchange numbers, and he immediately texts: E-Cryis reporting for duty.
Despite everything, I smile. "That nickname really stuck, huh?"
"Like glue." He grimaces. "Turns out crying at everything as a kid makes for lasting impressions."
"You had feelings," I correct, the same thing I've always told him. "That's not weakness."
Something softens in his face. "You always said that. Even when everyone else thought I was pathetic."
"You were never pathetic. You were human." I close my trunk. "The Corps didn't beat that out of you, did it?"
"They tried." His jaw tightens. "But some things stick too deep to scrape out."
There's weight in those words—years of experience I haven't been part of, training I can't imagine, choices he's made that changed him from the boy who cried over kites into whatever he is now.
"I should go," I say, because the silence is getting too heavy and I don't know how to carry it yet. "But it's good to see you, E-Cryis. Really good."
"You too, Red." He steps back. "Text me if you need anything. Generator emergencies, weird noises, anything. I'm only a couple miles away."
"Your family's place?"
"Yeah. Dad's gone, but Mom's still there. She'd love to see you, actually. She always asks about you and Jen."
The mention of his father—cancer, four years ago, Elias crying in my arms behind the church—sits between us for a moment.
"Tell her I'll visit," I say.
"I will." He hesitates one more time. "Red? Be careful out there, okay? The woods around Elara's place... they're different. Always have been."
"Different how?"
But he's already walking away, throwing a wave over his shoulder. "See you Friday. If not before."
I watch him go, this stranger wearing my childhood friend's face. The blonde hair is the same—maybe a bit shorter, more military. The green eyes are the same—maybe a bit harder, more watchful. But everything else about him has been rebuilt into something designed for hunting things I'm only beginning to understand.
And he's coming to the cottage tomorrow. To help. To protect. To stand between me and the exact kind of creature that's been courting me with bread and patience.
This is going to be so complicated.
Back at the cottage, I'm putting away groceries when I notice Elara's journal still sitting on the coffee table, exactly where I left it. It's like a magnet, pulling at my attention. I should leave it alone. I should let myself process what happened this morning before diving back into her story.
I'm reading before I consciously decide to.
Six months since the first night. We have a rhythm now that feels almost domestic:
He arrives at dusk. I make tea—he likes it black, strong, hot enough to burn. We sit on the porch steps, him below, me above, that boundary always between us. We talk about everything except what we are.
Tonight I asked him about his mother. The one who made this scarf.
"She's old," he said. "Older than memory. She was here when the first humans came to this valley, and she'll be here when the last ones leave."
"What does she think of you visiting me?"
He smiled, showing teeth. "She thinks I'm being careful. She's not sure if that's wise or cowardly."
"Are you? Being careful?"
"I'm terrified," he said simply. "You're human. You're fragile. You'll die and I'll continue, and that's if I never touch you. If I do—" He stopped, jaw tight. "I could hurt you by accident. By wanting too much, too fast. By forgetting you're not made of the same materials as me."
I reached out before I could stop myself. Just one finger, brushing against his hand where it rested on the step.
He froze. Completely still, barely breathing. His eyes closed.
"Elara," he whispered.
"Did I hurt you?" I asked.
"No. You're going to, though." He opened his eyes, and they were molten gold, burning. "When you leave. When you die. When you decide this is madness and shut the door. You're going to hurt me so badly I won't remember how to be whole."
"Then why come back?"
"Because the alternative is never knowing what your hand feels like." He turned his palm up, an invitation. "And I'm not that strong."
I put my hand in his.
His skin was warm, rough with calluses that shouldn't exist on someone who can turn into a wolf. His fingers closed around mine carefully, like he was holding something that might shatter.
We sat like that until the moon rose. Didn't speak. Didn't move. Just held hands like teenagers at a movie, and it was the most intimate thing I've ever experienced.
When I finally pulled away, my palm was warm for hours.
I think I'm past counting. I think thirteen thousand won't be enough.
I think I'm going to say yes, and it's going to destroy me, and I don't care.
I close the journal, my chest tight. That's what love looks like when it's dangerous and real and chosen anyway. Elara knew what she was getting into. Knew it would hurt. Knew she'd lose him or he'd lose her because that's what happens when mortal and immortal collide.
She chose it anyway.
My phone buzzes, making me jump.
Jen: Survived the day?
Me: Went to town. Saw Elias Cross. Remember him?
Jen: E-CRYIS??? The emotional support human???
Me: He's different now. Taller. Less crying. More... hunter-y.
Jen: Is he hot?
I consider this. Elias is objectively attractive in a wholesome, boy-next-door way. Strong jaw, kind eyes, the kind of smile that makes you feel safe. Blonde hair and green eyes that used to be full of tears but are now full of careful assessment.
He's not gold eyes and dangerous promises. He's not patience wrapped in teeth.
Me: He's nice.
Jen: NICE? Red, you're killing me. Give me details.
Me: He invited me to a bonfire Friday.
Jen: ARE YOU GOING???
Me: I don't know. Maybe?
Jen: Go. Please go. I need you to have one (1) normal social interaction.
She has a point. I've been at the cottage for less than forty-eight hours and I'm already neck-deep in supernatural drama. A bonfire with regular humans doing regular things might be exactly what I need.
Me: I'll think about it.
Jen: That's my girl. Also please tell me you're eating real food and not just coffee.
Me: I bought frozen dinners. Does that count?
Jen: Barely. I'm coming over this week with actual food.
Me: You don't have to—
Jen: ACCEPTING HELP IS HEALTHY, RED. SAY 'THANK YOU, JEN, FOR CARING ABOUT MY NUTRITIONAL WELLBEING.'
Me: Thank you, Jen, for being a pain in my ass.
Jen: That's what I'm here for. Love you.
Me: Love you too.
I set my phone down and look around the cottage. It's still light out—barely past three—and I have hours to kill before dark. Before he might come back.
If he comes back.
He will, the scarf seems to say, warming against my skin. He's waiting.
I pull out my laptop and try to do normal things. Check email. Look at college websites, even though I've already committed to the state school forty minutes away. Browse social media and feel that familiar disconnect between my life and everyone else's—their complaints about homework and parents feel like they're from another planet.
But I can't focus. My mind keeps drifting to the woods. To gold eyes and careful hands and the promise of touch that hasn't happened yet.
When you decide this is madness and shut the door, you're going to hurt me so badly I won't remember how to be whole.
Lucian's words, spoken to Elara. A warning and a confession.
I wonder if he'd say the same thing to me.
I wonder what I'd say back.
Dusk comes soft and purple, bleeding through the windows. I've made dinner—pasta with jarred sauce because I'm not Elara and I don't cook elaborate meals for ghosts and wolves. The scarf has been getting progressively warmer all evening, like it knows something I don't.
Or like it knows exactly what I'm hoping for and is judging me for it.
I'm washing dishes when I feel it—that shift in the air that means I'm no longer alone. The house doesn't breathe differently, exactly. It's more like the silence becomes heavier, more attentive.
I dry my hands slowly, deliberately, and walk to the back door.
He's there.
Not on the porch—I didn't invite him that close. But at the edge of the tree line, half in shadow, perfectly still. The human shape tonight, the one called Lucian. His coat is the same, his posture is the same, but something about him seems more solid now that I know what he is.
I open the door. Don't step out. "Hey."
"Hello." His voice carries across the distance, low and warm.
"Did you..." I hesitate. "Were you here all day? Watching?"
"Not watching. Waiting." He tilts his head. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Watching implies I'm trying to see something you don't want me to see. Waiting means I'm here if you need me." His eyes catch the porch light, reflecting gold. "You went to town."
"I needed groceries."
"You met someone." It's not quite a question, not quite an accusation.
"How did you—" I stop. "Right. Super-senses. Elias Cross. Old summer camp friend. He was being nice."
"He wants to be more than nice."
"He offered me his number in case I need a generator, not his undying devotion." I cross my arms. "And even if he did, that's none of your business."
Lucian's mouth curves. "You're right. It isn't." He doesn't sound like he believes that.
We stand there, the space between us full of things neither of us is saying. Finally, I ask the question that's been burning in my mind all day.
"Why me?"
He goes very still. "What?"
"Elara, I understand. She was amazing. Brilliant and brave and—" My voice cracks slightly. "She was worth loving. But I'm just... I'm eighteen. I'm nobody. Why do you care what I do? Why wait around for someone you barely know?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Then he moves, not closer, but into the light where I can see him more clearly. His face is all sharp angles and ancient beauty, but there's something vulnerable in his expression.
"Because she loved you," he says simply. "And I loved her. That should be enough."
"Should be?"
"But it isn't." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I told you I don't know what I want yet. That's true. But I know what I feel when you wear that scarf. I know what I feel when you say my name. I know—" He stops, jaw tight.
"What?" My heart is hammering. "What do you know?"
"That you count when you look at me. I can see you doing it. One, two, three, trying to make it to thirteen before you do something you think you'll regret." His eyes burn into mine. "And I want to know what happens if you stop. If you just... let yourself want without permission."
The air between us thickens. The scarf is almost too hot now, like it's trying to remind me of something important. Protection. Boundaries. Choice.
"That's not fair," I whisper.
"I know."
"You're asking me to trust something I don't understand."
"I know."
"I could get hurt."
"You will get hurt." His honesty is brutal. "If you say yes to this, to me, you will get hurt. I'll live longer than you. I'll love you and lose you and survive it because that's what I do. But you—you'll give me everything and only get me for however long you have."
"That's a terrible sales pitch."
He smiles, sharp and sad. "I'm not selling. I'm warning. Because Elara deserved truth, and so do you."
I want to be smart. I want to say no, close the door, call Aunt Maeve and tell her she was right about everything. I want to be anywhere but here, caught between wanting and wisdom.
Instead, I hear myself say, "Come closer."
He doesn't move. "How close?"
"The porch steps. Like you used to do with her."
Something crosses his face—surprise and pain and hope. "Are you sure?"
"No. But I'm doing it anyway."
He walks toward me slowly, deliberately, giving me every chance to change my mind. When he reaches the porch steps, he doesn't climb them. He sits on the bottom step, exactly where Elara's journal described, and looks up at me.
I sit on the top step, maintaining the boundary. The space between us is maybe three feet. Close enough to see the details—the way his hair curls slightly at his collar, the small scar on his jaw, the fact that he breathes even though I'm not sure he needs to.
"Tell me about her," I say. "About Elara. The parts I don't know."
So he does.
He tells me about the first time she laughed at one of his stories—a real laugh, not the polite kind. About how she liked her tea so hot it would burn anyone else. About the way she'd argue with him about history because she'd read it in books and he'd lived it and neither of them would admit the other was right.
He tells me about the night she let him hold her hand for the first time, and how he sat so still he barely breathed because he was terrified of breaking the moment. About the garden she planted specifically because she knew he liked the smell of rosemary. About the rules she made not to keep him away, but to give herself permission to want him safely.
"She made me better," he says quietly. "More human. More careful. More capable of love that doesn't devour." He looks at his hands. "I don't know if I still am. Without her to remind me."
Without thinking, I stand and move down one step. Then another. Until I'm sitting beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice rough.
"I don't know yet."
The scarf pulses warm. Permission, maybe. Or warning. I can't tell anymore.
Slowly, carefully, like I'm approaching a wild animal, I reach out and touch his hand where it rests on his knee.
He freezes. Exactly like Elara described—completely still, barely breathing. His eyes close.
"Scarlett," he whispers, and my name in his mouth sounds like prayer and curse together.
"Did I hurt you?" I ask, echoing Elara's words.
"No." His voice is strained. "But you're going to."
"Then why let me?"
He turns his palm up, an invitation, and his eyes open—molten gold, burning. "Because the alternative is never knowing what your hand feels like."
I put my hand in his.
His skin is exactly like Elara described—warm, rough with calluses, impossibly careful. His fingers close around mine like he's holding something that might shatter. I can feel his pulse, strong and steady and too slow to be human.
We sit like that as the stars come out. Don't speak. Don't move. Just hold hands like it's the most natural and most impossible thing in the world.
His thumb brushes against my knuckles, and I feel it everywhere—down my spine, in my chest, in places I didn't know could feel touch without being touched.
"I'm at seven," I whisper.
"I heard." He sounds amused and awed. "You're counting faster than she did."
"Maybe I'm less careful."
"Or more honest about what you want."
"What do I want?"
He looks at me then, really looks, and the intensity of it steals my breath. "You want to know what happens at thirteen. You want to skip to the end and see if the danger is worth it." His fingers tighten slightly around mine. "You want me to make the choice for you so you don't have to be responsible for wanting something impossible."
He's right. God, he's completely right.
"I can't do that," he continues softly. "I won't. Whatever happens between us has to be your choice, made clearly, without me pushing. That's the promise I made to her. That's the promise I make to you."
My phone rings, shattering the moment.
We both jump. His hand releases mine immediately, and the loss of contact feels like cold water. I fumble for my phone, seeing Aunt Maeve's name on the screen.
"I should—" I start.
"Answer it," he says, already standing, already stepping back. "I'll be here."
I swipe to accept as he melts back into the shadows. "Hello?"
"Scarlett, thank God." Aunt Maeve's voice is tight with relief. "I've been trying to reach you all evening."
"Sorry, I was—" What? Holding hands with a supernatural wolf creature? "—busy."
"I wanted to let you know that Elias Cross called me. His mother is my book club friend, and apparently he mentioned running into you today?"
I blink. "Yeah, we talked for like five minutes."
"He was worried about you being out there alone. And honestly, sweetie, so am I." She takes a breath. "I have a proposition."
My stomach sinks. "Maeve—"
"Just hear me out. Elias is going away for training next week—something with the Huntsman Corps, I don't understand all the details. But until then, he's offered to stay at the cottage with you. Just for a few nights. Check the property, make sure everything is secure, be there in case of emergencies."
"I don't need a babysitter."
"I'm not suggesting a babysitter. I'm suggesting a friend with practical skills who could help you settle in." Her voice softens. "Please, Red. For my peace of mind?"
I look toward the trees where Lucian disappeared. He's still there—I can feel him, even if I can't see him. Waiting.
A human buffer. Someone normal and safe and entirely mundane who could keep me from making decisions I'm not ready for.
Or someone who'll complicate everything.
"Let me think about it," I say finally.
"Think fast. He's free starting tomorrow."
"I'll call you in the morning."
"Thank you, sweetheart. I love you."
"Love you too."
I hang up and stare at the dark trees. "You heard that," I say to the shadows.
"Yes." Lucian's voice, disembodied.
"What do you think?"
A pause. Then: "I think you should say yes."
That surprises me. "Really?"
"You need someone human here. Someone to remind you that you have choices, that there's a world beyond this porch and these woods." He sounds tired. "I'm... not good for you alone."
"That sounds like you're trying to leave."
"I'm trying to be better than my nature." He steps back into the light, and his face is open, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest hurt. "Say yes to your aunt. Let Elias come. Let yourself have something normal while you figure out what you want."
"And you'll..."
"I'll wait. I'm very good at waiting."
He starts to turn away, and I'm seized by sudden panic. "Lucian."
He stops.
"Will you come back tomorrow? After... if Elias is here?"
His smile is small and private. "If you want me to."
"I do."
"Then I will." He bows slightly, that old-fashioned courtesy. "Goodnight, Scarlett. Dream of safe things."
And then he's gone, leaving me alone on the porch with my hand still warm from his and my mind spinning with choices I'm not ready to make.
I pull out my phone.
The last number to call me was Elias, from earlier today when we exchanged information.
I stare at it for a long moment.
Then I press dial.
He answers on the second ring. "Red? Everything okay?"
"Yeah. I—" I take a breath. "My aunt called. She said you offered to stay at the cottage for a few days?"
"Only if you're comfortable with it," he says quickly. "She was worried, and I know the area, know how to handle emergencies. But if it's weird or you'd rather not—"
"When can you get here?" I ask.
A pause. "Tomorrow morning? I can bring breakfast."
"That would be good." I look at the trees one more time. "Thank you, Elias."
"No problem. Get some sleep, Red. I'll see you tomorrow."
I hang up and sit there in the cooling dark, the scarf warm around my throat, my hand still remembering the feel of his.
"Thirteen," I whisper to no one. "I'm still counting."
But I'm not sure how much longer I can.
-To be continued with Chapter 5-