Hunting was supposed to clear my head.
I headed out alone, chasing the focus that came with cold air, steady breath, and careful steps over moss and stone. The den had taught me to move like a shadow, to be nothing but scent and silence for a while. I needed the world to shrink down until there was no room left for Ronan's words, or the choice pressing inside me like a second heartbeat.
I can't be second. I won't compete with a ghost.
The ridge was frosted thin, each breath turning to mist as I scanned the line of pines. I kept low, letting the wind carry my thoughts. The baby kicked softly beneath my ribs, a metronome keeping me anchored in the here and now.
I found the trail first—disturbed snow, broken twigs. Probably a fox. I followed the bends, listening for the subtle snap that tells a hunter the prey weighs something real. The world shrank to just wind, scent, and the scrape of my gloved fingers on bark.
That's where I liked to hide.
Then everything shifted.
