The dreams start that night.

I'm walking through a forest I don't recognize, moonlight filtering through branches overhead. My feet are bare against moss-soft ground, and I'm wearing something white and flowing that I'd never choose in waking life—too impractical, too vulnerable.

But I don't feel vulnerable.

I feel hunted.

In the best possible way.

"Isla."

The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, deep and rough like whiskey over gravel. It sends shivers cascading down my spine, pooling heat low in my belly.

I turn.

He's there.

Tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders that block out the moonlight. Dark hair falls past his shoulders, and a thick beard frames a jaw that could cut glass. Bronze skin. Eyes that glow amber in the darkness, fixed on me with an intensity that should terrify me.

It doesn't.

"Who are you?" I whisper.

He moves closer, and I should step back. Should run.

I don't.

"You know who I am." His voice wraps around me like smoke. "You've always known."

His hand reaches out, callused fingers tracing the line of my jaw. The touch burns, electric and impossible, and I lean into it like a flower turning toward the sun.

"I don't understand," I breathe.

"You will." His thumb brushes across my lower lip, and my breath catches. "Soon."

He's closer now, chest nearly touching mine, radiating heat that makes the forest feel cold by comparison. His other hand slides into my hair, tangling in the copper strands, tilting my head back.

His scent surrounds me—cedar smoke and wild honey, primal and intoxicating.

"I've waited so long," he murmurs against my temple. "So long to touch you. To—"

The words dissolve into something I can't quite hear, like they're being spoken underwater. I strain to understand, but all I can focus on is the way his lips brush my skin, the way his hands map my body with reverent desperation.

"Please," I whisper, though I don't know what I'm begging for.

He knows.

His mouth finds mine, and the kiss is everything—hunger and tenderness, possession and plea. I taste wilderness on his tongue, feel the barely restrained power in the way he holds me, like I'm precious and breakable and the only thing in the world that matters.

My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans against my mouth.

"Isla," he breathes my name like a prayer. "My Isla. If you only knew—"

I wake gasping, tangled in sheets damp with sweat.

My heart hammers against my ribs. My skin feels too tight, too hot. Between my thighs, an ache that makes me want to cry with frustration.

It was a dream.

Just a dream.

So why can I still smell cedar smoke?

---

I don't tell anyone about the dreams.

What would I even say? Hey, I'm having incredibly vivid erotic dreams about a man I've never met while being held captive by shapeshifters. Normal Tuesday, right?

But they keep coming.

Every night, he's there. Sometimes we're in the forest. Sometimes in a bedroom with a stone fireplace and furs scattered across a massive bed. Once, in a meadow under stars so bright they hurt.

Always, he touches me like he's memorizing me. Like I might disappear.

Always, he whispers things I can't quite hear.

And always, I wake alone and aching.

On the third morning, Declan finds me at breakfast looking like death warmed over.

"You're not sleeping." It's not a question.

I shrug, pushing scrambled eggs around my plate. "Captivity doesn't really agree with me. Funny how that works."

His ice-blue eyes study me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm. "The accommodations aren't comfortable enough?"

"The accommodations are fine. It's the whole 'prisoner' thing that's the issue."

A muscle ticks in his jaw. He sets down his coffee cup with deliberate precision. "What if I offered you more freedom?"

I look up sharply. "What's the catch?"

"Rowan goes with you."

Of course.

"He already follows me everywhere anyway," I point out.

"Yes, but this would be official. Supervised excursions beyond the lodge grounds. You could explore the territory, within reason." Declan leans back in his chair, all controlled authority in his perfectly pressed button-down. Even out here in the wilderness, he looks like he stepped out of a boardroom. "You're clearly going stir-crazy. And Rowan... he's calmer with you."

There's something in his voice when he says his brother's name. Something raw and bleeding beneath the composure.

"Why?" I ask quietly. "Why is he calmer with me?"

Declan's expression shutters. "That's not a conversation for this morning."

"When, then?"

"Soon." He stands, buttoning his jacket. "Do you want the freedom or not?"

I should say no. Should demand answers first.

But I've been trapped in this lodge for days, and the walls are closing in. The dreams aren't helping—they leave me restless and confused, craving fresh air and space to think.

And maybe, if I'm honest, craving him. The bear. Rowan.

The one whose eyes sometimes look so human it breaks my heart.

"Yes," I say. "I want it."

Declan nods once, sharp and businesslike. "He'll be waiting for you outside."

---

Rowan is indeed waiting, sitting at the edge of the tree line like a patient sentinel.

Nine feet of dark brown fur and muscle, amber eyes tracking my approach.

I've stopped being afraid of him. Somewhere between the wildflowers and the protective violence and the paw pressed against my window each night, fear transformed into something else.

Something dangerous.

"Hey, big guy." I stop a few feet away, hands in my jacket pockets. "Heard you're my babysitter now."

He huffs—that sound I've come to recognize as amusement.

"Yeah, I'm not thrilled about it either." I start walking toward the forest, and he falls into step beside me. "No offense, but you're not exactly subtle. Kind of defeats the purpose of wildlife photography when you scare off everything within a mile radius."

Another huff, this one more indignant.

I bite back a smile.

The morning is crisp and clear, pine-scented and perfect. Early autumn has painted the aspens gold, and frost still glitters in the shadows where sunlight hasn't reached. My breath mists in the air.

It's beautiful.

It reminds me why I do this—why I chase wilderness and solitude, why I can spend hours waiting for the perfect shot.

Why I've spent five years searching.

The thought of Lily hits like it always does—sudden and sharp, a knife between the ribs.

Rowan makes a questioning sound, low and concerned.

"I'm fine," I lie.

He bumps his massive shoulder against me, gentle despite his size.

The contact sends unexpected warmth through my chest. When did I start finding comfort in a nine-foot bear?

When did I start reading his body language better than I read most people?

We walk in silence for a while, following a deer trail deeper into the forest. Rowan stays close but not crowding, alert to every sound and scent. Protecting me.

It should feel oppressive.

It doesn't.

"Can I ask you something?" I say eventually. "And you can, I don't know, nod or shake your head or whatever."

He glances at me, waiting.

"Declan called you Rowan. That's your name, right? Your human name?"

A pause. Then a slow nod.

"Were you always...?" I gesture vaguely at all of him. "Or is this new?"

His whole body goes tense. He stops walking, and the sound that comes from his throat is pure anguish.

"Shit. I'm sorry." I reach out instinctively, fingers finding the thick fur at his shoulder. "You don't have to—"

But he's already moving again, faster now, like he's trying to outrun the question.

I follow, guilt churning in my stomach.

We end up at a ravine I haven't seen before—a sharp drop into a rocky creek bed below, with a fallen log serving as a natural bridge across the gap. The sound of rushing water fills the air, and wildflowers grow in impossible profusion along the edges.

It's the kind of place I'd normally spend hours photographing.

But something else catches my attention.

Snagged on a branch near the ravine's edge, fluttering in the breeze.

A piece of fabric.

Faded blue with tiny white flowers.

My heart stops.

No.

No, it can't be.

But I'm already moving, scrambling over rocks, my hands shaking as I reach for it.

The fabric is weathered, torn. It's been here for a while—months, maybe years. But the pattern is unmistakable.

I've seen it in photographs. In my nightmares.

In the last picture ever taken of my sister.

Lily wore a shirt like this. Exactly like this.

The world tilts.

I sink to my knees on the rocky ground, clutching the fabric so hard my knuckles go white. My vision blurs, and I realize I'm crying—silent, shaking sobs that I can't control.

She was here.

Lily was here.

In Blackwood territory.

Five years ago, my sister disappeared on a solo hiking trip in the Cascades. They found her campsite abandoned, her gear scattered. No body. No blood. No answers.

Just gone.

I've spent five years chasing ghosts through wilderness areas, telling myself I'm documenting wildlife when really I'm searching. Always searching.

And now this.

Evidence that she made it this far. That she was on clan lands when she vanished.

What happened to her?

Did they—

A massive paw enters my field of vision, followed by an enormous furry body settling beside me.

Rowan.

He doesn't try to take the fabric. Doesn't push me to move.

He just... stays.

His bulk presses against my side, warm and solid and impossibly gentle. His breathing is steady, grounding. When I start to shake harder, he shifts closer, until I'm practically leaning against him.

I should push him away.

I should demand answers, confront Declan, burn this whole place down until I know what happened to Lily.

Instead, I bury my face in Rowan's fur and let myself break.

He smells like cedar smoke and wild honey—the same scent from my dreams.

The realization should shock me.

It doesn't.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

"Did you know her?" I whisper into his fur. "Did you know my sister?"

He goes very, very still.

Then, slowly, he pulls back just enough to look at me. Those amber eyes are full of such profound sorrow that I can barely breathe.

He nods.

Once.

The world fractures.

"Is she..." I can't finish the question. Can't say the word.

But Rowan understands. He always seems to understand.

He shakes his head—not dead—and then makes a complicated gesture with his paw, almost helpless.

He doesn't know where she is.

"But she was here." My voice cracks. "She was in your territory."

Another nod.

"What happened to her?"

He can't answer. Can't explain with words he doesn't have.

The frustration on his face mirrors my own.

I pocket the fabric with trembling hands, my mind racing. This changes everything. The clan knows something about Lily's disappearance. They have to.

And I'm not leaving until I find out what.

"I need to talk to Declan," I say, standing on unsteady legs.

Rowan rises too, immediately alert.

But as I turn to head back, he blocks my path.

I look up at him, confused. "What?"

He glances toward the lodge, then back at me. Shakes his head firmly.

"I have to. You just confirmed that my sister was here, that your clan—"

He cuts me off with a low growl—not threatening, but insistent.

Then he does something unexpected.

He reaches out with one massive paw and very, very gently touches my chest. Right over my heart.

The gesture is so human, so deliberate, that it steals my breath.

"What are you trying to tell me?"

He touches his own chest—or where his heart would be—then mine again.

And somehow, impossibly, I understand.

Trust me. Not him.

"Rowan..."

He holds my gaze, amber eyes blazing with trapped intelligence and something that looks like desperation.

Like he's trying to tell me everything he can't say.

Like he's begging me to see him.

And God help me, I do.

I see the man inside the beast.

The same man from my dreams, I realize with sudden, shocking clarity. The dark-haired stranger with amber eyes who touches me like I'm precious.

It's him.

It's been him all along.

"Okay," I whisper, my hand coming up to rest against his paw, still pressed over my heart. "Okay. I trust you."

The relief in his eyes is staggering.

We stand there for a long moment, connected by this impossible understanding, this growing bond that defies logic.

Then he pulls back, and we start the walk back to the lodge in silence.

But everything has changed.

I have proof that Lily was here. I have a massive shapeshifter who seems to know more than he can say. I have dreams of a man who smells exactly like the beast walking beside me.

And I have questions that are going to get answered, one way or another.

Even if I have to tear this whole place apart to find the truth.

---

That night, the dream is different.

He's there, my dark-haired stranger, but this time we're in what looks like a study. Bookshelves line the walls, and a fire crackles in the hearth.

He's sitting in a leather chair, and I'm on his lap, straddling him.

His hands span my waist, thumbs stroking circles against my hipbones through the thin fabric of my dress.

"You're getting closer," he murmurs, lips brushing my collarbone. "To the truth. To me."

"I don't understand any of this." My hands are in his hair, and it feels so real—thick and soft and perfect. "Who are you?"

"You know." He pulls back to look at me, and his eyes are molten amber. "You've known since the moment you saw me."

"Rowan," I breathe.

His expression transforms—hope and hunger and heartbreak all at once.

"Say it again."

"Rowan."

He kisses me then, deep and claiming, and I can taste desperation on his tongue. His hands slide up my back, pressing me closer, and I can feel every inch of him beneath me.

"I need you to see me," he whispers against my mouth. "Not just in dreams. I need you to see me."

"I'm trying—"

"Try harder." His voice breaks. "Please, Isla. I'm running out of time."

I wake with tears on my cheeks and his name on my lips.

And outside my window, a massive shadow keeps watch.

Waiting.

Always waiting.