The drive into Beacon Hills was quiet.
Too quiet.
Ronan sat behind the wheel, Hailey in the passenger seat, Colton in the back. The forest grew denser the deeper they went, the air thickening with a pressure that slid along Ronan's skin like a whisper.
Beacon Hills wasn't Texas.
Wasn't New Mexico.
Wasn't anything he'd ever stepped into.
The land here wasn't powerful — it was awake.
But he wasn't here to poke the Nemeton or stir Beacon Hills' secrets.
He was here because one of his own never came home.
His scout hadn't been on assignment.
He'd been on vacation.
Two days of sightseeing, hiking, and "finally getting away from responsibility."
Then nothing.
No calls.
No texts.
No presence.
Ronan didn't send people to retrieve him.
He came himself.
⸻
They reached the preserve near dusk and parked near an empty trailhead. This forest felt different — like something old recognized them stepping onto its territory.
Colton unbuckled.
"What's the plan?"
"Watch everything," Ronan said, already scanning the tree line. "Beacon Hills isn't quiet. It pretends to be."
Hailey frowned. "Should we fan out?"
"No. Stay with the car."
Ronan stepped out. "If anything approaches, call me. Don't engage."
They nodded.
Ronan walked alone into the woods.
⸻
He didn't need long.
Twenty minutes into the preserve, he found the disturbed ground — soil darker than the forest floor around it, the faint smell of cleaning agents mixing with natural decay. Someone tried to hide something here. Someone who didn't know wolf senses didn't care about bleach.
That's when he heard them.
Two hikers on the ridge, whispering loudly:
"—they already moved the body."
"My uncle said they shut the trail right after."
"Whatever it was, it wasn't an animal. Dude, it ripped—"
"Shh! Not so loud!"
Ronan went perfectly still.
Body.
Ripped apart.
Moved quickly.
His chest tightened once.
Not grief — not yet — just confirmation.
The second the hikers passed, Ronan crouched and touched the soil.
Human eyes would see nothing.
But Alpha eyes saw everything.
There had been blood here.
A lot.
His scout's scent was faint but unmistakable — woven into the dirt, the grass, the broken branches. A young Beta, loyal, steady, full of bad jokes and too much hope.
Gone.
But layered under that scent was something else.
A presence.
Heavy.
Predatory.
Wrong.
An Alpha.
A strong one.
Stronger than most Ronan had encountered — but not in any way he recognized.
Not a rival Alpha he'd negotiated with.
Not a rogue from Texas territory.
Not one from any state he had influence over.
This was someone outside his world.
A stranger.
A threat moving in unfamiliar patterns.
Ronan's brow knit, jaw tense.
Whoever this Alpha was… they weren't subtle.
They made a spectacle.
They wanted the death to be noticed.
But they had picked the wrong wolf.
Ronan stood slowly, brushing the soil from his hands, the last of the daylight slipping behind the trees.
He didn't know the killer's name.
Didn't know their pack.
Didn't know what they wanted.
He only knew one thing:
A powerful Alpha slaughtered his scout.
And left a message in blood.
Ronan's eyes flickered — Alpha red — burning once before fading.
Not rage.
Not fear.
Focus.
Beacon Hills, for the first time, seemed to breathe around him.
Listening.
Watching.
As if something ancient beneath the earth recognized a new Alpha stepping onto its land.
And responded.
The hunt began.