The forest was never silent. Even in the dead chill of early spring, when the air still smelled of frost and old pine needles, it hummed with the heartbeat of things unseen. Isabelle Lightwood had grown used to it—the whispers of branches, the rustle of deer hooves, the pulse beneath the soil that once belonged to her pack. Now it was just her and the echo of a hundred lost howls. Tonight, though, the forest went quiet. She froze mid-step, boots sinking into the damp earth. Her breath ghosted white, and her wolf—buried deep beneath skin—lifted its head in sudden recognition. There it was: a scent, foreign and fragile. Human, yes, but laced with something that made her bones hum. Warm honey. Ink. Rain on parchment. A car engine grumbled in the distance. Isabelle watched headlights slice through the trees and settle near the old cabin down the road—the one nobody stayed in longer than a month. Her heart lurched. The wolf inside Isabelle went utterly still. Mate, it breathed. This wasn’t a chance encounter. This was instinct. And instinct whispered one word like a promise she didn’t yet deserve— Mine.