Chapter 4

The rain was the good kind tonight — steady but quiet, the sort that fell without rushing, soaking the earth in patient layers. Forks' main streets had already gone still, the last shop lights dimming as I stepped out the back door and let the night air breathe over me.

Charlie had gone to bed an hour ago, the soft rhythm of his footsteps upstairs replaced by the steady creak of the old house settling into sleep. Bella was in her room with her lamp on, the sound of pen on paper drifting faintly through the thin walls.

I'd been waiting for this all week.

The moment the door clicked shut behind me, I was moving — quiet, deliberate, each step pulling me deeper into the treeline behind the house. The smell of wet pine wrapped around me like a second skin. Every drop of rain on my face sharpened my focus.

The forest here was different from the ones I'd hunted before. Older. Denser. The canopy above was a black-green ceiling that swallowed the light, and the undergrowth clung to my boots as if testing me, trying to decide if I belonged.

A mile in, I stopped. Closed my eyes. Let the other half of me rise.

The change came easy, as it always did. Bone and muscle shifted with the slow grace of something that had done this a thousand times, fur pushing through skin, the world around me expanding in detail and clarity. By the time I opened my eyes again, I stood eleven feet from nose to tail, six feet at the shoulder — my panthera form stretching under the steady rain, muscles rolling beneath patterned fur.

The air tasted different now — every scent distinct, layered. Damp cedar. Fresh earth torn by small paws. The warm musk of a deer herd somewhere to the northeast, their trail faint but recent.

I moved toward it, paws silent on the moss-soft ground. Each step was a study in control — weight perfectly distributed, claws sheathed until needed. My tail swayed in counterbalance as I slipped between trees without disturbing a single branch.

The herd's scent grew stronger. I slowed, sinking lower to the ground, my body a coil of shadow among shadows. Through the thick ferns ahead, I caught sight of them — five deer, heads lowered to graze on the wet grass of a clearing. The largest, a buck with a thick neck and proud antlers, kept his head up, ears twitching at every sound.

I eased forward until I was at the edge of the clearing. The buck's head turned. Our eyes met.

In the heartbeat before the chase, the forest went utterly silent.

Then I moved.

The buck bolted, the herd scattering in an explosion of muscle and spray as hooves tore through the wet earth. I gave chase, each stride eating the ground between us. The world narrowed to the rhythm of my own movement — the push of powerful hind legs, the pull of my forelimbs, the rush of air past my ears.

The buck veered toward the river, banking hard through the trees. I followed, my claws gripping the slick ground, my breath steady. The river's roar grew louder, its current swollen by days of rain. The buck leapt into the shallows, water exploding around him.

Bad choice.

I hit the water a second later, my weight sending a wave forward. My elemental gift stirred — the current hesitated, pulling against him, slowing his flight. I closed the last few yards in two bounds and struck, my jaws closing around the back of his neck with enough force to drop him instantly.

The forest's silence returned, broken only by the rain and the river's muted churn.

I fed quickly, cleanly, letting the warmth of the kill spread through me before stepping back and lowering my head in a brief, instinctive acknowledgment. This was the way of it — no cruelty, no waste.

When it was done, I moved to the water's edge and drank, the cold cutting pleasantly through the heat of the hunt. My reflection stared back — golden-blue eyes bright in the dark, rain beading along whiskers and fur patterned like a map of shadows and fire.

That was when I felt it.

Not the deer. Not the usual forest life. Something else.

It was faint, just at the edge of my senses — not vampire, not wolf, but carrying a weight that made the fur along my spine lift. A scent I didn't recognize, threading between the rain and pine, here and gone in the same breath.

I stood still for several minutes, scanning the tree line. The darkness held. The scent didn't return.

Eventually, I turned back toward home. My paws carried me silently through the dripping woods, the sounds of night life resuming in my wake. When I crossed the last stretch of trees, the glow of the house came into view — warm light spilling from the kitchen window, Charlie's coffee mug still drying in the rack.

I shifted back before stepping inside, muscles and bones reknitting, fur retreating beneath skin. My jacket waited on the hook by the door, its familiar weight settling over my shoulders.

Upstairs, Bella's lamp was still on. I passed her door without stopping, the faint scratch of her pen against paper following me down the hall.

The forest had been quiet tonight — almost too quiet. But Forks had a way of keeping its secrets until it was ready to show them.

And whatever I'd caught a hint of out there... it hadn't been close enough to see me. Yet.