By the time Ethan reached the cabin, the storm had intensified, snow slamming sideways into the walls, and he moved on instinct, lighting the
stove, wrapping the pup in towels, checking the leg under better light, and what he saw made his jaw tighten with something colder than anger, because this wasn’t a freak accident or wildlife misadventure, this was deliberate, precise, and recent.
The rope burns, the placement of the snare, the depth of the cut near the shoulder where the wire had bitten too far, all of it pointed to illegal trapping, not for subsistence, not even for pelts alone, but for efficiency, the kind of setup meant to harvest quietly and cleanly, and to dispose of what didn’t fit the plan.
Ethan cleaned the wound as best he could, hands careful but firm, and when the puppy finally stopped trembling long enough to rest his head against Ethan’s thigh, breathing uneven but present, Ethan felt something shift in his chest, not relief exactly, but recognition.
He named the pup Ridge, because the dog clung close and moved like he expected the ground to vanish again if he let go.
That night, long after the storm had settled into a relentless howl, Ethan stepped outside for air, the cold sharp enough to keep thoughts at bay, and that was when he noticed the shapes at the treeline, pale against the dark, too still to be deer, too deliberate to be coincidence.
One by one, six wolves stood just beyond the reach of the firelight, not advancing, not retreating, simply watching, their presence less threatening than unsettling, because they weren’t behaving like predators, they were behaving like sentries, as if marking a boundary rather than a target.
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