shadow of the past

Ethan Blackwood stood at the edge of the old mill ruins, his breath steady despite the chill that seeped through his jacket. The full moon called to him, as it always did, pulling at the wolf coiled within. He was alpha of the Silverfang Pack, a lineage as old as the hills themselves, though their numbers were few-twelve souls, bound by loyalty fiercer than steel. They weren't the sprawling clans of legend, with hundreds howling under the stars; no, the Silverfangs were a blade, honed sharp and small, striking true when the world demanded it.
Ethan's green eyes, sharp as emeralds in the moonlight, scanned the treeline. His beta, Marcus, approached first-a towering man with a beard like tangled roots and arms scarred from a dozen skirmishes. "The pack's assembled, Alpha. But you... you're distant. The pull again?"
Far from the woods, in a rattling bus cutting through the night, Liora Hale stared out at the passing lights. Twenty-eight years old, discharged from a life of shadows and screams, she carried ghosts heavier than her duffel bag. Kidnapped at six, rescued at thirteen, forged in the fires of military hell-five tours, two years in elite shadows where she'd learned to dance with death. Now, civilian again, the world felt like a cage without bars. Willow Creek was a fresh start, or so she told herself. A job at the police, maybe detective work, to hunt the darkness without becoming it.