The dream always starts with the sound of my name.
"Amelia."
It’s not a voice, not exactly. It’s a rumble in the dark, low and intimate, like the forest itself is breathing against my ear. The trees crowd in, black trunks and silvered needles, and the moon is a blade caught high above, reflected in eyes I can’t quite see.
Then he steps out of the shadows.
Silver fur, darker along the spine. Broad shoulders, the massive head of a predator that should terrify me. Instead, my chest loosens like it has been clenched for years and only now remembers how to open.
He pads closer. Snow that wasn’t there a moment ago crunches under his paws. Pine and cold air and something warmer, something that smells like home, wrap around me. The forest hushes. The only sound is his breath and my heart kicking hard enough that it hurts.
He reaches me, towering, muzzle a whisper from my throat. I should run. I should scream. I do what I always do.
I lean in.
"Amelia," the rumble says again, deeper, closer, inside my bones. My name slides over me like a hand down my spine.
Heat spikes low in my belly. Shame snaps at its heels. This is not normal. This is not—
Teeth graze the hollow of my neck. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to claim.
I jolt awake with a strangled sound, fingers clutching at my own throat.
Darkness presses against the bedroom windows of my little house. The red numbers on my alarm clock insist it’s 3:17 a.m. My skin is damp, my T-shirt twisted around me. The room smells like old wood and detergent and—
Pine.
I sit up too fast, the world lurching. No. No. Not again.
The scent is faint but unmistakable, threaded with the cold bite of night air. My bedroom window is closed like always, the warped sash painted shut long before I bought this place. My sheets are warm from my body, not chilled from any draft.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until colors spark. It’s in your head. You are thirty years old, you’ve been having this same damn dream since you were ten, and you know how this goes. You get up, you drink water, you breathe until your lungs stop hitching like you just ran uphill.
You do not walk toward the darkness.
I throw the covers off anyway.
The floorboards are cold under my feet as I cross to the front of the house. The old cedar walls creak with the night settling, the way they always have, but every pop sounds like a footstep just out of sight. I tell myself it’s fine, it’s stupid, but my hand still shakes when I flip on the porch light.
The bulb hums to life, washing the small porch in yellow. The mountain air stares back at me through the window glass, black and endless. Nothing moves.
Still, the smell of pine is stronger by the door. Fresher.
"Don’t," I whisper, but I’m not sure if I mean the door or myself.
The lock turns with a quiet click. The metal of the knob is icy against my palm. I crack the door open and the cold floods in, swallowing the leftover warmth of my bed, scraping over my bare arms until goosebumps rise.
The world outside is a bowl of shadow, the forest a solid wall beyond the gravel drive. The porch boards protest under my weight as I step out. The sky is thick with clouds; only a smear of moonlight filters through, enough to paint the railings in dull silver.
My breath fogs in front of me. I look down.
They’re waiting on the top step.
Pawprints. Four clear impressions in the light dusting of last night’s frost. Big, deep, spaced with the weight and stride of something that doesn’t fear anything out here.
My heart trips. For a second I’m back in the dream, silver fur and a muzzle pressed to my throat. Heat flashes under my skin, chased immediately by a surge of nausea.
"No," I say, too loudly in the sleeping street. "No, that’s—"
Logical explanations try to line up. Stray dog. Big stray dog. Neighbor’s husky. Bear, if I squint, if I lie to myself.
I crouch, the wood biting into my knees through my sleep shorts. I reach out before I can talk myself out of it and touch the nearest print. Melted frost rims it, damp against my fingertips, as if the paw that made it was warmer than the air.
I drag my hand back like I’ve been burned.
The wind shifts, carrying the deeper smell of the trees, of soil and something muskier threaded through it. It curls right into my lungs and settles there, familiar in a way nothing should be.
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay, that’s… new."
The dreams have never bled this far into the waking world. Not like this. There have been mornings when I’ve woken swearing I felt teeth against my neck, when my skin tingled like someone had been holding me. Once, years ago, I’d found pine needles in my hair that I couldn’t explain.
Never pawprints.
A car engine growls somewhere down the hill, the sound low and steady. Headlights sweep briefly across the tops of the pines, then vanish. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware that I’m standing outside in thin cotton, nipples pebbled under my shirt, a solitary idiot in a mountain town where people notice things.
The last thing I need is someone driving by and adding "half-naked porch-stalker" to the running list of what makes Amelia Harlow odd.
I retreat inside, lock the door, and lean my back against it until the old wood presses into my shoulder blades. My pulse drums in my ears.
Maybe I should call Elias, I think, and immediately discard it. My brother would be at my house in ten minutes flat, wild-eyed and half-dressed, ready to hunt whatever had left the tracks. He’d blame a fucking coyote, then blame me for living alone out here at the edge of town.
He’d look at me the way he did the last time I mentioned the dream. Worried. A little pitying.
Like he’d do anything to protect me except believe me.
By the time the alarm finally goes off at seven, I’ve dozed in broken snatches on the couch, wrapped in a throw blanket that smells like dust and coffee. The pawprints feel like something I imagined, except for the faint damp smudge still on my fingertips where the frost melted.
Hot shower. Strong coffee. Flannel shirt, jeans, my thick black hair braided and shoved under a beanie against the November chill. By the time I slide into my beat-up Subaru, I’ve almost convinced myself to file the night under "weird, but not immediate nervous breakdown."
Blackridge is waking up slow as I drive down into town. Smoke coils from chimneys. The diner’s neon sign flickers half-heartedly. The mountains loom, dark shoulders wrapped in trees. Beyond them, the forest that has filled my dreams waits, patient.
I park behind Harlow Hardware—family legacy, lucky me—and let myself in the back door. The bell over the front entrance jingles as the first customer of the day comes in. Elias’s voice floats back, warm and annoyingly cheerful.
"Morning!" he calls. "Be right with you."
I shrug off my coat and step out into the main aisle. My brother is behind the counter, tall and broad, red Harlow Hardware apron managing to look like armor on him. His brown hair sticks up in the back like he rolled out of bed and forgot to finish waking up.
He spots me, grins. "There she is. Thought the forest finally ate you."
My stomach gives an unhelpful lurch.
"Ha," I say. "If the forest wanted me, it would’ve taken me in my sleep years ago."
His eyes sharpen, just for a heartbeat. "You okay? You look—"
"Like I need coffee," I cut in. "Which is your fault, because you texted me at midnight about inventory spreadsheets."
He winces. "Guilty. But in my defense, your formulas are witchcraft and I am but a humble hardware himbo."
"You said it, not me." I slide behind the counter to grab the ancient kettle we use instead of investing in a real coffee maker. The front door jingles again.
Whatever casual rhythm was settling between my ribs shatters.
The man who walks in carries winter with him.
He’s tall. Not Elias-tall, but close. Dark hair cut short at the sides, longer on top, damp like he just ran wet hands through it. He fills the doorway, shoulders stretching the black sheriff’s jacket he wears like he was poured into it.
New.
Blackridge doesn’t do new. We recycle the same faces, the same gossip, the same grudges. But this man moves through the door like he belongs here already, like the town’s air adjusts around him instead of the other way around.
His gaze sweeps the store, quick and assessing, and when it lands on me I feel it like a touch.
Cold, then hot, right down my spine.
His eyes are a pale, unreal gray. Not silver, not like in my dreams, but close enough that something inside me flinches.
"Sheriff," Elias says, too casual. That catches my attention. My brother is a lot of things—easygoing, loud, the human equivalent of a Labrador. He is not casual about law enforcement.
"Colt," the man corrects, voice low and even. Not a local drawl, not exactly city either. "Riven Colt. Sheriff’s just the job."
Riven. The name scrapes against my brain, snagging on all the empty spaces my dream-wolf’s never filled.
"Right. Sorry." Elias wipes his hands on his apron, suddenly looking young. "This is my sister, Amelia. She keeps this place from collapsing into chaos."
Those pale eyes cut back to me. His mouth doesn’t move much, but something like a smile ghosts there.
"Amelia," he repeats.
My body reacts before my brain can catalog why that’s wrong. My pulse rockets. My throat tightens, the echo of rough fur and hot breath and a rumble under my skin.
He said my name the way the wolf does.
No. Not the same. Can’t be the same. This is a man in a uniform with a badge on his chest and a holstered gun at his hip, not a creature that steps out of my subconscious to press me into darkness.
"Hi," I manage. My voice sounds a little too bright in my own ears. "Welcome to Harlow Hardware, where we stock everything but sanity."
One dark eyebrow ticks up. "You do generators?"
"Aisle three," I say automatically. "We’ve got portable and standby. Planning on a long winter?"
His gaze lingers on me a beat too long before sliding away. "Planning on not freezing if the power cuts." He nods toward the back windows, where the line of the tree line is visible, dense and watchful. "Weather comes in fast up here."
"You say that like you’ve seen worse," I say, because if I don’t talk, I’ll keep noticing the way his presence pulls at the air.
There’s a pause. "You could say that."
He doesn’t elaborate. The silence stretches.
"So," Elias jumps in, forcing a laugh. "What brings you to our little slice of nowhere, Sheriff Colt? Apart from the thrilling prospect of small-town paperwork."
Riven’s jaw ticks, barely. "Transfer from Ridgeview. They needed someone to take the post when your last sheriff retired. Blackridge is… quiet."
It doesn’t sound like a compliment.
"We like it that way," Elias says, a hint of defensiveness creeping in.
"Quiet doesn’t mean safe." Riven’s eyes flick, just once, to me again when he says it.
My skin tightens. I grip the handle of the kettle harder than necessary. "We manage."
"Do you?" His tone is mild, but there’s an edge under it, a question I don’t understand.
Without warning, an image flashes in my head: those pawprints on my porch, the way the frost was still wet when I touched it. The invisible weight of teeth against my throat.
I swallow. "Last crime we had was Mrs. Hanley’s garden gnome going missing."
"Tragedy," he deadpans.
"He found it in his own truck bed the next day," Elias adds. "He was drunk. It was a whole thing."
For the first time, something like amusement sparks in Riven’s eyes. It doesn’t soften him. If anything, it just proves he’s capable of it, which feels more dangerous.
"I’ll keep an eye out for rogue lawn ornaments," he says. "In the meantime, you might want to make sure your back doors are secure."
"We lock up," Elias assures him. "We’re not complete idiots."
"Not just the store," Riven says, gaze cutting to me again. "Houses too."
I bristle. "We’re not exactly a big city, Sheriff. We leave our windows open, we drop off casseroles when somebody sneezes. The most dangerous thing in Blackridge is the coffee at Buck’s Diner."
His stare doesn’t waver. "Windows open makes it easy."
"Easy for what?" I ask.
He looks past me, toward the big front windows and the slice of forest beyond the main street. For a second, his expression empties into something that makes my stomach go cold.
"For whatever’s out there," he says quietly.
The bell above the door jingles again, fracturing the tension.
"You really couldn’t wait for me to meet the new sheriff like a normal person, huh?" a familiar voice grumbles.
Relief flares before I even turn. Mace.
Mason Harper fills the doorway in his usual flannel and worn jeans, a beanie shoved over his messy brown hair. There’s sawdust on his shoulders like he’s been in somebody’s barn, and his hazel eyes—kind, perpetually tired—go straight to me first.
They always do.
"Morning," he says, and there’s a smile that’s just for me. Soft around the edges, like we’re both in on some old joke.
Some of the pressure in my chest eases. Mace is… safe. Has been since I was a kid trailing after him and Elias, begging to be included.
He notices the set of my shoulders anyway. His brows pull together. "You okay? You look like you lost a fight with a ghost."
"Bad night," I say. I don’t have to explain. He knows about the dreams, or at least the sanitized version I’ve ever admitted to anyone.
"Dream again?" he asks quietly.
Riven’s head tilts, sharp. "Dream?"
The word hangs between us, suddenly fragile.
"Nightmare," I correct, shooting Mace a look that begs him to shut up. "Same old."
His jaw works. For a beat, something tight and almost panicked flickers over his face, gone so fast I could’ve imagined it.
"You should’ve called," he says. "I could’ve—"
"Driven over in the middle of the night to watch me not sleep?" I roll my eyes, even as warmth prickles behind them. "Hard pass."
"Maybe I like watching you sleep," he mutters.
The words land between us, heavier than they should. His cheeks go a little pink under the stubble, and he ducks his head like he regrets it immediately.
Elias groans. "Christ, Harper, warn a guy before you start flirting with my sister at nine a.m."
"I’m not—" Mace starts, then shuts his mouth. His gaze flicks, quick and assessing, to Riven.
The sheriff is watching us. Not with curiosity. With the kind of focus you’d use on a puzzle that matters.
"You’re Mason Harper," Riven says.
Mace’s back goes almost imperceptibly straighter. "Yeah."
"Vet clinic on Ridge Road. I’ve heard of you."
"All lies," Mace replies, but there’s a new wariness in his tone. "You the new sheriff Elias won’t shut up about?"
"Riven Colt." The sheriff extends a hand.
Mace hesitates just a fraction before taking it. I don’t know what I expect—a normal handshake, maybe, two guys sizing each other up over grip pressure.
Instead, the air feels like it thickens. Both men still, something dark and bristling passing between them that has nothing to do with hardware and everything to do with being animals in the same room.
I blink, and it’s gone.
"Welcome to Blackridge," Mace says, tone even.
"Thanks." Riven releases his hand, then glances back at me. "You should stay out of the forest for a while."
The shift makes my head spin. "Excuse me?"
"Just until I finish some checks." He says it like it’s already decided. "Lock your doors. Close your windows at night. If you see anything unusual, you call my office."
"That a general public service announcement, or am I getting special treatment?" I ask.
"You live closest to the tree line," he says. "Makes you… more interesting."
Mace goes rigid beside me. "Interesting how?"
Riven’s eyes stay on mine. "Tracks on porches. Animals where they don’t belong. People waking up in the middle of the night." A beat. "Dreaming."
My stomach drops.
"You’ve got reports?" Elias asks. "We haven’t heard anything."
"You have now." Riven glances at the generators, then back at me one last time. "Take care, Amelia."
He turns and walks out, taking the cold with him.
For a moment, the store is too quiet. The ticking of the ancient wall clock sounds like a hammer.
"Well," Elias breathes. "He’s… intense."
"Understatement," I mutter.
Mace doesn’t laugh. His eyes are fixed on the door, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
"What’s wrong?" I ask.
He drags his gaze to me. There’s something raw in it I don’t have a name for. "Did you—" He cuts himself off, swallows. "You woke up last night? Around three?"
Ice slides down my spine. "Yeah. How did you—"
"Did you go outside?" The words are barely audible.
I hesitate. "For a second. Why?"
His hand curls on the counter, knuckles white. "No reason. Just… don’t. Not alone. Not at night."
"What is wrong with the men in this town today?" I demand. "Is there some secret group text where you all decided I’m suddenly fragile?"
"You’re not fragile," Mace says quickly. "You’re—" He blows out a breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Just promise me, Lia. Please."
The nickname, the plea in his voice—it gets under my defenses in a way lectures never do.
"Fine," I say slowly. "I won’t go wandering in the dark. Happy?"
"No," he says, and the honesty in it makes my chest ache. "But it’s a start."
I open my mouth to push, to demand answers, but the bell rings again and Mrs. Hanley bustles in with a list a mile long. Elias peels away to help her. Mace murmurs something about a dog with a broken paw and needing bolts, but his mind is somewhere else.
Mine is too.
As I ring up supplies and listen to the slow churn of small-town gossip, two things circle in the back of my skull like wolves scenting the edge of my thoughts.
A silver wolf that knows my name.
And a new sheriff with predator’s eyes who looks at me like the forest already has its teeth in me.
By the time my shift ends, the clouds have thickened, turning the afternoon gray. I step outside, pulling my coat tighter, and glance instinctively up the hill toward my house.
The forest looms, dark and waiting. The hair on my arms lifts.
I tell myself it’s the cold that makes me shiver—not the feeling that somewhere between the trees and my front porch, something has already crossed the line.
And it’s coming closer.
