Chapter 8: The Unwelcome Visitor
The jolt wasn’t from a dream. It was physical, a seismic shift deep in Bunny’s marrow that snapped her eyes open in the gray pre-dawn. Her heart hammered a wild, unfamiliar rhythm against her ribs.The ceiling was wrong. Not the smooth, oppressive white of Kellan’s penthouse, but a textured plaster with a hairline crack that wandered like a river on a map. The air smelled of lavender, old books, and Sennia’s sleepy scent—moonflower and chamomile. The pullout couch creaked under her as she pushed herself up on trembling elbows.Memory crashed back in shards. The bathroom light.The pills in her palm, small and beige like poisoned seeds. The sound of them hitting the toilet water. The note, tucked into the pocket of her borrowed sweatpants, a dry, rustling phantom against her thigh.I know what he’s been giving you.
Her skin felt too tight. A low-grade buzz hummed just beneath the surface, a live wire where there had only been numb silence.She pressed her palms flat against her eyelids. The dark behind them was alive with faint, pulsing colors.Her breath hitched.A sound.
Not from the street below.Not from Sennia’s bedroom.From inside her head. A soft, inquisitive chuff. The feeling of ears pricking forward, of a weight settling onto haunches.A presence, curious and watchful and hers.Her wolf.
Terror, sharp and sweet, shot through her.This wasn’t the vague, formless anxiety she was used to. This was a creature waking up in a room it didn’t recognize, and it was looking out through her eyes.Soft.Quiet. Safe here, she thought, the words clumsy and foreign, directed inward. The presence seemed to consider this, then settled, a warm pressure against her sternum.It wasn’t calm, but it was waiting.Then came the knock.
Three polite, measured raps on the apartment’s front door. Not the booming fist of a cop or a jealous ex.Precise.Patient.Bunny went utterly still. The hum under her skin spiked into a violent static. Sennia’s soft snoring from down the hall hadn’t changed.Slowly, she peeled back the blanket. Her bare feet were silent on the cool hardwood as she padded to the door. The peephole was a fisheye lens to hell.Kellan stood in the hallway, perfectly framed. His dark hair was impeccably styled, not a strand out of place from the early morning damp. He wore a charcoal cashmere sweater and tailored trousers, looking like he’d stepped from a leisurely breakfast, not a predator’s hunt. In his hands was a bouquet of white roses, wrapped in crisp paper.His expression was one of gentle concern.
Her stomach turned to ice. She stepped back, her hand flying to her mouth to trap the whimper that rose in her throat. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and ozone—seemed to bleed through the wood and steel.He knocked again, a little louder. “Brynlee?” His voice was soft, melodic. The voice that had talked her down from a hundred panics, that had recited poetry, that had whispered you need me into her hair. “Sweetheart, are you in there?I’ve been worried sick.”
Every muscle in her body locked. Don’t breathe.Don’t blink. He was a snake coiled on the other side of a thin pane of glass.Inside her, the wolf rose. A ripple of soundless fury vibrated through her bones.A flash of instinct: teeth bared, a threat displayed. It was so visceral she almost gasped.
“I know you’re upset,” Kellan continued, his tone understanding, forgiving.“We can talk about it.Just open the door. Let’s go home. Look, I brought you flowers.” He held the roses up slightly, as if offering them to the peephole.Home.The word was a trap disguised as a sanctuary.
She didn’t move.She didn’t make a sound. But a new certainty crystalized in the cold silence: he knew.He knew she was here.He knew she’d left. This wasn’t a guess.This was a demonstration.
The patient smile on his face in the distorted view didn’t waver.He waited a full minute, the silence stretching into something taut and cruel.
Finally, he sighed, the picture of wounded benevolence.“Alright. I can see you need a little more time. That’s okay.” He leaned forward, and his next words were clear, deliberate, meant to be heard through the door. “The concierge at the Windsor says a woman matching your description left in a hurry with a red-haired friend last night.Sennia, right? From the naturalists’ group? I’m glad you’re with someone you trust.”
A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her.He’d tracked her.He’d named Sennia.
“I’ll be in touch, Bunny.” He used the nickname, but it sounded like a leash.“Take your time.Remember, I only want what’s best for you. Always.”
He placed the bouquet of white roses neatly on the floor outside the door. Then, with one last lingering look at the peephole, he turned and walked away, his footsteps eerily silent on the hall runner.
Bunny slid down the wall until her butt hit the floor, her back pressed against the unforgiving wood.She wrapped her arms around her knees, trembling uncontrollably. The wolf inside her paced, a restless, angry shadow.A creak of floorboards. Sennia stood at the mouth of the hallway, her robe pulled tight, her face soft with sleep. “Bunny?You okay? I thought I heard something.”
Bunny opened her mouth, but no sound came out.She pointed a shaking finger at the door.
Frowning, Sennia walked over and looked through the peephole.She hissed, a sharp intake of breath. “Damn it.” She flipped the lock and opened the door a crack, peering out. She bent and picked up the roses, holding them like something toxic. She shut the door again, locked it, and engaged the deadbolt with a solid thunk.
“He found me,” Bunny whispered, the words scraping her throat raw.
“He confirmed you,” Sennia corrected, her voice low and urgent.She tossed the roses onto the kitchen counter.“This is a message. ‘I can get to your door. I know who your friend is.’ It’s a power play.” She knelt in front of Bunny, her green eyes fierce. “But he didn’t break the door down.He didn’t cause a scene. That means he’s still playing a longer game.He cares about appearances. That’s our edge.”
“He said… he said the concierge saw us.” Bunny’s mind was racing, skidding on the ice of her fear. “He knows your name.”
“He was always going to find out,” Sennia said, her grip firm on Bunny’s shoulders.“Listen to me. This changes the timetable, but not the plan.You can’t stay here. Not now.”
“Where?” The word was a plea.
Sennia’s gaze flickered to the window, where the dawn was bleeding orange into the gray.“Somewhere he won’t think to look. Somewhere no one would think to look.” She stood, a new resolve squaring her shoulders.“Get dressed. Pack the stuff I gave you.We’re leaving in ten minutes. And Bunny?”
Bunny looked up, her vision swimming.
“Your wolf,” Sennia said, a strange, proud smile touching her lips.“I can smell her. She’s close, isn’t she?”
Bunny could only nod, the new, raw awareness of that other self swirling in the pit of her terror.It wasn’t comfort.It was a spark in the dark.
“Good,” Sennia said, turning toward her bedroom. “She’s going to need to be.”