Chapter 2 They belong here

Kael Solaris POV

The office always smelled like cedarwood and bad decisions.

My father called it tradition.

I called it expensive furniture designed to make people lie more politely.

I stood in front of his desk with my arms crossed, watching him read a report he had probably memorized three hours ago. Territory updates, patrol schedules, pack logistics. The kind of paperwork that made outsiders think we were running a family business instead of managing an entire pack.

We weren’t a business.

Businesses didn’t have wolves patrolling their borders at night.

Usually.

“You’re distracted,” my father said without looking up.

“I’m bored.”

“Same thing for you.”

I smirked. “Not my fault your paperwork is emotionally dependent on you.”

A faint twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth.

Almost a smile.

Almost.

My father rarely laughed during pack business. He believed an Alpha should be taken seriously at all times. Personally, I thought an Alpha should know when everyone around him was about to fall asleep.

Then his expression changed.

It was subtle, but I noticed. The amusement disappeared, replaced by the quiet seriousness that usually meant someone had crossed a border, broken a rule, or made a decision that would eventually become my problem.

“You felt it,” he said.

I straightened slightly.

“Felt what?”

He set the report down.

“Someone crossed the outer boundary this morning.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are we getting tourists now?”

“No.”

“Disappointing. I was hoping to sell them overpriced souvenirs.”

He ignored me.

“A family has returned to Willow Creek.”

Something about the way he said returned caught my attention.

“Returned from where?”

“That isn’t important right now.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

He opened a drawer, removed an old folder, and slid it across the desk.

I looked at it without touching it.

“Should I be concerned that you keep mysterious folders in your desk?”

“You should be concerned that I have to ask you to read one.”

“That’s fair.”

I picked it up.

The folder was older than most of the documents in his office. Its edges were worn, and the papers inside had been handled often enough to soften their corners. Whatever was written in it hadn’t been forgotten.

It had been kept.

I flipped through the first few pages. Names, dates, addresses, records of movements between towns.

Then I saw the surname.

Sinclair.

Something stirred beneath my ribs.

Not pain. Not recognition.

More like an instinct lifting its head at a sound too distant for me to identify.

I paused over the page.

“Sinclair?”

My father’s gaze sharpened.

“Yes.”

I looked through the records again. The family had moved repeatedly over the years, sometimes leaving behind little more than a forwarding address. Other entries ended abruptly.

Moved.

Unknown location.

No further records.

I frowned.

“This family has been disappearing for years.”

“Moving,” my father corrected.

“Right. Because disappearing sounds suspicious, and moving sounds like they have excellent organizational skills.”

He didn’t smile this time.

I turned another page.

“They left Willow Creek a long time ago.”

“Yes.”

“Before I was even old enough to remember.”

“Before your time.”

I glanced up. “Then why are we discussing them now?”

My father leaned back in his chair.

“Because they’re coming back.”

“They’re already back, apparently.”

His expression warned me not to push my luck.

Naturally, I considered pushing it anyway.

Instead, I looked at the file again. Several notes had been written in my father’s handwriting. Short statements, careful dates, and references to arrangements I didn’t recognize.

One sentence appeared on more than one page.

Maintain protection.

I looked up slowly.

“Protection from whom?”

“The family is under our protection.”

“Our protection?”

“Yes.”

I stared at him.

“We’re protecting humans now?”

“We protect those who fall under our responsibility.”

“That’s a very diplomatic way of avoiding my question.”

“Then perhaps you should ask a better one.”

I closed the folder.

“Fine. Why does this family fall under our responsibility?”

For a moment, I thought he might answer.

Instead, he said, “We’re correcting something unfinished.”

I stared at him.

“That explains absolutely nothing.”

“It’s not meant to.”

I let out a long breath and dropped into the chair opposite his desk.

My father had an extraordinary talent for making a conversation feel like an interrogation in which I was both the suspect and the person being denied access to the evidence.

“What do you need from me?”

“I need you to observe the family.”

“Observe them doing what? Unpacking? Arguing over furniture?”

“The daughter.”

I paused.

“They have a daughter?”

“Yes, Kael. That is generally what a family means.”

I gave him a flat look.

He returned it without remorse.

“What’s her name?”

“Ivy Sinclair.”

The name meant nothing to me.

It should have ended there.

Instead, the strange awareness beneath my ribs returned, faint enough that I could almost convince myself it hadn’t happened.

I stood.

“Let me guess. She’s unfinished too?”

My father didn’t answer.

I pointed at him.

“That silence is becoming a personality trait.”

“Observe her,” he repeated. “Do not interfere unless necessary.”

“And how will I know when it’s necessary?”

“You’ll know.”

I stared at him.

“That is not how instructions work.”

“It’s how this one works.”

I picked up the folder and set it back on his desk.

“Wonderful. Mysterious family, mysterious daughter, mysterious instructions. You should write a book.”

“Perhaps you should read one.”

I left before he could assign me anything else.

The corridors outside his office were quiet. Sunlight fell through the tall windows, illuminating the polished floor and the portraits of previous Alphas hanging along the walls.

I had grown up here. I knew every corridor, every staircase, every entrance that could be used to avoid a conversation.

And yet, as I walked toward the rear exit, I couldn’t stop thinking about the folder.

The Sinclairs had been gone for years.

My father had kept records of them.

He had protected them.

And now, for reasons he refused to explain, he wanted me watching their daughter.

Something wasn’t adding up.

I preferred problems with answers.

Outside, the air smelled of pine and damp earth. I pulled my jacket on and headed toward the forest bordering our territory.

The woods were familiar. I knew the paths used by patrols, the low ground that flooded after heavy rain, and the trees whose hollow trunks provided shelter during storms.

To most people, a forest was a collection of trees.

To us, it was a boundary.

A living one.

I had barely reached the ridge overlooking the old road when the strange awareness returned.

My steps slowed.

My wolf stirred beneath my skin, attentive but not fully awake.

I frowned.

“Don’t start.”

The wolf offered no response.

That was becoming an irritating habit.

I moved farther along the ridge until I could see the road below.

A car had turned into the driveway of the old Sinclair residence.

Two adults climbed out first. They began unloading bags, speaking quietly to each other.

Then the daughter stepped out.

Ivy Sinclair.

I had expected someone who looked dangerous, perhaps someone visibly guarded or trained to recognize the world she had entered.

Instead, she looked like an ordinary girl arriving at an unfamiliar house.

Long, curly hair. A travel-worn expression. A cautious glance toward the trees before she turned her attention to the building.

Nothing about her appearance explained why my father had kept an old file on her family.

I watched her stand beside the car.

Her parents moved around her, collecting their belongings, but she seemed distracted by the house itself. She looked at it for several seconds, her expression caught somewhere between uncertainty and familiarity.

That was strange.

The residence had been empty for years.

As far as I knew, Ivy had never lived here.

My wolf became more attentive.

I shifted my weight against the tree beside me.

“She’s a girl standing outside a house,” I muttered. “Try to remain composed.”

A branch cracked beneath my boot.

I closed my eyes briefly.

“Excellent. Stealth level: raccoon in a trash can.”

A pack guard stationed farther back in the trees made a quiet choking sound.

I turned my head.

He immediately became fascinated by the ground.

“If you repeat that to anyone, I’ll deny knowing you.”

“Understood, Alpha’s son.”

“Good.”

I turned back toward the house.

Ivy had started toward the porch. Halfway up the steps, she stopped and glanced toward the forest.

Toward the ridge.

Toward me, perhaps.

The trees concealed my position, and there was no reason she should have been able to see me.

Yet for one uncomfortable second, I had the impression that she was looking in exactly the right direction.

Then she turned away and disappeared inside.

I released a slow breath.

My wolf pressed closer to the surface, not aggressively, but with an intensity I had never felt directed at a stranger.

I had spent years learning to distinguish instinct from imagination. A wolf could sense danger, recognize familiar scents, and react to threats long before the human mind caught up.

But this wasn’t any of those things.

I didn’t smell danger.

I didn’t recognize her.

And still, some part of me insisted that I pay attention.

I looked at the house again.

The Sinclair family had returned to a residence my father had deliberately kept available. They were under pack protection, and he had refused to explain why.

Now his son was standing in the woods, trying to understand why his wolf had become interested in a girl he’d never met.

I didn’t like coincidences.

“What do you feel?” the guard asked quietly.

I kept my eyes on the house.

“Nothing I can explain.”

He waited, perhaps expecting more.

I offered him none.

After another moment, I started back toward the path.

“Is she dangerous?” he asked.

I glanced over my shoulder.

“I have no idea.”

“Then why are you watching her?”

I considered that question longer than I wanted to admit.

Finally, I looked back toward the house.

“Because my father told me to.”

It was a technically correct answer.

Which made it an excellent lie.

Ivy Sinclair was a stranger. A human girl, as far as I knew, whose family had returned to Willow Creek under circumstances nobody seemed willing to explain.

There was no reason for her to matter to me.

No reason for my wolf to pay attention to her.

No reason for that strange feeling to linger after she disappeared inside.

And yet it did.

I started walking again, determined to put the entire matter aside until I had something useful to investigate.

Behind me, the forest settled into its usual quiet.

For the first time that morning, my wolf stopped pressing against my skin.

It didn’t relax completely.

It simply became still, as though it had decided there was nothing more to do for now.

I glanced once more toward the Sinclair residence.

“Sinclair,” I muttered.

“What are you?”

My wolf gave me no answer.

And somehow, that silence bothered me more than anything my father had said.