Page 1 of Gunnar

1

Gunnar

There’s something new in the air tonight.

I stand on the deck of our broken-down lodge, looking out over my mountain territory.

Thirty thousand acres of rocky outcrops, deep ravines and dense forest. Ridge after inhospitable ridge disappearing into the distance.

All mine, and nothing moves out here without me knowing.

Below, pines crowd the slope, their silhouettes like black daggers against the gathering dusk. I draw in a slow breath, sorting through the familiar scents—pine sap, decaying leaves, the musky tang of deer that passed through hours ago.

And underneath it⁠—

Something sweeter.

My beast stirs beneath my skin.

I inhale again, deeper this time.

Human.

Female?

The scent is faint, shredded apart by wind and distance, but it hooks into me instantly. My pulse slows. Every muscle in my body goes taut.

My beast’s hackles rise, its ears straining forward then back. But all I can hear is the sound of my brother Orson chopping wood.

He puts his whole back into it, muscles bunching under his sweat-darkened shirt, every smack of blade on wood driving a shockwave through the mountain that I feel in my molars. If the point is to warn off every living thing within two valleys, mission accomplished. We were born beasts, all three of us, but Orson? A whole other level of feral.

Torin lacks my patience. He stands nearby, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight. “Quit hacking at it like that,” he snaps.

Orson hurls a log straight at his boots. It lands with a thud that sprays dirt up his jeans.

“You wanna show me how?” he says, rolling his massive shoulders. He bares his gums, almost a smile. The tension between them crackles low and familiar.

The wind picks up, blowing hard enough to sting. And carried on it—a sound that definitely shouldn’t be here.

I give a warning growl and my brothers fall silent right away. The three of us turn as one, eyes fixed on the access road winding up from the valley below.

The faintest hum of engines. Just over two miles out by the sound of it, where the road curves around the granite outcropping.

Three distinct notes, growing steadily louder.

They don’t slow at the washed-out bend. Don’t hesitate where the path narrows between two ancient pines. They drive like they already know what’s up here.

And no one comes up this road unless they know exactly where it leads.

We chose this place because it’s forgotten. Humans avoid it, sensing something primal in the woods that warns them away. Even other shifters respect the boundaries we’ve marked with claw and scent.

Behind me, the lodge is dark except for the firelight leaking through the cracked front windows. There are no power lines or cell service. No reason for anyone to come looking.

Torin sets down his mug, coffee forgotten. Orson’s axe hangs loose in his grip, but I can see his claws beginning to extend, black and curved and deadly.

They look at me, readying themselves, bodies primed for the shift.

We don’t speak.