I follow Dane's trail of discarded clothes to the woods at the edge of the meadow, gathering them up as I go. Then I shed my own garments, fold them neatly and set them on the clean surface of a fallen log, piling Dane's beside mine. Finally, I take a few deep breaths, center myself, and let the wolf take me.

I haven't done a full shift in ages, it seems, and it feels good. I'm more relaxed and playful as a wolf than I ever quite manage to be as a man, and I leap and snap at a yellow butterfly passing overhead just for fun.

Landing on the soft forest floor, carpeted with many seasons' worth of fallen leaves, I spin in a quick circle, chasing my tail, and then stop—alert, listening, searching for a sign. A breeze lifts the air, and I catch it—my brother's scent—and then I'm off sprinting between tall, thick-trunked pines and thin, leafy saplings. The scent leads me up the ridge away from the meadow, and I run with my nose to the ground, my excitement growing with every step.

Even though I'm only tracking Dane, the thrill of the hunt is still there, surging through my blood with the beat of my heart. I haven't felt so free—so untroubled—in months, and I bark with delight as I leap a small stream and race my way up a steep embankment on the other side.

I gain the top and stop a moment to catch my breath, panting hard, and sweep my gaze across the densely forested land before me. On my right, it rises sharply towards the crest of the ridge, and on my left it drops away with a more gentle slope, the woods growing thicker and more shadowed towards the bottom, where the stream runs through the thickets below. Directly in front of me, running parallel along the slope, is a narrow path—a sort of deer trail, I'd guess.

Lifting my nose in the air, I sniff, but the breeze has shifted, and Dane's scent is gone.

I've just decided to follow the trail a ways and see if I catch it again, when something huge and heavy collides with me from the side, knocking me off my feet and sending me tumbling a short distance down the slope with a yelp of surprise. By the time he's on me, teeth pressed to my throat and a low growl rumbling in his chest, I've realized it's Dane and surrender with a whine. He always did play a bit rough.

He lets me go and steps back, watching me with his head tilted to one side and his ears pricked forward, his black fur and gold tips making him blend with the forest shadows like some kind of gigantic wolf-wraith. When I don't move, he comes close again, nudging me with his nose and offering me a whine of his own. He overdoes it sometimes, but he never means to hurt.

Carefully, I get to my feet, keeping my tail tucked and my ears flat to signal submission. He whines again, wags his tail, and licks my face—all reassurances of his brotherly love—letting me know that there was no real aggression in his surprise attack; just a bit of fun.

Cautiously, I raise my ears and wag my own tail, and then nip playfully at the side of his neck. He nips back, and then I'm off, racing away back down the ridge as fast as I can go.

We used to play like this when we were younger. Our clothes were always the goal, and whoever got there first would try to hide the other's things. On the way, though, the idea was to take the competition down.

I'm a natural sprinter, and over short distances, I'm the fastest in our pack; but when it comes to endurance, Dane has the advantage. He gets me when I'm crossing the last little creek before the meadow, taking me down with a splash of only half-playful snarls, and I twist a back leg between two rocks. Dane's a lot bigger than he was when we were kids, and he hasn't had another wolf to play with in a while. He has me by the back of the neck, and I can feel his teeth and his hot breath through my fur, and I go still and whine so he knows the game is over. He releases me and I pick myself up and limp carefully to shore. He follows, and shifts to his human form as soon as he reaches dry ground.

I do as well, finding it too strange to remain a wolf beneath his human gaze.

"Ow." I drop to the mossy bank and sit, pulling my ankle over the opposite knee to inspect the damage. There are some scrapes and bruising, and probably a minor sprain. Serves me right for trying to play at my age.

"Shit. Are you okay?" Dane asks, trying to get a look. "Here, let me see."

He reaches for me, but I turn away and curl in on myself defensively. "It's fine," I say quickly. "Just a scrape."

While it seems natural to wrestle, bite, and lick each other as wolves, once we're human and furless again, the whole 'naked together in the woods thing' is definitely weird.

I get to my feet and, doing my best not to feel excruciatingly self-conscious, walk the short distance through the trees to where I'd left our clothes. Dane follows, hanging back at bit, and lets me dress before approaching and pulling on his own garments.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to hurt you. It's been a while since I've had another wolf around."

"I know." I nod. "It must be hard, having a mate who's not a wolf."

I don't mean it as anything but an observation, but I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. I turn, expecting Dane to be offended, but his expression is merely guarded—a carefully neutral mask hiding whatever he's really feeling.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"No, you're right," he says, interrupting my clumsy attempt to walk back my words. "It is hard, sometimes." He sighs and leans to sit on the fallen log. "When the Wild takes him, Julian's something else. We'll run together then, but it's still not the same as running with a pack. Not better or worse. Just different. He's dangerous, and I'm dangerous, but we're not the same. I still have to be careful—like I should have been more careful just now."

I look away, frowning. "I might not be able to challenge you like Freya does, but I'm just as much a wolf," I say, trying not to sound defensive.

"I know. That's not what I mean." He sighs again, releasing a long, heavy breath. "I'm an alpha, Noah. It's my nature to challenge, to dominate—to lead. Julian's...not good at following orders. It frustrates me sometimes. If he were a wolf, we'd work out our differences as wolves. Sometimes one of us would yield, sometimes the other. Instead, we have to fight with words, and...well, I'm not so good with words."

"So, what you're saying is, he always gets his way?" I ask, hiding a smile.

"Yeah," Dane says, troubled and serious. "Usually I don't really mind, of course, but this case of ours... I'm guessing he told you?"

"He did."

"Hmn. Well, it gives me a bad feeling. There's more going on here than meets the eye. It's not that I doubt Julian's ability. I just..."

He looks up from where he's been studying the ground at his feet and meets my eyes.

I understand, even without him saying it. I was there when Julian vanished from the earth, whisked off to the Fae realm to be healed of what should have been mortal wounds, like some Arthurian hero. From Julian's perspective, he'd been gone a matter of days. For the rest of us, it had been six months.

Six months of watching Dane suffer the loss of his mate.

I could forgive him for being a little overprotective.

"Anyway," Dane goes on, taking my understanding for granted, "it's hard to get him to understand sometimes, and I fucking hate to fight with him, but it makes me angry. I turn wolf to blow off steam and, well, you caught me in the middle of that. Sorry."

"It's okay." I shrug. When you grow up in a pack of werewolves, you get used to the odd cut, scrape, and broken bone. "It's already better."

That's a lie. Every Wolf has the same abilities, but not the same talent in each. Freya, for example, is the best tracker—able to detect and identify scents like no one else—while Dane heals faster than any of us. As for me, I hardly heal faster than the average human, but if you want stealth, I'm your Wolf.

That thought gives me an idea.

"Dane," I say, standing and making sure not to give anything of pain away in my expression, "what if I go with him? I know I'm not you, but Julian seems adamant that stealth is what you need to catch this thief. He's got that in spades and, well, so do I. I'd like to help, if you'll let me."

He scuffs at the dusty ground with his bare foot, arms crossed over his broad chest and a thoughtful scowl on his lips. He still wears his hair in long thin locs, gathered in a thick bunch at the back of his head, and he radiates alpha power without conscious effort. I don't understand how Julian can resist it—other than the fact that he's not a Wolf—but I know I can't. Whatever Dane decides, whatever he tells me, I'll accept it.

"Alright," he says, taking me by surprise. Pushing himself away from the log he steps towards me and holds out his hand, locking his eyes on mine. "Welcome to the team."

Self-consciously, I offer my own hand, and he takes it in a strong grip.

"You know, Noah," he says, "I've worked with some of the toughest, meanest men and women on this planet—Wolves and otherwise—but there's nobody I'd rather have at my back than you. Well, and Freya," he adds, shrugging. "I mean that. You're special in ways you don't even know, little brother. And I don't know what the hell happened to you, and I won't ask, but you don't have to worry about finding a place here. You already have one, and you always will."

He lets me go and turns, stalking off through the trees and back towards the house, where Julian waits.

After a moment of rapid blinking, I follow.

Despite what he says, he's actually not so bad at words.