Page 41 of The Patron Saint of Timber Hollow

After showering quickly, I return to the room, finding Saint has fallen asleep, fingers tangled in Artemis' hair. Smiling softly to myself, I climb into bed behind my girl and snuggle in.

17

Dad went on a hunting trip

Artemis

Awareness is like an icy splash against my body. One moment, I'd been dreaming. Now, I'm awake. Cold sweat pools along my neck, between my breasts. I feel as if I've been sleeping inside a swamp. Without moving, I know I'll need to strip the bed and wash my hair. Almost the entirety of my loose bun is slick with sweat against my skull.

Thankfully, I'm alone. There is no one to wake with my clammy skin or the way I jolted into consciousness. The feeling of stepping off a stair you believe to be the last, only to realize there are several more when your foot falls through the air lingers, making my heartbeat thrum in my ear. I'm sure the violent jerk of my leg from the half-awake dream I had of hiking with Ethan, of all people, and falling off of a cliff is what woke me.

At this hour, I know Jay and Dante will have gone to the Forge long ago. And I know today is a prep day, so Saint will be at the Packhouse for a few more hours.

I amdelightedto be alone because there is no one here to see as I strip the bed and toss the soaking sheets over the railing to be washed.

What rattles me, though, is the conversation I'd had during the dream. I could have sworn my imagination-crafted version of Ethan had been talking about his father hunting. That there had been a large wolf on the Estate recently. They were tracking it. Just as they had once when Ethan had been just a boy.

My stomach churns the entire time I bathe and get dressed in work clothes: leggings, a cropped tee, a flannel, and feet stuffed into Converse. I spend as little time as possible on my hair, only bothering to dry it with the hair dryer because I know it's cold outside, and I don't want wet hair for the foreseeable future.

Around and around, the dream swirls in my mind while I sort through the memories of dozens offamily dinnersat the Whites estate. How much of that conversation had I imagined? How much is based on memory, not a stress-induced hallucination?

Unfortunately, I've always had a nasty habit of tuning out of conversations when they bore me. A…traditionthat I leaned into while with Ethan. There had been dozens of family dinners at the Estate, and I couldn't even say what the usual topics of conversation were because I'd tuned most of them out.

But.. the more I think about it, the more I go through the catalog of the White estate in my mind, the more the dream starts to make sense.

Once, I think during the first few months of our relationship, Ethan took me to the Estate during the day for a quick stop. He left me in the parlor with the Corgi while he and his father entered Stephen's office.

I'd gotten one singular glimpse inside the office before the door shut firmly behind Ethan. It'd beenfilledwith taxidermied animals. Some had complete bodies, unusual coats on full display. The once gorgeous, vibrant animals were reduced to mere trophies on a wall, a trinket on the shelf of a man who doesn't even deserve to look at them. I'd forgotten all about the room in the year afterward. I never entered Stephen's home office. Or even saw the door open again, to be honest.

And I can't help but feel like I've made amonumentalmistake—staying with them for so long, coming home with the Stingray, and leading them straight here.

While doing a low-effort makeup look—just mascara and about a metric ton of highlighter across my cheekbones and on the inner corners of my eyes—I debate whether I should mention anything to the boys. I have no concrete evidence, nothing but a bad feeling.

But…then again… The night I left, I couldn't tune out the conversation as effectively as usual. Ethan's annoying grip on my thigh put me on edge enough to be aware, at least a little, of the conversations around me. I can't say for sure, but I think Stephen had been inviting the Senator and his boys on a hunting trip… The very rational part of my brain says they were just talking about hunting pheasants or something equallyposh.

That glance into Stephen's office, though. Those weren't just stuffed quail and rabbits lining the walls and shelves. Those animals were present, yes, but the nagging feeling in my gut tells me that other specimens in Stephen's office would have been his prized possessions.

My stomach is too tight to grab anything from the fridge as I leave, even though I know Saint has prepared all kinds of delicious meals for the four of us.

Still, with nothing other than a funky feeling and an admittedly hazy dream to go off of, I'm hesitant to say anything. The dream could have been triggered by any number of things.

Namely, a dark-furred coyote being found.

I'm just overreacting to Magnus's news the other day about the body, and my subconscious is filling in the blanks, turning Ethan into the villain.

That's all. Right?

Right?

My wolf stays silent; not even a whisper of her fur shifting echoes through my subconscious.

On the way to the bar, I don't start my playlist or even choose a radio station to listen to. The ride is silent, and I do my best to reconcile what my instincts are screaming and what the rational part of my brain is saying.

Just because Dad was killed by Hunters doesn't mean that I'm next. Just because Stephen likes to hunt doesn't make him Dad's killer. Just because Hunters are in the area now doesn't mean they followed me.

I do agree with Magnus on one thing, though.

The timing is too…Coincidentalto be pure chance.