COLD COMMAND- The Secret Son

"I guess."

The words were barely a whisper, but they hit me like a physical punch. Grayson Cole was actually talking to me. For a wolfless reject from the Reed pack, this was basically a miracle.

"I help Mason with the patrol rigs sometimes," I blurted out. I wanted to sound useful.

Grayson didn't look up from the rusted-out shell of the truck he was gutting. He just snorted, a low, vibration in his chest that felt too much like a growl. "You're too small to even reach the spark plugs, Savannah."

My face burned. I stepped closer, my boots crunching on the oil-slicked gravel of the salvage yard. "I'm not small. My mother says I’m just... lithe. Besides, I don't do the heavy lifting. I just hand him the tools he needs."

He didn't bite back. I took that as a win.

"Everyone in the territory knows who you are, Reed," he said, his voice dropping an octave.

I felt like shrinking into the dirt. I knew exactly what people said. The Alpha’s daughter who couldn't shift. The freak. The girl who once tried to join the pack hunt on foot and ended up getting treed by a rogue until Mason had to come pull her down. Being a local legend sucked when you were just trying to exist.

"I'm hunting a Shadow-Mane today," I said, trying to sound tough. "Down by the old iron bridge."

Grayson finally looked at me. His eyes were the color of a winter storm, sharp and cold. "What the hell is a Shadow-Mane?"

"It’s a fifty-pound beast with eight legs and nine holes for its guts to leak out of. Meaner than a silver-tipped arrow. I’m gonna break it and bring it home."

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. It was the first time I’d seen him look almost human. "Even if that thing was real, why would you want it in your house?"

"To keep my sisters out of my room," I lied. The truth was, I felt a weird kinship with things that didn't fit. "You think I'm making it up?"

He turned back to the truck, grabbing a rusted crowbar. "Sounds like Mason told you a bedtime story to keep you away from the border. Those tracks are dangerous for someone who can't heal from a train hit."

He leaned over the fender, the fabric of his threadbare shirt riding up. I froze. The words I was about to say died in my throat.

Crossing his lower back was a jagged, angry welt. It wasn't a wolf scratch. This was a lash mark. Two inches wide, curved around his ribs, the edges crusting with dried blood and turning a sickly shade of violet.

I reached out before I could stop myself. My finger brushed the edge of the wound. "Does it still hurt?"

Grayson's entire body went rigid. He spun around so fast I stumbled back. His eyes were dark, swirling with a predatory heat that made my skin prickle. He looked ready to kill, but I didn't flinch. I knew what pride felt like when it was being suffocated by shame.

"Why did he do it?" I asked.

Grayson’s knuckles turned white around the crowbar. "He doesn't need a reason." He cut his eyes toward the main office where his old man was probably nursing a bottle of cheap rotgut. "Keep your mouth shut about it. I stay out of his way mostly."

"You need a healer," I said, my heart thumping. I pictured the infection setting in—the fever, the rot. "I’ll be right back."

I ran to Mason’s truck, my heart hammering against my ribs. I dug through the compartment until I found it. Wolf-balm. It was a thick, pungent salve Mason swore by. He’d used it on me a dozen times for everything from scrapes to splinters.

When I got back, Grayson had managed to pry one end of a fuel pump loose.

"Lift your shirt," I commanded.

He eyed the tin in my hand. "What’s that shit?"

"Medicine. Unless you want your skin to fall off."

He hesitated, then let out a sharp breath and hiked the shirt up. His skin was radiating heat, the kind of warmth only a shifter carried. He smelled like iron, old grease, and something raw—like rain hitting dry earth.

I scooped out a glob of the balm and pressed it against the welt. His muscles jumped under my touch, hard as mountain stone. I worked the salve in, my fingers moving over the ridges of the wound. He watched me, his expression unreadable, his breathing shallow and heavy.

"There," I muttered, snapping the lid shut. "Keep it. We have crates of the stuff."

He slid the tin into his pocket, his gaze lingering on me. "You gonna be a pack medic or something?"

"Nope. I’m gonna write the history of this place. The real version."

His eyebrows shot up. "Takes a lot of guts to put words on paper."

"Well, I've got plenty of those."

"Maybe you do, Little Reed." He reached out, tugging one of my messy braids. His voice was suddenly warm, and for a second, I forgot I was the pack's biggest disappointment.

"Do you ever read?" I asked, leaning against the warm metal of the truck.

"When I can find something that isn't soaked in oil," he said, his jaw tightening. "My old man thinks books are for the weak. He'd rather spend the coin on whiskey."

I couldn't wrap my head around that. In my house, books were life. I’d been reading since I was four, hiding in the library to escape the pitying looks of the warriors. I couldn't imagine a world where words were a waste of time.

Grayson stood up, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. The air between us suddenly felt thick, charged with something I didn't understand.

"You should get home, Savannah," he said, his voice low. "The sun's dipping. Woods get mean after dark."

I wanted to stay. I wanted to ask him a thousand more questions. But the way he was looking at me—like he was seeing something more than just a wolfless girl—made me nervous.

"See you around, Grayson," I said, turning to head for the gate.

"Count on it," he muttered.

The sun was a dying ember on the horizon when I finally slipped back into the Reed compound. I tried to go for the back stairs, but the heavy oak doors swung open before I could reach them.

"Where the fuck have you been?"

Mason Reed stood in the entryway, his massive frame blocking the light. His eyes were glowing amber, a sure sign his wolf was close to the surface.

"I was at the salvage yard," I said, trying to sound bored. "Getting parts."

"You were with that Cole boy," Mason growled, stepping into my space. The scent of woodsmoke and anger rolled off him. "I told you to stay away from that trash. His father is a drunk, and the boy is a time bomb."

"He’s just a guy, Dad. And he’s a better mechanic than half your Sentinels."

Mason’s hand lashed out, slamming against the doorframe next to my head. "He’s a Cole. They’re unstable. You’re wolfless, Savannah. You have no protection if he decides to snap. Do you understand me?"

I stared at his bruised knuckles, then back at his face. "I'm fine."

I pushed past him, my heart racing. I hated the way he looked at me—like I was a piece of glass that would shatter if someone breathed on me too hard.

I made it to my room and slammed the door, leaning my back against the wood. My skin still felt hot where I’d touched Grayson’s back. I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against a stray scrap of paper.

I pulled it out. It was a small, hand-drawn map. At the center was the iron bridge, and next to it, a small X.

My breath caught. He must have slipped it into my pocket while I was doing the salve.

There was a note on the back, the handwriting jagged and rushed: Tonight. Midnight. Don't be late, Little Reed.

A thrill of pure, unadulterated terror and excitement shot through me. I shouldn't go. It was a death wish. But as I looked at the map, I knew I was already halfway out the window.

The forest was a cathedral of shadows. Every snap of a twig sounded like a bone breaking. I reached the bridge just as the moon hit its peak.

Grayson was already there, leaning against the stone railing. He wasn't wearing a shirt this time. The moonlight hit the muscles of his chest, carving deep shadows into his torso. He looked like something carved out of the earth itself.

"You actually came," he said, his voice a low vibration in the night air.

"I wanted to see if the Shadow-Mane was real," I said, stepping onto the bridge.

He walked toward me, his movements fluid and silent. He stopped inches away, his heat wrapping around me like a blanket. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip.

"Forget the beast, Savannah," he whispered. "I want to see if you're as brave as you think you are."

He leaned down, his mouth hovering just over mine. I could taste the heat of him. My hands found his waist, my fingers digging into the hard muscle.

He didn't wait. He crashed his lips against mine, a brutal, hungry kiss that tasted of salt and desperation. He tasted like a storm. I groaned into his mouth, my body arching into his.

He lifted me up, my legs wrapping around his waist as he backed me against the cold stone of the bridge. The contrast of the freezing stone and his burning skin made me gasp.

"Grayson," I breathed, my head lolling back.

He didn't speak. He just tore at the buttons of my shirt, his eyes dark with a hunger that terrified and exhilarated me. He moved his mouth to my neck, his teeth grazing my skin, leaving marks I knew would turn blue by morning.

"You're mine," he growled against my throat. "Do you hear me? Mine."

I didn't care about the pack. I didn't care about the war brewing between our families. In that moment, on that bridge, there was only the heat, the moon, and the weight of him pressing me into the stone.

And then, a howl ripped through the silence of the woods.

A howl I recognized. Mason.

Grayson froze, his eyes snapping toward the tree line. "Fuck."

"He’s coming," I whispered, my heart plummeting.

"Go," Grayson said, dropping me to my feet. He shoved his shirt back on, his face hardening into a mask of ice. "If he finds us here, he’ll kill me, and he’ll lock you in a cage."

"Grayson—"

"Go, Savannah! Run!"