Page 27 of Beckett's Fate

With a muttered curse, Irene climbed onto his back, gripping his thick fur tightly with one hand while holding his clothes with the other.

The moment she was settled, Beck surged forward, his powerful legs propelling them through the forest with a speed that left her breathless. The wind rushed past her, and she clung to him as he darted through the trees, his movements sure and unyielding.

The shouts of the hunters faded into the distance, replaced by the rhythmic thud of Beck’s paws against the ground. Irene’s heart pounded as the adrenaline surged through her veins, her mind racing to keep up with the whirlwind of events.

By the time they reached the edge of town, the knot in her chest had eased slightly. Beck slowed, his breathing steady as he came to a halt near a secluded clearing.

Irene slid off his back, her legs unsteady as she caught her breath. She held out his clothes, avoiding his piercing gaze as the mist swirled around him. Moments later, Beck stood before herin his human form, his expression a mixture of frustration and concern.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice rough.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Thanks to you.”

Beck’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “This isn’t over, Irene.”

She hesitated, then forced a smile. “How about we discuss it over dinner?”

His brows shot up, surprise flickering across his face before he gave a curt nod. “Fine. Let’s go.”

The Rusty Fork was quiet when they arrived, the familiar chime of the doorbell announcing their entrance. Irene slid into a booth, her pulse still racing as Beck joined her.

A waitress approached, her pen poised over her notepad. Beck’s voice was calm, but the intensity in his eyes didn’t waver.

“Two burgers. Medium rare. Fries on the side. And water.”

The waitress nodded, her gaze darting nervously between them before she hurried away.

Beck leaned back in the booth, his eyes locked onto Irene. “Now,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “Tell me what the hell is going on.”

Irene swallowed hard, the intensity of his gaze pinning her in place. She glanced at the door, then back at Beck, her mind racing for the right words. But the truth was, she didn’t have a ready-made lie or evasion—not one that would satisfy him, anyway, and judging by the fire in his eyes, he had no intention of letting her off the hook.

The Rusty Fork was quieter than usual, the din of conversation from earlier replaced by the low hum of refrigerated cases where they kept things people could grab on the go. Irene fiddled with the edge of her napkin, her thoughts a tangle of caution and reluctant trust. Beck sat across fromher, his eyes never wavering, his presence filling the space like a thundercloud on the horizon.

The waitress set their plates down with a nervous smile before retreating quickly, leaving them alone in their booth. The smell of grilled meat and fried potatoes filled the air, but Irene’s appetite was nonexistent.

Beck leaned back, his arms crossed, the tension in his shoulders evident even as he appeared relaxed. “So,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the silence. “Are you going to tell me what’s really going on?”

Irene hesitated, her fingers tightening on the napkin. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“You already know the answer to that,” Beck replied, his gaze steady.

A wry smile tugged at her lips despite herself. “I suppose I do.” She sighed, leaning forward slightly. “You’ve saved my life twice now. I suppose that earns you some honesty.”

Beck arched a brow but didn’t interrupt, his silence as commanding as any words.

“My name is Irene Blakiston,” she began, her voice low but steady. “I have a degree in archaeology from the University of Arizona. For the past five years, I’ve lived with a small group of she-wolves who’ve either left or been cast out of their packs. Most of them were survivors of... bad situations.”

Beck’s expression softened slightly, though his sharp gaze remained unyielding. “A pack of women,” he said, his tone contemplative. “Not something you see every day.”

“No,” Irene agreed. “It’s not. But it works for us. We’ve built a kind of hidden life…”

“In the Superstitions?”

“I’m not going to answer that.”

A faint smile touched Beck’s lips, and he inclined his head. “You just did, but fair enough; I won’t push the point… at leastnot for now. But you’re confirming what I’ve suspected. The rumors of an all-female pack in the Superstitions are true.”

Irene frowned. “I didn’t confirm anything specific.”