Chapter 11. The Shape of Belonging

Mira woke buried beneath a mountain of warmth. Furs and blankets encased her like a cocoon, soft and dense, the air thick with the lingering scent of woodsmoke, pine, and something faintly wild. For a moment, she simply breathed. Her body didn’t ache, and her head wasn’t pounding, such a tentative absence of pain. Kaelen, however, was gone.

She dressed swiftly in the familiar, practical clothes Martha had packed: jeans, a plain top, her old flannel shirt. Just pulling them on was like snapping old bones into place. She ran a comb through her tangled hair until it looked presentable, then exhaled and stepped outside.

The camp was fully awake. Wolves—some in human form, some not—moved between tents with purpose. The hum of conversation dipped the moment she stepped out. Heads turned. Dozens of eyes locked on her. Mira instinctively stepped behind Kaelen, fingers tightening on his hand.

But Kaelen didn’t let her vanish. He tugged gently, guiding her forward until she