Taken by the Outcast Alpha (Whispers of Fate)

7. Finn

Chapter seven

Finn

I hold out my leather jacket to Sage, feeling a strange mix of emotions as I do. "Time to look like you came here for a bike rally," I say, trying to keep my voice casual.

Sage looks at me, her hazel eyes wide with surprise. "But what about you?"

What about me? I think, suppressing a smile. The truth is, I picked up a new jacket at one of the stalls set up for the rally. I could've gotten that one for Sage instead, but there's something that feels right about having my jacket around her. It's a thought I'm not ready to examine too closely, let alone admit to her.

"I've got another one," is all I say, shrugging as if it's no big deal.

As Sage slips into my jacket, I turn to my motorcycle, busying myself with rearranging the items in my saddlebags. I need to make sure the Fate Weaver is well-protected, but I also want to create space for Sage's belongings. It's a delicate balance, just like everything else about this unexpected situation.

The weight of the hammer seems to pulse against my hand as I carefully shift it to a more secure position. I wonder what Sage would think if she knew what I was really carrying. Would she run? Or would those intelligent eyes of hers light up with curiosity?

I shake off the thought. No use in speculating about things that can't happen. The less Sage knows about the Fate Weaver, the safer she'll be.

I stand beside my bike, watching as the rally organizers give the signal to start. The rumble of engines fills the air, a symphony of power and freedom that speaks to my very core. As riders begin to move out, I notice the natural groupings forming around us.

There are the veterans, easy to spot with their well-worn leathers and confident postures. They fall into formation with practiced ease, clearly old friends reuniting for another adventure on the open road. Their camaraderie is enviable, and for a moment, I feel a pang of longing for my pack.

Then there are the novices, their excitement mixed with nervous energy. Some fumble with their gear, while others rev their engines a bit too eagerly. I can almost smell their anticipation, mingled with a hint of fear. It reminds me of young wolves on their first hunt.

But it's the other shifters that really catch my attention. They're not obvious to human eyes, but to me, their nature is clear as day. They gravitate towards each other, forming loose groups that mirror pack structures. It's instinctual, that need for community and belonging.

A part of me aches to join them. To fall into step with others of my kind, to feel that sense of unity and strength that comes from riding with a pack. But I can't risk it. I don't know what they've heard about my exile, what rumors might have spread through the shifter grapevine. One slip, one casual mention of seeing me here, and word could get back to the Silverclaw Pack.

I grip my handlebars tighter, pushing down the urge to howl in frustration. This is my reality now - on the outside, always watching, never truly belonging. At least until I can clear my name and reclaim my place as Alpha.

I glance at Sage, wondering how she's handling all this. She seems lost in thought, her eyes scanning the crowd. I wonder if she can sense the shifters too, or if she is still looking for whoever it is who has her on the run.

I swing my leg over the bike, settling into the familiar embrace of leather and steel. Sage follows suit, her movements more hesitant but growing in confidence. As she slides on behind me, her hands find their place at my waist. The touch sends a jolt through me, a mix of comfort and danger that I can't quite explain.

I pull down my helmet, hiding whatever expression might be betraying my thoughts. The engine roars to life beneath us, a primal growl that speaks to the wolf within me. We join the stream of bikes, falling into the rhythm of the rally.

The world around us blurs into a canvas of reds, oranges, and golds as we wind through the New Hampshire countryside. The fall foliage is a riot of color, nature's last defiant burst before winter sets in. For a moment, I almost lose myself in the simple joy of the ride. The wind, the road, the steady presence of Sage at my back - it all feels right in a way I haven't experienced in far too long.

But then my wolf stirs, a low growl of warning in the back of my mind. My senses sharpen, cutting through the haze of contentment. Something's off. The pattern of engines behind us has changed, becoming more focused. I check my mirrors, trying to be subtle about it.

There. A group of three bikes, keeping pace about fifty yards back. They're good, blending in with the rally traffic, but my instincts scream that they're not just fellow riders out for a scenic tour. They're following us, and they're not being subtle about it anymore.

My grip tightens on the handlebars. I can feel Sage's hands tense against my sides, sensing my change in mood. I want to reassure her, but I can't risk taking my attention off the road or our pursuers.

I twist the throttle, feeling the bike surge forward. The engine's roar drowns out everything else as we pick up speed. It's faster than I'd normally go with a passenger, but not reckless. I'm still in control.

Sage's grip on me tightens, her body pressing closer against my back. But I don't sense fear from her. Instead, I feel focus radiating from her, and something else - trust. It hits me then how much I want to earn that trust, to be worthy of it. It's a feeling I haven't experienced in a long time, not since before my exile.

Up ahead, I spot my chance. The main group of riders is continuing straight, but there's a turnoff to the right. It's a risk. We could lose our pursuers, or we could end up isolated and outnumbered. But it's the best option we've got.

I lean into the turn, and Sage moves with me perfectly, as if we've been riding together for years. Her instincts are good. I'll give her that. As we veer onto the new road, I catch a glimpse of our followers in my mirror. They're hesitating, probably trying to decide if we've spotted them.

Not far down this new stretch, I see an old, abandoned-looking service station. It's perfect - a place to pull off and hide.