“I will fucking burn Chicago down to get my mate back. I’m ready to murder her father, her brother, that fucking king of the Midwest…”
He took a call from Rafe and then shook his head. The energy in him was different—focused, lethal. The exhaustion was still there, the lines around his eyes deeper than they had any right to be, but I could see the wolf in him back at the surface.
He grabbed his bag and unzipped it, and started laying out the hardware: two handguns, backup magazines, a switchblade he kept for close encounters. I did the same, checking my own Glock and the silver-tipped rounds I’d loaded that morning. If the Council wanted a show, we’d give them a goddamn fireworks display.
“Rest up,” he said, voice all business again. “Rafe says we fly out in an hour. We’ll leave our jet here. Work out the details for how we’ll get it and ourselves back to Texas. So goddamn ready. Logistical fucking nightmare.”
I nodded, more than ready to get the hell out of here. I wanted to trust that the Council might somehow surprise us and do the right thing. But I sure as shit sat on “go” and waited for them to give us a reason to kill.
The sky turned a deeper blue as we climbed north, and the private jet’s window seemed too small for what I wanted: a way out, a way in, any way to get my hands on Savannah. Bronc sat across the aisle, pretending to read a report from Rafe’s securityteam but mostly watching me watch the horizon. We’d each taken up the classic seating—backs never to the aisle, sight lines clear, nothing left to chance.
King Rafe’s people didn’t skimp on the amenities. The cabin had white leather seats, deep-pile carpet, and smoked glass dividers between each pair of seats. Most would call it comfort. To me it was a slow-burn reminder of just how little money mattered when your mate was somewhere between two states and one step from being sold off.
I’d been locked in the same physical position for forty minutes: left hand knuckles to the window, thumb tracing slow, shallow circles into the padding beneath. The mate mark on my shoulder itched. Then, without warning, it ignited. I choked back a gasp and pinched the muscle, breathing through my teeth.
Bronc snapped to attention instantly. “What is it?”
I flexed my fingers, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the spike of pain to fade. “I can feel her again,” I said, voice gone raw. “The silver’s off. For now.”
Relief washed over me, hot and dizzy. But it was tainted, because I’d seen what happened to shifters who spent too long in silver. My sister had died that way—thrown into a bunker by the Greenbriar pack, left to stew for weeks in chains. When we pulled her out, there was more scar than skin. I remembered the smell of her as we broke her body from those links, remembered the way she trembled, not from fear but from the craving for release. She’d killed herself months later, unable to shift, unable not to shift. I’d never forgiven the Council for the leniency they showed her captors. Of course, I’d killed their fucking Alpha myself. The Council was still salty about it. Fuck ‘em.
Bronc must have seen the direction of my thoughts. “She’s not like your sister,” he said, quiet.
“I know.” I forced the words out. “She’s stronger. And she’s alive. I can feel that.”
He nodded and set his report on the tray table. “Do you want to tell me what you’re getting from her? If it’s worth hearing?”
I was surprised by the question, and more surprised by the answer that came: “Nothing concrete. Our bond’s new—barely enough for sensations, not thoughts. I just know when she hurts, and when she’s scared.”
“Can you reach her?” Bronc asked.
“No.” That stung. “But I can track her, in a way. If I had to, I could find the city.”
Bronc’s mouth set in a hard line. “Good. She’ll be near to where we are.”
We sat there, two wolves in a luxury pen, waiting for the next fight. My mind spun with all the ways I could kill those who hurt her, and whether I’d be able to kill my own father-in-law before the Council stripped me of rank or life. What if I killed two kings? I wanted to. But that would take me away from Savannah, and nothing was worth that.
The curtain at the front of the jet snapped open, and King Rafe Mayfield filled the aisle like he was made for it. Six foot four, barrel-chested, with a beard that looked like it had been trimmed for him to appear for the paparazzi. He wore no tie, just a black dress shirt and dark slacks, but he radiated authority like sunlight through glass. He made a show of ignoring the bottle of bourbon in the galley, then plopped into a seat across from us and stretched his legs out.
“You two look like hell,” he said, but there was no smile behind it.
Bronc didn’t answer, so I did. “We’re not here for a vacation, sir.”
“Never are,” Rafe replied. “But I like to think we can make a little progress before the world tries to bite our balls off.”
He leaned in. “Here’s how the Council’s going to go down. First, you’ll meet with an arbitrator from one of the witch clans—she’ll be there to test the mate bond and verify it’s not afalse mark. You’ll both submit to bloodwork, magical review, and physical exam.”
“Sounds tedious,” Bronc said, not quite rolling his eyes.
Rafe ignored him. “After that, the Council will convene in closed session. There are twelve representatives—one for each kingdom, but some serve double roles. They’ll hear testimony, then take the findings back to their rulers, who will vote by region. It’s not a true democracy, but it’s the best we’ve got.”
I interrupted. “Who’s likely to side with us?”
Rafe counted on his fingers, as if he’d done this a thousand times. “Not Midwest. Dominic wants to claim Savannah, so clearly he’s not for you. Not Eastern Wolves—Declan started this whole shitshow. But you’ve got the Southern and Western Wolves in your corner, at least for now.”
Bronc chimed in. “Vampires?”
Rafe gave a dry laugh. “Western vamps hate the Council, so they’ll vote to cause chaos. Eastern are more conservative, if you could consider Kazimir conservative, but they despise arranged marriages. We can count on a split there.”
