“I know.” I pressed my face into his hair, felt him shake against me. “I know. But you're alive. We're alive. That has to be enough.”
Around us, the pack regrouped. Daniel shifted back to human, moved to where Alaric's body lay, and the sound that tore from the Alpha was grief older than words. Evan joined him, and together they knelt beside their fallen pack member while the others formed a protective circle.
Gideon stood apart, staring at his hands like they belonged to someone else. Like Silas's revelation had unmade something fundamental about who he thought he was.
I wanted to go to him. Wanted to say something that would make this better. But I had my son in my arms, and he was bleeding, and the clearing still reeked of corruption magic and death.
So I just held Nate and let moonlight wash over us both—gentler now, almost apologetic—and tried not to think about what Silas had meant when he said we'd finish this another time.
Tried not to think about the fact that we'd survived tonight through luck and desperation, and next time we might not be so fortunate.
Tried not to think about anything except the weight of my son against my chest and the knowledge that for tonight, at least, we were alive.
27
SMOKE ON STILL WATER
DANIEL
Alaric was dead. Rafe had been a traitor. Silas had eaten hearts like fruit and walked away stronger than any of us could comprehend. And somewhere in the forest, corruption magic still pulsed through ward-lines we'd spent generations protecting.
We'd survived. But survival felt less like victory and more like the forest deciding to let us live long enough to suffer properly.
Behind me, the pack house breathed with exhausted sleep. Wolves sprawled across couches and floors, too injured or too tired to make it to beds. Bandages and blood-stained clothes scattered across every surface. The smell of antiseptic and pack-fear thick enough to taste.
Evan had taken over triage without being asked, moving through the house with quiet competence that made my chest ache. Checking wounds, redistributing patrol schedules, making sure everyone ate something even if they couldn't keep it down. He'd become the kind of leader I'd been trying to teach him to be, and all it had cost was watching a pack member die.
Some lessons shouldn't have to be learned that way.
Michael sat in the corner with Nate pulled against his chest, both of them marked by exhaustion. They hadn't moved in hours—just held each other like gravity alone could keep them whole. Michael's eyes tracked movement with the hypervigilance that came from surviving what should have killed you, and every time someone walked too close to Nate, I saw his hands tighten.
Protective. Fierce. Exactly what pack should be, and he wasn't even born to it.
I wanted to go to him. Wanted to pull him close and breathe in cedar-smoke-magic until the terror eased enough to function. But my feet wouldn't move, wouldn't let me cross that distance when Alaric's blood was still under my fingernails and my pack was bleeding from wounds I'd failed to prevent.
“You should rest.” Jonah's voice cut through the silence, rough with exhaustion and grief barely contained. “Daniel. You've been standing there for three hours.”
“Can't.” The word came out flat. “Someone needs to keep watch.”
“That's what patrols are for.” He moved to stand beside me, and I saw the careful way he held his ribs—cracked, maybe broken, from Silas throwing him into a tree like he was nothing. “We've got wolves at every boundary. Gideon reinforced what wards he could. We're as secure as we're going to get.”
“Are we?” I turned to look at him, at this wolf who'd been pack for fifteen years and had never once questioned my authority. “Because it feels like we're one bad day from complete collapse.”
“We are.” He said it matter-of-fact, brutal honesty that I'd always appreciated about him. “But standing at that window until you fall over won't change it. And the pack needs you functional for what comes next.”
What came next was Alaric's funeral. The reality that Silas was out there building an army and we'd barely survived his first real move.
“Alaric deserved better,” I said quietly.
“Yeah. He did.” Jonah's voice went rough. “But he got what we all get—pack standing beside him when it mattered. That's not nothing, Daniel. Even when it's not enough.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to rage that pack should be enough, that loyalty and fierce love should matter more than dark magic and stolen hearts and witches who ate power like normal people ate breakfast.
But rage wouldn't bring Alaric back. Wouldn't undo Rafe's betrayal or erase the memory of Silas's smile when he'd called Gideon son.
So I just nodded, turned away from the window, and started issuing orders for a funeral I wasn't ready to hold.
The lake lookedwrong-beautiful in the way dreams looked before they turned into nightmares.
