And somehow, that silent impasse feels more dangerous than any argument.
I don’t wait for an answer from Dane. I’ve never waited for permission in my life, and I don’t intend to start now. I turn toward the lodge. Phil’s scent will still be fresh inside—I can trace exactly where he stood, who he targeted, how he moved through the room.
The door creaks as I push it open. Inside, every head swivels in my direction. The energy shifts immediately, a prickling wall of distrust and suspicion that hits me like a physical wave.
Every heartbeat in the room, elevated stress hormones thick in the air. I catalog each wolf automatically: Marcus is still rooted near the kitchen but leaning away from me now, while Mateo’s nervous energy radiates from across the room like a heat shimmer.
A red-haired wolf—Kari, I think her name is—straightens from where she’s leaning against the wall. Her eyes narrow. “Convenient timing,” she mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Phil leaves, you follow.”
I ignore her, focusing instead on the traces Phil left behind. His scent still lingers. The signature of dark fae glamour.
I follow it across the room, noting the places where it pools stronger. The chair beside Marcus. The doorframe where he paused. The table where his hand rested while he spoke to the younger wolves.
“What is she doing?” someone asks.
I kneel by the fireplace, where Phil’s scent mingles with ash and wood. The traces are clearer here, concentrated. I let my fae senses extend, reading the emotional residue like fingerprints on glass. Satisfaction. Control. The particular pleasure predators feel when prey walks willingly into range.
He stood here the longest, facing the group, measuring reactions.
“She’s tracking,” Dane’s voice comes from behind me. I didn’t hear him enter, but his scent fills the space immediately—sharp pine and amber heat that makes my wolf stir uncomfortably close to the surface.
Callum steps forward, arms crossed. “Tracking what? He’s gone.”
“His pattern,” I say, standing. “Where he lingered, who he focused on. Dark fae leave traces, especially when they’re using persuasion.”
I move to the center of the room, where the scent paths converge in an unmistakable pattern. “He started here. Then moved to Marcus. Spent almost two minutes there.” I trace the invisible line with my finger. “Then the fireplace, where he could see everyone’s reactions. Then to Mateo, just briefly.”
Marcus shifts uncomfortably. “What’s your point?”
“My point is he didn’t move randomly. He targeted specific wolves—ones with influence or uncertainty. He created a web.” I tap the chair where his scent pools strongest—the same spot he occupied during yesterday’s visit, and where he lingered again today. “And he coated every word with subtle glamour.”
“That’s bullshit,” Kari says. “I would have sensed magic.”
“Not this kind. It’s below the surface, designed specifically to influence without detection.”
I turn to face all of them now. “Look at where he stood. First beside Marcus, then with clear sight lines to Callum and the exit.He positioned himself to read reactions while appearing non-threatening.”
“So what?” Callum challenges. “He came, talked, and left.”
“He mapped your weaknesses,” I counter. “Every pause, every touch, every conversation was strategic. This wasn’t a casual visit. It was reconnaissance.”
“And how exactly would you know that?” Marcus asks, voice edged with suspicion.
“Because I’ve spent my life reading fae movements.” I meet his gaze directly. “And he moved exactly like someone gathering intelligence before an attack.”
The room falls silent. Dane steps closer, his presence shifting the energy again. I feel his heat at my back without turning.
“If she’s tracking him so well,” Kari says, “how do we know she’s not working with him?”
I almost laugh. “If I were working with him, I wouldn’t be pointing out his strategy. I’d be reinforcing it.”
I straighten my spine, scanning the circle of wolves. Their expressions range from open hostility to uncomfortable uncertainty. None of it matters. I didn’t come here to make friends.
“Phil left emotional imprints on each of you,” I say, voice clinical. “It’s a dark fae technique—amplifying what’s already there. Like pressing on a bruise you didn’t know you had.”
I point to Marcus without looking at him. “Resentment activation. He touched your shoulder twice, stood in your space. Made you feel seen when no one else has.”
Marcus shifts, shoulders tensing. “You don’t know what—“
