"Will follow my lead or face consequences. I'm done enabling their emotional immaturity because it makes me look better by comparison."
For the first time since I found her here, Savannah's vanilla bourbon scent carries notes of something that might be hope. "You really think they can change?"
"I think we all can if we want it badly enough. The question is whether you're willing to give us the chance to prove it."
She considers this, absently tracing patterns on the bar's surface with her free hand. "I have a condition."
"Name them," I say, my voice steady despite the anxiety churning in my stomach.
"No more territorial pissing contests," Savannah declares, her chin lifting with determination as she meets my gaze directly.
"Agreed," I reply without hesitation, my hands spreading flat on the bar between us.
"And therapy. All of us. Individual and group. I'm not doing this again unless everyone involved is committed to actually growing up." Her fingers drum against her empty glass, the sharp tapping echoing her resolve.
"I'll set up appointments tomorrow," I promise, already mentally cataloging which colleagues I can call for referrals.
"And if someone crosses a line, any line, I'm gone. No second chances, no explanations, no dramatic confrontations. I just leave." Savannah's voice drops to barely above a whisper, but thesteel beneath her words is unmistakable. Her shoulders square as she delivers what amounts to an ultimatum.
The finality in her tone makes my chest tight with something that feels like panic, but I nod anyway, my jaw clenching with the effort to stay calm. "Understood."
She studies my face for a long moment, her brown eyes searching mine with the intensity of someone trying to read a medical chart. I force myself to remain still under her scrutiny, letting her see whatever she needs to see.
"Okay," Savannah says finally, her voice soft with something that might be cautious hope.
My hand moves instinctively toward hers on the bar.
“We can try. But Xavier?" She catches my fingers with hers, squeezing gently. "This is the last chance. For all of us. If this doesn't work..."
"It will," I say with more conviction than I feel, but the warmth of her touch gives me strength.
I signal to the tender to pay the tab, then I stand up slowly, extending my hand toward her with careful deliberation."Come on. Let's go home and start over. The right way this time."
Savannah looks at my outstretched hand for a moment, her head tilted as if weighing her options. Then she places her palm against mine with the careful trust of someone who's decided to take one more leap of faith. Her skin is warm and slightly unsteady as I help her to her feet.
"Home," she says. A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "I like the sound of that."
"Good. Because I plan on spending the rest of the night showing you exactly why that leap of faith was worth taking," I murmur, threading our fingers together as we move toward the exit.
As we walk through the crowded interior, her hand warm and trusting in mine, I can't help but think that sometimes the besttreatment for a broken pack is the courage to admit you've been doing everything wrong and the commitment to do better.
Tonight, we're starting over.
And this time, I'm not letting fear make my decisions for me.
21
LOGAN
Ihate meetings. Always have, always will. Sitting around talking instead of fixing problems is a waste of time. But when Xavier calls an emergency pack meeting using his "medical professional with serious concerns" voice, you show up.
Xavier's office wasn't designed for six alphas. The space barely fits his desk, two chairs, and medical equipment. With all of us crammed in here, the air is thick with competing scents and tension that makes my shoulders bunch with the need to claim more space.
I take the chair closest to the door, my back straight and feet planted firmly on the floor. Griff slouches against the wall near the window, arms crossed over his chest, one ankle hooked over the other like he's trying to look casual but his jaw is tight with irritation. Dax drops heavily into the other chair, still in his veterinary scrubs, his hands clasped loosely between his knees but his posture screams exhaustion.
Derek of the Blackwater Pack leans against the medical cabinet, his broad frame taking up too much space in the cramped room. His arms are folded across his chest, and he keeps shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His scentcarries cement dust and irritation. Ryan, the other member, claims the space near Xavier's diploma wall, checking his phone every thirty seconds with sharp, jerky movements that broadcast his impatience.
Xavier sits behind his desk wearing his usual charcoal slacks and blue shirt, his hands folded carefully on the desk surface. His mint scent carries determination mixed with barely controlled panic, and I notice the way his knuckles are white with tension.
