Inside, the house smells like bread and woodsmoke and the cedar oil Greta uses on everything.
It smells like home.
We eat. All of us, crowded around the kitchen table and spilling into the living room, Frostbourne wolves and Ravenclaw wolves sharing plates and passing bread. The noise level builds from murmur to conversation to laughter, and the laughter is the sound of two packs discovering that the distance between them is shorter than anyone thought.
Dane makes Hannah and Warrick laugh with a story about a building project that ended with him on a roof in his underwear. Sienna sits next to Willow and asks questions about ward maintenance that are genuine and detailed. It makes Willow’s guarded expression soften by degrees. Briar disappeared intothe hills before the soup was served, because the forest is the only welcome home she needs.
Cameron sits between Lena—who made the drive from Frostbourne through force of will and her parents’ reluctant permission, and who I suspect will be visiting often—and Greta. He’s talking. Not loudly, not performing. Just talking. About Frostbourne, about the sparring yard, about Kai’s terrible chess game, and Mark’s terrible jokes. The way a traumatized teen talks when he’s finally allowing himself to believe that the ground under him might hold.
Merric sits beside me. His hand finds my knee under the table. I put my hand over his and leave it there.
The evening settles. Wolves drift to their rooms, their porches, their places. The rain thins to mist. The valley fills with the blue light of an Ozark twilight that I love so much.
Willow finds me on the back porch after the house has settled. The mist hangs in the valley, and the hills are dark shapes against a sky that’s holding on to the last of the light.
“We need to talk,” she says.
I knew this was coming. Willow doesn’t do casual porch conversations. She leans against the railing and tilts her chin at an angle that means she’s already made a decision and is informing me of it rather than asking permission. I recognize the posture. It’s mine.
“The missing families,” she says. “The group in Texas. Four months without contact.”
“I know. I’ve been—”
“You’ve been mating, rescuing your son, and restructuring southern wolf politics. I know. You’ve been busy.” No malice in it. Just fact. Delivered with the blunt efficiency of a woman who’s learned that softening bad news is a luxury. “But three Ravenclaw families are out there somewhere, and every day we don’t find them is a day that the Syndicate might.”
“Willow—”
“I’m going to find them.”
There it is. The decision, delivered with the certainty of a Corvus female who’s learned that waiting for someone else to act is something she can’t tolerate.
“It’s dangerous,” I say. “You don’t know what you’re walking into. The Syndicate has networks in every major city—”
“You did it alone for two years.”
“I had training. Field experience. I’d been running operations since—”
“And I’ve had two years of holding this pack together through raids and starvation. Through the absence of the only family I had left. I think that qualifies.” She holds my eyes. Corvus to Corvus. “I’m not asking, Brenna. I’m telling you.”
She’s right. The recognition stings, because I know exactly what it costs to make a choice like this. To walk away from the people you love into uncertain ground because someone out there needs you more.
“Willow…” I try again, because my conscience demands it.
“We can’t abandon them.” Her eyes fix on mine. “Not again. Our pack needs you here. But somebody has to get to them. Who better than me?”
I sigh, because she’s right. “Take Briar,” I say. “She’s the best tracker I’ve ever seen. And she’ll keep you alive even when you’re being reckless.”
“I’m never reckless.”
“You’re a Corvus. Reckless is genetic.”
Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. The Willow version.
“I’ll find them,” she says. “And I’ll bring them home.”
“I know you will.”
She turns her head. Looks at the valley. “Aunt Brenna?”
