“So I see.” His eyes land on something behind me, and his posture shifts a fraction, just enough that I catch it because I’m watching for it. I follow the line of his attention.
Brenna is standing on the main house porch.
She’s positioned herself deliberately. Not hidden, not advancing. Just… there. Her arms are at her sides, and her face is unreadable.
Bern’s composure holds. But I watched the parley with Hatchett, and I know what a man looks like when his assumptions collapse. This is slower. More controlled. A shift behind a diplomatic face.
“Well,” he says. “Reports of Brenna Corvus’s death were apparently inaccurate.”
“Apparently.”
He looks at me. The warmth hasn’t left his face. Bern’s warmth never leaves; it’s structural, the foundation of every manipulation he’s ever built. But something behind it has changed.
“That’s quite a development, Merric. One I’m surprised you didn’t share with me.”
“It’s recent.”
“How recent?”
“Recent enough that I’m still processing the implications. Same as everyone else.”
He nods. Measured. Then he turns to face the ranch fully, hands clasped behind his back, and adopts the posture of a man surveying territory. Not with hostility, but with the interest of someone who believes the southern wolf world is his to manage.
I stifle a snort.
Good luck with that, asshole.
“I’ve come to discuss several matters,” he says. “The council’s concerns about your presence here. The formal recognition ofRavenclaw’s status. And the reports I’ve been receiving about purist activity in this region.” He pauses. “I intend to stay for a day or two. Get a proper sense of the situation on the ground.”
Stay. He intends tostay.
Goddammit!
“There’s not a lot of room,” I say. “We’re stretched thin on space as it is.”
“My team is self-sufficient. We’ll set up at the boundary. Shouldn’t be any imposition.” He says it mildly. Reasonably. The way he says everything, wrapped in enough courtesy that refusing feels petty.
Behind me, I feel Brenna’s attention. Sharp. Alert. She can’t hear this conversation from the porch, but she can read body language, and mine is telling her something she doesn’t like.
Willow appears at Brenna’s side. Two Corvus women on the porch, watching an Elder Alpha stake his tent on their land.
“I’ll need to discuss it with the Ravenclaw leadership,” I say. “This is their territory.”
“Of course.” Bern’s smile widens by a fraction. “I wouldn’t dream of overstepping. Perhaps you could introduce me? I’d like to pay my respects to Ms. Corvus. Both of them.”
He says it like a courtesy. It lands like he’s claiming ownership.
I walk him toward the house. Rook follows three paces behind, and I can feel his tension without seeing it; the watchfulness of a second who’s running threat assessments on a man who arrived with smiles and council plates and the implicit authority to destroy everything we’ve built here.
Brenna meets us at the porch steps. Up close, the exhaustion from last night is visible in the shadows under her eyes, but her composure is flawless.
“Elder Bern.” Her voice is even. Correct. Giving nothing.
“Brenna.” He takes her hand. Holds it a beat too long. “I’m profoundly relieved to see you alive. The southern packs mourned your loss. Your mother’s legacy—”
“Is standing right here.” Brenna withdraws her hand. “My mother’s legacy is a pack of thirty wolves who survived years of raids and isolation while the council offered nothing. But I appreciate the sentiment.”
Bern absorbs the hit without blinking. “You’re right, of course. The council could have done more. That’s partly why I’m here. To see what’s needed and what can be provided.”
