Nathan Bern eats breakfast like a man who expects the world to wait while he finishes his eggs.
I sit across the kitchen table and watch him work through the plate Greta set down—scrambled eggs, cornbread, venison sausage from the freezer—with a slow, deliberate pace that is completely maddening. His aide stands behind him as always. His coffee cup is positioned at the precise angle that allows him to lift it without moving his elbow from the table. Everything controlled.
This is the man who destroyed my life.
Not directly. Not with violence or cruelty. With a conversation with a young alpha, telling him that mating with a magic-blood was a danger the southern packs couldn’t risk. And Merric listened. I don’t know who I was angrier with.
Now Bern sits in my kitchen, spreading butter on cornbread, and I feel nothing that I expected to feel. Not rage. Not thefury I’ve been carrying. Something colder. A wariness I can’t pin down.
Something about this man isn’t right. Beyond the obvious. Beyond the history. There’s a quality to his attention that goes past politics into something deeper.
I can’t name it. I should be able to name it. I should be able to read Nathan Bern with my eyes closed. But I’m off balance. Last night is sitting in my chest, and every time I try to focus on Bern’s tells, my mind slides back to the bunkhouse.
Merric’s hands on my flesh. My mouth on his throat. The connection tearing open between us. And then Sienna in the doorway, and the look on her face—
Stop! Pay attention.
“The council has resources available for displaced packs,” Bern is saying. He addresses this to Willow, who sits at the head of the table with the stiff posture of a woman who didn’t sleep well and is compensating with backbone. “Building materials, medical supplies, financial support. The application process is straightforward.”
“We didn’t know there was an application process,” Willow says. “Nobody told us.”
“An oversight I intend to correct. Communication with Ravenclaw has been… inadequate. I’ll be the first to admit that.”
He’s smooth. Genuinely smooth. Not the oily kind. The kind that comes from decades of practice at saying the right thing in the right tone at the right moment. He sounds like a man who cares. And maybe he does care, in the way that powerful men care about the communities they manage. The way you care about a garden you’ve been tending; some plants thrive, some get pruned, some get pulled up by the roots if they grow in the wrong direction.
Cameron appears in the doorway. He’s been avoiding the kitchen since Bern arrived yesterday, eating at odd hours,retreating upstairs when any of them come through. But this morning he’s come down, and he stands in the frame with his eyes fixed on Bern with an unnerving intensity.
“Good morning, Cameron,” Bern says. Warm. Cordial. “I hope you slept well.”
Cameron doesn’t answer. He looks at me, a long, searching look that carries questions I haven’t answered and conversations we haven’t had. Then he pours himself a glass of water and goes back upstairs without a word.
Bern watches him go with an unsettling interest. Like Cameron is a specimen under glass.
My wolf bristles. I press her down.
The morning unfolds in the uncomfortable manner caused by forced hospitality. Bern wants another tour of the property. Bern wants to see the ward lines. Bern wants to discuss the parley with Ashfall and the regional security implications. Every request is reasonable. Every question is informed. And I can’t refuse any of it without looking like I have something to hide.
Willow shadows the tour with me. She’s sharp, professional, fielding Bern’s questions with competence. When Bern asks about the scattered families, Willow gives him the sanitized version—locations omitted, names withheld. She’s been doing this long enough to know what to share and what to hold back.
“Impressive,” Bern says, surveying the reinforced north boundary. “These wards are substantially stronger than I’d expected.”
“Brenna restored them,” Willow says. “In the last week.”
“Remarkable. That level of ward work requires significant magical reserves.” He turns to me. “You’ve been maintaining these alone?”
I narrow my eyes on him. “You’re interested in wards?” I find it unlikely that he’d be anything other than contemptuous of our magic.
“Of course,” he says smoothly. “Just because I don’t have the capacity for sorcery, doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the craft.”
I raise an eyebrow, not convinced, but answer his question, regardless. “My mother and I maintained them together before she died. I’ve been restoring what degraded.”
“A significant investment of personal energy.” His voice is concerned. Solicitous. “You should be careful not to overextend yourself, Brenna. The council would hate to see Ravenclaw lose its alpha again.”
“Would it?” I say. “I imagine it would suit you very well.”
Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone in an instant. “We wolves take care of our own, Brenna. I can assure you of that.”
The comment lands strangely. I don’t believe the council thinks of our pack as one of their own. But I don’t push it.
