I gather my tablet and slide it into my bag. As I turn toward the door, Alden’s hand closes lightly around my wrist. The contact is firm but not forceful.
“Do not underestimate what you are stepping into,” he says.
His thumb rests against my pulse point, and the sensation is both grounding and distracting.
“I am not fragile,” I reply.
His eyes darken slightly. “That is not what concerns me.” The implication hangs there, layered and deliberate.
Ciaran clears his throat softly.
Alden releases me, though the warmth of his hand lingers on my skin longer than it should.
I step into the hallway, adjusting the strap of my bag as I go. The estate corridor feels different now, charged with awareness. Conversations that were muted earlier grow quieter as I pass.
“She influences him,” a voice whispers near the staircase.
“A human in council matters,” another replies.
“That is not tradition.”
I keep walking, posture straight, expression neutral.
“If he bends for her, he bends for more,” someone mutters.
I note the tone more than the words. Jealousy. Suspicion. Fear.
The foyer is already full when I arrive, and the whispers shift into something softer but no less pointed.
“Temporary protection becomes permanent weakness.”
“Or permanent change.”
I step out into the afternoon light without reacting.
The stone steps are warm beneath my boots, and the forest beyond the estate looks deceptively calm. Behind me, the murmurs continue in low currents, threading through the walls like a warning.
I do not look back. I file the complaints away for later.
Tonight, we set the bait.
And someone inside that house will feel the trap tighten.
10
ALDEN
The report reaches me before dawn settles fully over the ridge.
A young patrol runner enters the hall with mud on his boots and tension written plainly across his face. He does not wait for permission to speak, which tells me the message carries weight.
“Alpha, a ranch dog was killed,” he says. “East pasture, near the Pritchard fence line. The body was left in clear view of the road.”
Ciaran steps in behind him, already assessing the implications. “Was it fed on?” he asks.
The runner shakes his head. “No feeding. The throat was torn. The body was mutilated.”
The answer tightens something in my chest. A deer is a warning to us. A pet is a message to humans.
