“I am responsible for pack discipline,” I answer.
Cassidy studies me for a beat, unconvinced, then lets out a slow breath as if she is tempering her patience.
“You cannot intimidate your own people every time they talk to me,” she says. “You do not get to act like I’m a problem you manage with growling.”
“You are under my protection,” I say, and my voice comes out lower than intended. “We have an unknown breach within the pack. I’m ensuring you stay protected.”
“Said every possessive male ever. I’m not the target here,” she says.
“But you are involved.”
Something flickers in her gaze at that, quick and unreadable. For a moment she looks like she wants to argue, but she holds back, jaw tightening instead.
“This again,” she mutters.
The frustration in her voice is real, but it does not erase the other current between us. It runs under every exchange now, a pull that makes distance feel like effort and closeness feel like risk.
I know what my wolf wants. I know what my instincts keep insisting. I also know the council’s posture, their growing discomfort, and the thin line I am walking.
I force the next words out before I do something reckless.
“I have a council meeting,” I say, keeping the excuse clipped but steady.
Cassidy’s brows lift slightly. “Convenient timing.”
Neither of us seems willing to move. I do not tell her what she is to me, and I do not tell her what my wolf has already decided. I keep it locked behind my teeth because I do not know how she would take it, and I do know how the pack would react.
Distance is the only smart move.
“Continue your analysis,” I say, letting authority smooth my tone. “Report anything unusual directly to Ciaran.”
Her chin lifts. “I always do.”
I hold her gaze one second too long, then break it and turn away. My hands curl briefly at my sides as I walk toward the inner grounds, forcing my stride into calm control.
The stone clearing behind the mansion is already filling when I arrive. Council members stand in loose clusters beneath tall pines, voices low and tense, posture tight with contained unease. Brynn rests near the central stone, staff planted firmly beside her, gaze steady as it tracks the yard.
Ciaran steps into position at my right, close enough to speak without being overheard.
“You kept that short,” he murmurs.
“It needed to be,” I reply.
Before he can say more, a shout cracks from the treeline. It is sharp and urgent, and every head in the clearing snaps toward the sound at once. The air shifts instantly, the kind of collective tension that moves through a pack like a wave.
A young patrol wolf staggers into view at a half-run, half-fall. Blood coats the front of his shirt in a dark spreading stain, and his hand is clamped to his throat, fingers slick and shaking. He takes two more steps, then drops to one knee as if his legs no longer remember how to hold him.
He tries to speak.
“Alpha—” he manages, then the word dissolves into a wet choke.
The metallic scent of blood hits the clearing, thick and immediate. Wolves move on instinct; bodies shift, stances widen, eyes sharpen. Ciaran is already stepping forward, and Brynn’s expression hardens into cold focus.
I close the distance in three strides and crouch in front of him.
His throat is shredded. Not a clean tear like livestock. Not a simple kill bite. This is raked damage, deliberate and brutal, the kind meant to injure and send a message without finishing the job.
“Easy,” I say, voice low and firm.
