I keep my hands flat on the table, forcing my voice into calm.
“Watch your mouth,” I say.
Gideon’s expression remains composed, though satisfaction flickers briefly in his eyes. “I am merely observing patterns, Alpha. The rogue escalates near her, and now his scent appears at her door.”
I take one slow step forward, enough to shift pressure without crossing into violence.
“You imply a bond,” I say quietly.
“I imply possibility,” Gideon replies. “It would explain your fixation.”
The room tightens around the exchange. Several council members glance between us, alert to the tone of my voice. Ciaran is not here to anchor restraint, and that absence feels like a thin gap the rogue could exploit.
My wolf snarls internally, demanding I end this.
I do not.
I hold Gideon’s gaze and let silence do what threats cannot. He holds it back, still composed, but there is calculation behind his eyes that makes my instincts sharpen. He is pressing too precisely, too consistently, like he is looking for a crack.
A thought shifts coldly through me.
He might know.
If Gideon did not know, he would pick other leverage points. He would focus on patrol failures, on council authority, on political weakness. Instead, he keeps returning to Cassidy, jabbing and circling and watching my reaction with careful patience.
I do not give him confirmation, and keep my voice controlled. “Your observations are irrelevant to the rogue’s proximity.”
Gideon inclines his head slightly, retreat disguised as civility. “Of course. We will all be eager to hear her evidence.”
The reminder lands heavy. Cassidy will walk into this chamber and face these eyes. She will feel the tension, even if she does not understand it. My wolf hates the thought, and the protective instinct tightens until my ribs ache.
Brynn looks toward the doorway. “Ciaran should be here.”
“He will return,” I say.
Lydia exhales slowly. “If the rogue is that close, perhaps this meeting should be delayed.”
I nod once, though my attention is already split. Part of me is in the chamber, watching Gideon and the council. Another part of me is on the ridge line near Cassidy’s cabin, tracking scent and calculating routes.
“We will postpone until tomorrow. Once we confirm the rogue is either out of the area, or dead,” I say.
Slowly, the others agree and by the time we empty the clearing and get back to, the sun has dropped behind the ridge, and the estate is wrapped in deepening shadow.
Night brings no quiet anymore.
Outside my office window, the forest is a darker mass, and the wind carries faint distant sounds from the ridge. A howl echoes far off, answered by another deeper call that rolls through the trees like warning.
Then comes the sharp crack of a gunshot. Another follows minutes later.
The sound is distant, but it threads through the night like a fuse burning toward powder. Human patrols remain active, restless and afraid, and my pack holds its boundaries with clenched restraint.
Tension clings to the mansion walls.
It sits in every corridor, every glance, every conversation cut short. The town and the pack feel like two hands hovering over the same flint, waiting for a spark.
I stand in the darkness of my office, listening to the distant howls and gunfire, and I understand with cold clarity how little space remains between restraint and war.
15
