The response is almost instant.Pack meetingtonight. 7 PM. Your father wants to discuss the rogue situation. And before you ask, no, it’s not optional.
I set the phone down and drink my tea standing at the window, watching the treeline. Somewhere beyond those trees, in a converted cottage at the edge of the village, a woman I’ve never properly met is going about her day. Maybe she’s thinking about the impossible wolf she treated this morning. Maybe she’s already rationalised it away, filed it under escaped exotic pet, and moved on with her sensible, human life.
My wolf growls softly at the thought of her dismissing us. I tell him to shut up.
The pack meeting is held in the main house, a sprawling stone building that’s served as the Mistwood Alpha residence for six generations. I grew up here. I know every creaking floorboard, every draught that sneaks under the doors in winter, every scratch on the long oak table where the pack gathers to eat and argue and make decisions I want no part of.
Tonight the table is full. Rebecca sits at my father’s right hand, dark hair pulled back, expression unreadable. She’s been his Beta for twelve years, longer than anyone expected, given she’s not blood family, and she runs the pack’s day-to-day operations with a quiet efficiency that makes my father’s more dramatic leadership style possible.
I slide into a chair at the far end of the table, as farfrom my father as I can get without sitting in the hallway.
Chris Mistwood stands at the head of the table like a man addressing parliament. He’s tall, broad, silver threading through dark hair that used to match mine. At fifty-eight, he’s still an imposing figure, the Alpha who commands a room by walking into it. I inherited his build and his stubbornness and precisely none of his enthusiasm for leadership.
“Three incursions in three weeks,” he begins, and the room goes quiet. “Last night was the most aggressive yet. They crossed the boundary at the stone wall, pushed past the logging road, and marked territory within a mile of the village. Roan engaged three of them and drove them off, but this is escalating.”
Heads turn towards me. I keep my expression neutral.
The pack feels her before they understand her.
For one beat, every wolf in the clearing goes still.
“They’re using flanking patterns,” I say, because tactical information is something I’m willing to contribute. “The three last night split into a scout and a pair. The scout circled behind me while the other two held position. That’s not desperate rogues scrapping for territory. That’s coordinated.”
Murmurs around the table. My father nods, the grudging acknowledgement of a man who wishes hisson would offer this kind of analysis more often and in a more official capacity.
“Someone’s organising them,” Rebecca says. It’s not a question.
“Or training them.” I lean back in my chair. “The scarred one, the big male, he’s fought pack wolves before. He knew where to strike and how to create openings. The younger one was less experienced but disciplined. They held formation even when the fight turned against them.”
“Recommendations?” My father’s eyes are on me, and I can see the familiar calculation behind them. Every conversation is an opportunity to draw me in, to make me invest in the pack business until I’m too entangled to walk away.
“Double the patrols on the northern boundary. Pairs. And extend the perimeter past the logging road. They’re using it as an access route.”
“Will you lead the patrol rotation?”
There it is. The hook, baited and cast with ease.
“I’ll draw up a rotation schedule,” I say carefully. “And I’ll brief the teams myself.”
My father’s eyes narrow. That’s not how it works. Patrol assignments go through the Alpha or the Beta. They don’t go through the man who won’t accept a rank.
“That’s Rebecca’s responsibility,” he says.
“Rebecca’s got enough on. I know the terrain, I know the approach routes, and I know what I saw last night. I’ll have the first teams out by dawn.”
His jaw tightens. It’s not what he wanted. It’s simultaneously too much and not enough—I’m taking operational control of the pack’s defence while refusing the title that would make it official. I can see him calculating whether to push back, and I can see the moment he decides not to, because the alternative is having no rotation at all.
He moves on. I let the conversation wash over me while my mind drifts back to gauze, gentle hands, brown eyes that didn’t look away.
Rebecca catches me outside afterwards, falling into step beside me as I walk towards the treeline.
“You’re hurt,” she says. Not a question either. Rebecca doesn’t waste time on questions she already knows the answers to.
“Was hurt. Healing.”
“Three rogues on your own. That was reckless. You’re supposed to report a hostile engagement to your Alpha within the hour. You went home and went to bed.”
“I reported it eventually.”
