He recognized the power play for what it was. The local alphas wanted to take his measure on their territory, on their terms. Summoning him to the wolf pack’s preferred watering hole sent a clear message: you’re a guest here, Castellan. Don’t forget it.
Three days since the welcome dinner disaster. Three days of deliberately not thinking about Junie Reed and failing spectacularly.
His investigation was progressing. His discipline was not.
He changed into dark jeans and a Henley—“casual” by his standards, though still more polished than most—and headed for the brewery.
Wolf Moon Brewery occupied a converted warehouse at the edge of the harbor district. The exterior was industrial—exposed brick, steel beams, large windows overlooking the water—but the interior had been transformed into an unexpectedlywelcoming space. Amber lighting cast shadows across polished wood surfaces. The rich scent of hops and malt mingled with the salt air drifting in from the harbor. A chalkboard menu behind the bar listed house-brewed options with names like Howling Moon IPA and Beta’s Best Brown Ale.
Pack territory, dressed up for civilian consumption. Leo recognized the strategy.
The main taproom was busy for a weeknight. Locals clustered around tables, their conversations punctuated by laughter and the clink of glasses. Leo caught more than a few curious glances as he crossed to the back—the visiting lion, the Coalition investigator, the man who’d had his suit ruined in spectacular fashion.
He’d become a minor celebrity in Haven Shores. Not the kind he wanted.
A door at the rear of the taproom led to a private space. Leo pushed through and found himself in what was clearly the pack’s inner sanctum.
Pool table in the center. Dartboard on the wall. Leather couches arranged around a low table covered in empty bottles and full ashtrays. The air was thick with testosterone and the particular musk of multiple predators in close quarters.
Four men waited for him.
Theo Vance stood by the pool table, cue in hand, radiating the easy confidence of an alpha on home ground. His pale eyes tracked Leo’s entrance with careful assessment.
Beck Driscoll lounged on one of the couches, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers. The beta’s posture was relaxed, but his attention sharpened when Leo walked in.
Sheriff Wyatt Gentry occupied the corner chair, long legs stretched out in front of him, whiskey-colored eyes watching everything and revealing nothing. The panther shifter hadn’tspoken a word to Leo since the welcome dinner, but his silence communicated plenty.
And Mayor Hux Holt perched on the edge of the pool table, golden and gleaming even in the dim light, a politician’s smile already firmly in place. The lion shifter was the only one who seemed genuinely pleased to see Leo.
Which probably meant he wanted an advantage.
“Castellan.” Theo gestured to the bar built into the wall. “Drink?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
Beck unfolded from the couch and crossed to the bar with an easy stride. “Our amber ale. Brewed on premises. Best in three counties, if I do say so myself.”
“You co-own the brewery.” Leo accepted the pint glass. “Your opinion might be biased.”
“Doesn’t make it wrong.” Beck’s smile was friendly enough, but those hazel eyes held a wariness that hadn’t been there at the welcome dinner.
Leo noted the observation and took a drink. The ale was excellent—rich, smooth, with a hint of caramel on the finish. He said as much, and some of the tension in the room eased.
“So.” Theo lined up a shot on the pool table, sinking the three ball with practiced ease. “How’s the investigation going?”
Straight to business. Leo appreciated that.
“I’ve interviewed seventeen businesses so far. Compiled data on surge-related incidents going back six months.” He set his glass on the bar and pulled out his phone, bringing up the spreadsheet he’d been building. “The pattern is interesting.”
“Pattern?” Wyatt spoke for the first time, his voice a low rumble that seemed to come from the depths of his ribs.
“The incidents aren’t random.” Leo approached the pool table, setting his phone down where they could all see the screen. “Look at the timing. The first major disruption hitPiprick’s Peculiar Provisions in May. Then the candle shop in June. The bakery in July.” He traced a line across the map he’d created. “They’re all on or near major ley line intersections.”
Hux leaned forward, political smile fading into genuine interest. “That could be coincidence. The ley lines affect magical businesses more strongly. Makes sense they’d be hit harder by the surge.”
“It would. Except for the buyout offers.”
The room went still.
