“That’s what they’re trying to figure out.” Margot’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close. “Don’t take offense. They did the same to Leo when he showed up sniffing around the Reed witch. It’s how this town works. Cross-species cooperation, mutual assessment, nobody gets to play the lone wolf.” She grunted. “Or the lone bear.”
Cal absorbed that. In Seattle, power was simple. Money talked. Reputation opened doors. Nobody sat you down for drinks and asked about your intentions.
Haven Shores played by different rules.
“Any advice?”
“Don’t lie. They’ll smell it.” Margot gathered her papers and stood. “And don’t wear that suit. You look like a hostile takeover waiting to happen.”
Cal wore the suit anyway.
Not out of defiance—he simply didn’t own anything else. The closest he could manage to “casual” was losing the tie and leaving the top button undone.
Wolf Moon Brewery occupied a converted warehouse on the edge of downtown, all exposed brick and industrial lighting and the rich smell of hops and grain. The main taproom was crowded with locals—humans and supernaturals mixing freely, laughter and conversation bouncing off the high ceilings. A band was setting up in one corner. Someone had strung fairy lights across the rafters.
Cal felt like a seal in a swimming pool full of sharks.
He made his way to the back, following a narrow hallway past restrooms and a storage area until he reached a door marked Private. No handle. No visible lock. A smooth expanse of wood that probably responded to some supernatural security system.
He knocked.
The door swung open.
Five predators turned to look at him.
Cal’s bear lunged toward the surface, hackles rising at the concentrated threat assessment. He forced it down. Kept his breathing even. Walked into the room like he belonged there.
Fake it till you make it.The mantra that had gotten him through his first client pitch, his first hostile negotiation, his first everything in a world that had expected him to fail.
The room was surprisingly comfortable—leather couches arranged around a low table, a private bar in one corner, windows overlooking the harbor. It smelled like beer and testosterone and the particular musk of apex predators sizing each other up.
The wolf was obvious. Theo Vance sat on the center couch like he owned the place—which, Cal supposed, he probably did. Dark hair, ice-blue focus, the stillness that spoke of absolute confidence in his own lethality. Alpha energy radiated off him in waves.
Beside him, a lion with the golden coloring and easy sprawl of a cat comfortable being watched. That would be Leo Castellan, the businessman who’d apparently given up his empire to mate a local witch. He looked expensive—designer clothes, Rolex, the unconscious arrogance of old money. But there was a looseness in his posture that didn’t quite fit the image. A looseness that spoke of recent changes.
The panther was harder to read. Wyatt Gentry leaned against the wall near the window, tall and lean with dark brown skin and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. His whiskey-colored stare tracked Cal’s movements with absolute attention. He didn’t blink. Cal got the distinct impression that the man could sit in silence for hours and be perfectly content.
The other lion—Hux Holt, the mayor—had claimed an armchair near the bar. He was smiling, which made him more dangerous than the others. Politicians who smiled at you usually wanted things.
And sprawled in the corner, legs stretched out, beer already in hand, was someone who didn’t quite fit the room’s gravity. Sandy brown hair, an easy grin that suggested he found the whole situation amusing. Beck Driscoll, Cal guessed. The wolf beta Margot had mentioned. Co-owner of the brewery.
“Callum Ursa.” Theo’s voice was neutral. Assessing. “Thanks for coming.”
“Didn’t seem optional.”
“It wasn’t.” No apology in the words. “Beer?”
Beck was already moving, pulling a bottle from a cooler and offering it with that easy grin. “Our winter ale. Won three regional awards. Least we can do is soften the interrogation with decent alcohol.”
TWELVE
CAL
Cal took the beer. Cold against his palm. Grounding. “Interrogation. At least you’re honest about it.”
“No point being anything else.” Theo gestured to an empty chair. “Sit. This isn’t a trial. We want to know what we’re dealing with.”
Cal sat. The leather creaked beneath him. He took a long pull of the beer—it was good, rich and complex—and waited.
