Page 34 of Alpha Charmed

“I say my grandmother enjoys embarrassing me.” But his gaze holds mine, warm and intent. “I also say she’s rarely wrong about these things.”

I should deflect. Should redirect to the investigation, the journals, the practical matters requiring attention. Should maintain the professional distance that’s kept us both safe for so long.

Instead, I take a bite of Grandmother Peach’s pie and say, “Then I suppose we shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

Wolf territory feels different from what I expected.

The forest closes around us as Caius leads me deeper into pack land, the well-worn paths of The Hollow giving way to towering pines and filtered sunlight. The air smells different here—earth and evergreen and a particular musk that I’m learning to associate with shifters. With him.

“You’re quiet.” Caius glances back at me, adjusting his pace to match mine.

“I’m processing.” My heels are entirely wrong for forest terrain—I should have changed before we left—but I refuse to show weakness by stumbling. “I’ve never been to wolf territory before. I expected more… howling.”

His laugh is sudden, surprised. “We save that for special occasions. Full moons. Pack celebrations. Really good steaks.”

He steers me toward a quieter section of the territory, where the trees grow older and the paths seem weighted with memory.

“Here.”

The Pack Center spreads before us—a cluster of homes arranged around a massive fire pit, connected by worn paths and scattered with evidence of community life. Children race between trees in forms that shift between human and wolf without conscious thought. Adults pause mid-conversation to watch our approach, their expressions curious but not hostile.

And everywhere—everywhere—I feel the weight of attention.

“They’re staring.”

“You’re new. You’re interesting. You’re with their alpha.” His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me forward.

The cabin is small and old and somehow exactly what I expected. Climbing vines cover half the exterior. Smoke rises from a chimney that looks original to the structure. The door is painted a deep red that’s faded with age but still visible.

And standing in that doorway, watching our approach with eyes that have seen more than I can imagine, is Grandmother Sylvana Sternwolf.

She’s beyond age. There’s no other word for it—beyond age in a way that transcends physical appearance, as if she carries the weight of centuries in her small frame. Her hair is white as snow, her face a map of wrinkles and experience. But her eyes are keen.

Those eyes pin me in place like a butterfly under glass.

“The coven leader.” Her voice is stronger than I expected—commanding, with a hint of dry humor underneath. “My grandson has been mooning over you for far too long. I was beginning to wonder if either of you had the sense the gods gave a confused puppy.”

“Grandmother—” Caius starts.

“Hush.” She waves a dismissive hand without looking at him. “I’ve been tolerant about your brooding for years. Now that you’ve finally made progress, let me have my moment of victory.”

Heat crawls up my cheeks. I meet her gaze directly.

“We’re here about Mathilda Thornwood.”

“I know why you’re here.” Sylvana’s smile is sharp enough to cut. “The question is whether you’re ready to hear what I have to tell you.”

“I’m ready.”

“Are you?” She studies me for a long moment, her gaze seeing through every defense I’ve built. “The truth Mathilda discovered isn’t comfortable. It challenges everything you’ve been taught. Everything your coven believes about the natural order of magic.”

“The natural order is a lie.” The words come out steadier than I feel. “The Severing was a manufactured separation, not a fundamental truth. I’ve already begun to understand that.”

“Understanding and accepting are different things.” Sylvana steps back from her doorway, gesturing us inside. “Come in. Both of you. This is a conversation that requires sitting.”

The cabin’s interior surprises me—dense with old books, strange artifacts, pressed flowers and stones, and the particular smell of old paper and wolf. It is not the spartan space of a man who doesn’t notice his surroundings. It is the space of someone who has no one to arrange it for.

And there, on a table near the window, sits a leather journal identical to the ones we found in Mathilda’s cottage.