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“Violence begets royalty,” Brack mutters, reminding me again that although we were raised in different packs by entirely separate fathers, our experiences were much the same. “Maybe he’s trying to manufacture a war so he can taste power.”

“It would be stupid,” Zade says, sounding almost angry on behalf of the outsiders. “To rally all of them and get them killed? To die just so some guy could play at king for a little while?”

“Very stupid.” Brack agrees.

Denvil mostly stays quiet, lost in his head. I can’t blame him. Maybe I’m getting a taste of what it’s been like to work with me the past few weeks.

The past few years.

“So, we set up a meeting with Gavyn. Where?” I ask, rubbing my hands over my jaw, trying not to let them see just how tired I am.

“Could do it here,” Brack says, glancing around at our meeting space. It’s nice, central. Would require Gavyn to come to the very center, surrounded on all sides by our packs. Would he even do it?

“We’ll do it at my place,” Denvil says it as a statement. A non-negotiable. Given what he’s been through today, it’s reasonable that he makes a single demand. We agree without question—maybe it makes sense to have the meeting near where it happened. Allow Denvil a further sense of control.

Once the plans are settled and a missive—ten shifters strong—is sent to Gavyn to arrange the meeting, we pack up. Of course, we could have emailed, but something like this feels too weighty to leave to a digital method. If you’re thinking of starting a war, maybe it’s best not to discuss it over text.

As I walk out of the meeting room and head toward home, I send up a silent prayer to the moon goddesses. Given everything that’s happened today, I would be eternally grateful if they would grant me just a single night of solid sleep.

***

It’s not happening.

I know it the moment I approach the doors, and the guards open them for me. Snow whips through the air and into the castle, settling in my hair and on my coat. Despite the run home being invigorating, it was also cold even with my fur and the warmth from sprinting.

And now, as I step over the threshold and allow a staff member to take my coat, I scent her.

Mylah.

Her scent, normally so light, is getting heavier. Cloying. Laying over me like a dense fog, so I can’t take a breath without it getting in. I swallow and clear my throat, request a glass of water, but it’s like walking on flat ground after getting off the treadmill.

Everything feels unsteady, a little dreamy.

I’m just tired. I just need to get in bed, take a moment. Fucking sleep, for once in my life.

A maid brings the water to my quarters, along with the meal from tonight—hearty stew, my favorite on a cold night like this. Right now, I can’t even look at it.

Things are moving inside me. My blood feels hotter, heavier than normal. Synapses in my brain fire too quickly, overheating, making my ears and the backs of my eyes hot.

I just need to get in bed.

At first, it’s comforting to slide into the clean, cool sheets. But it quickly becomes hot, and I’m restless, kicking off the blankets and sighing up into the room, which also smells of her.

Aurora wouldn’t have brought her back here, would she? Not after I chewed her out the last time. That is, unless she has her suspicions about me and Mylah. Aurora was always too smart for her own good. It gave my father hope, as a child, that she might grow up to be an alpha, despite what the doctors said her biology leaned toward.

If she suspects that Mylah is my mate, she could be goading me. Spreading Mylah’s scent everywhere so I can’t escape it.

Or maybe this is just what it’s like to have a fated mate. My nose is finely tuned to her, just as every part of my body is. Touching her feels different than touching anyone else. When I look at her, it feels like my frame of vision widens, like the world has suddenly become a much bigger place.

My heart starts to beat faster, my cock stiffening.

No. The last thing I need to be doing right now is thinking about her.

Instead, I try to think about my father. About his insistence on discipline. Control over oneself. A real alpha would never allow himself to be bothered by something as trivial as a fated mate. Who is in control—me, or the universe?

Said that way, it’s laughable. My father would find a way to arrange the question, so I held the responsibility here. Maybe I should find Kellen and ask him to give me a lecture—that might straighten out my body.

I sit up. Drink more water. Open the window. Pace my room. Press the cool glass to my cheek. Stick my head out the window.