Page 82

DRAYCE

The assembly dispersed by degree.

This wasn’t a unit snapping to stand-down after a clear victory — Spelltide Cove didn’t get those; its victories were quieter and more provisional. The pack peeled off in formation, with Tor coordinating the perimeter assessment and Maelin logging the breach points with the systematic thoroughness he brought to everything. The ward specialists stayed an extra hour at the anchor line. The coven converged at the standing stone nearest the path and stood there with their coffee and notebooks in the hush that follows a significant night, everyone present and largely intact.

Fiora arrived last, slightly windswept, visibly pleased with herself and about to be modest about it anyway. She looked at her phone once, then put it away very, very carefully.

“He texted,” Garnet said.

Fiora’s face did something complicated. “During the breach. To ask if I was safe.”

“That’s the month,” Garnet said.

Fiora looked at the ward line. “I know,” she said, her voice quieter than usual — the humor still there, though farther back. “I know.”

The wound on Althea’s left side was being managed. Garnet had been first — a grounding pass that slowed the bleeding, calm and focused, as if she’d been quietly practicing this for weeks and never mentioned it. Valene had pulled bandages from a bag that apparently held an entire field kit beneath the coffee thermos and the fire extinguisher. Bexley had documented the creature type from Althea’s description, which was Bexley-like in how she tended someone.

Drayce was not doing well with the wound.

“No.” Valene stepped directly into his path.

He looked at her.

“I have bandages, I have Garnet, and I have the situation handled. What I do not have is room for a six-foot-four wolf alpha standing directly over my shoulder while I work. Back up two steps.”

“The wound is on her left side⁠—”

“I know where the wound is. I was there. Two steps.”

He took one step. Valene held up two fingers. He took the second step. His wolf was extremely unhappy with both.

“Thank you,” Valene said, unimpressed but willing to acknowledge the effort.

From behind him, quietly: “Three independent witness accounts.”

He turned. Pike had materialized at some point, notebook out. Maelin was beside him, visibly filing the moment away for later — nine years under Drayce had taught him to do that. Tor stood farther back, watching the shore road, where nothing interesting was happening, because Tor knew his brother well enough to know exactly where to stand.

“You could write it down more quietly.”

“I could,” Pike agreed, writing. “I’m choosing not to.”

Maelin looked at the ward line. He was also choosing not to say anything, which was the equivalent of several full paragraphs from anyone else’s.

Althea, from the rock where Garnet was working on her side, called out: “I can hear all of you. I’m injured, not deaf.” She raised her voice a notch. “Also, the wolf’s read on the wound is accurate. I checked. It’s deep enough to matter, not deep enough to threaten. You can stand down.”

“I’m not standing anywhere.”

“You’re hovering.”

“I’m assessing.”

“Drayce.”

“Althea.”

She turned her head and looked at him — an expression that said she knew exactly what was happening and had chosen to find it more endearing than alarming. “I’m fine.”

“You said that the first week of training when you burned the sleeve.”