I am barely holding it together.
From the moment we step inside the pack house, my rage simmers just beneath my skin, hot and volatile, like magma waiting for a fracture. Cade is no better. He paces inside my head, teeth bared, hackles raised, every instinct screaming threat.
They wanted to take her from us.
The thought loops, sharp and relentless. The twins' posturing. Their assumption that blood and prophecy gave them the right to step between me and my mate. Between my wolf and his other half.
Never.
The pack house itself should be grounding. It always has been. Unlike the royal castle—polished stone, echoing halls, too much gold and not enough warmth—this place breathes life. The floors are dark wood, worn smooth by generations of wolves tracking through in bare feet. Thick beams cross the ceiling, practical rather than decorative, supporting the weight of a house built to last, not impress.
The sitting room opens wide and welcoming, oversized couches arranged around a massive stone hearth. The fire crackles low and steady, casting amber light across throw blankets and carved tables scarred with use. There's nothing fragile here. Everything is meant to be lived on, leaned into, survived.
The air smells like cedar, food, and wolf.
Still, my focus never leaves Samantha.
My hand keeps finding her—her waist, her lower back, the curve of her hip. Every few steps I need to touch her again, as if she might vanish if I don't. As if the universe might realize it made a mistake letting me have her and try to take her back.
Cade presses closer to the surface, his presence heavy and possessive.
'Ours,' he growls. 'They don't touch her again.'
Before we enter the dining room, I can't take it anymore.
I gently pull her aside, guiding her into a quieter corridor just off the main hall. My hands frame her waist, thumbs brushing slow, grounding circles into her skin. I need her to look at me. I need to know she's still here.
"Are you okay?" I ask, keeping my voice low, controlled. It costs me effort not to sound like I'm unraveling.
She exhales, shoulders dropping slightly. "I'm… overwhelmed," she admits softly. "But some of what they said—about the White Wolves, about duty—it reminded me of things my father used to say when I was little. About responsibility. About choosing your own life. Memories I chose to forget are slowly resurfacing."
Her honesty punches straight through me.
I lift one hand, brushing my knuckles along her jaw, then down her neck, memorizing her warmth. "When they stepped toward you," I say, jaw tightening, "when they spoke like they could take you—I've never felt fear like that. Not in battle. Not facing the Elders. Not even when the crown was placed on my head."
My forehead rests against hers now. My breathing is uneven.
"I'm not sure I can live without you," I admit. "And that terrifies me."
Her eyes soften, wide and luminous, like she's seeing something fragile instead of dangerous.
She doesn't answer with words.
One second she's staring at me like she's trying to memorize my face, the next she's surging forward, fingers fisting in the fabric of my shirt as she kisses me hard—like she's been holding it in for hours and it finally breaks free.
The impact steals my breath.
Her mouth is warm and demanding, all certainty and heat, and it wipes every other thought from my head in an instant. My hand comes up automatically, cupping the back of her neck, anchoring her there as if I'm afraid she'll vanish the moment I let go. I kissed her back just as fiercely, pouring every unspoken fear, every flash of rage and relief and want into the way my lips move against hers.
She tastes like adrenaline and something softer beneath it—something unmistakably hers.
The world narrows to the press of her body against mine, the way her chest rises sharply against my own, the way her breath stutters when I deepen the kiss. My thumb brushes along her jaw, slow and reverent, as if grounding myself in the simple truth that she's here. Real. Choosing me.
For a heartbeat, the kiss softens.
Not weaker—intimate.
Her grip loosens just enough for her hands to slide up my chest, feeling my heartbeat hammering beneath her palms. She tilts her head, kissing me slower now, deliberately, like she's claiming something just as much as I am. The shift nearly undoes me. It's possessive in its own quiet way, and it sends a sharp pulse of pride straight through my chest.
When we finally part, it's only by a breath.
Our foreheads rest together, both of us breathing hard, the air between us heavy and charged. my hands are still on her—one at her waist, the other curled protectively at her nape—because I can't seem to make myself let go. Gazing up to me, she grabs the back on my neck and brings me lower. Placing her lips to my ears.
"Stay with me tonight," she whispers, sending sparks directly to my cock.
The world narrows to the space between us. Her scent. Her heat. The way my chest feels too tight to contain what I feel for her.
I nod, unable to speak, captivated by her.
She takes my hand before anyone notices and leads me into the dining room like she owns me.
Goddess help me—I love it.
The table is already full when we sit. Long, heavy oak, surrounded by wolves who have followed me into war, into reform, into uncertainty. Samantha settles beside me, her hand sliding possessively onto my thigh.
I don't think she realizes what she's doing.
I do.
My entire body locks down, heat coiling low and dangerous. Cade chuckles darkly.
'She knows,' he says. 'Even if she doesn't know, she knows.'
Dawson's voice cuts through my distraction.
Setting his fork down with deliberate care, the quiet clink against the plate cutting through the low murmur of the room.
"So," he says evenly, eyes lifting to meet Kieran's, "what's really going on with the Elders?"
The table stills.
Kieran doesn't answer right away. His jaw tightens, gaze flicking briefly to Samantha before returning to Dawson. "That's a loaded question."
Dawson's mouth quirks, but there's no humor in it. "Funny thing is, we're running out of time for polite ones."
David leans back in his chair, arms crossing. "They've been moving," he adds. "Quietly. Reassigning territory oversight. Calling closed-door councils without the Crown present."
Dawson nods once. "And they've been reaching out to packs they think will back them when things go sideways."
The air around the table grows heavier.
"You're saying they're positioning themselves," Kieran says slowly.
"I'm saying," Dawson replies, voice sharpening, "that it looks like groundwork. For removal or worse."
Kieran's fingers flex against the edge of the table. "You should have come to me sooner with your suspicions."
"We wanted to be sure," Dawson says. "Now we are."
Silence stretches between them—measured, dangerous.
I don't want to say this in front of her.
Cade is relentless. 'She's already in it. You don't protect her by lying.'
Both Dawson and David's gaze flick briefly, pointed to Samantha.
Dawson finally speaks again, quieter this time, but no less firm. "If the Elders are planning to move against you, Alpha King, we need to know where you stand."
I cast a quick, knowing look toward Sam. They aren't asking because they care about my throne—they want to know how best to protect her. They've already made their loyalties clear. Fools.
Mine lies with her.
Always her—before the crown, before the kingdom, before everything.
"If you'd just gotten that through your thick skull the first time, dipshit," Cade snaps.
So I tell them.
I tell them everything.
The forced marriage. The threat of removal. A civil war they're already planning while pretending to prevent it. I see the endgame clearly, install a willing she-wolf, breed an heir they can mold, use my crown, use my bloodline, then end me once their plan is secured.
My jaw tightens, anger coiling tight and dangerous in my chest.
"The she-wolf," I say flatly, "is Seraphina of Clearwater."
The air thickens in the room.
Samantha's hand tightens painfully on my thigh, nails digging into my flesh.
A low, crackling snarl rolls from her chest—pure instinct, raw power bleeding through before she can rein it in. Her aura lashes outward, sharp and ancient, and the air itself seems to recoil. Half the table stiffens, then bows as one, heads dropping in immediate submission, sweat breaking across their skin as they struggle to breathe through the pressure.
A few of our pack mates groan, pain cutting through their defenses. The marks on the twins' chests flare faintly, silver-white, and I know without doubt it burns them. The staff is gone in seconds—trained, terrified, efficient.
Samantha is still beside me, trembling.
Cade bristles, furious at her distress, shoving against my mind. 'Comfort her. Now.'
I lean in, grounding her with my presence.
"Calm yourself, little wolf," I whisper softly. "You're doing just fine." A beat, making sure my lips brush her ear. "Later tonight… remind me exactly who you are."
She flushes, power receding as quickly as it came.
The silence is suffocating. Wolves shift, breathe shallow, afraid to draw attention. I've ruled over councils, crushed rebellions, broken challengers-yet I've never commanded a room with such ease. Not without rage. Not without blood.
And she did it without trying.
'She didn't even reach for her power,' Cade says. 'That was just her aura leaking.'
Fuck.
A nervous cough breaks the spell.
David speaks next, his voice stripped of humor, heavy with truth. He details packs being overrun, she-wolves taken and passed around like spoils, forced matings whispered about like strategy instead of crime.
My blood boils.
This is exactly what my reforms were meant to stop.
Larger packs, emboldened by their alliances with the Elders, hiding beneath that protection like cowards. They believe strength grants them permission. That power excuses cruelty. That lower-ranked wolves exist to be used. This is the kind of future the Elders want.
It makes me sick.
The twins fix their gazes on me, demanding to know what I intend to do.
I'm already forming a retort when–
Samantha says, "It's a good thing," she continues eating before she speaks again, unhurried. "The King doesn't need permission," she says quietly. "The Accords grant him full authority to remove any Alpha—and silence any challenge that follows. The Elders are hiding behind the Accords without bothering to read them properly."
Silence.
Then pride—hot, fierce, overwhelming—floods my chest.
Cade puffs his chest out as if she can see him.
Mayla smiles. Cam grins. "Well fuck," she says. "Why don't we remind them?"
I look at Samantha—my mate, my Queen—and something settles deep in my chest.
She isn't just finding her voice.She's becoming aware of it.
And anyone standing in her way is about to learn what that means.