Just like Melanie said, we were all seated on the plane within twenty minutes, moving on instinct and urgency rather than thought. The twins and Enoch carefully carried Kieran toward the back lounge room of the jet, converting the cramped space into the only place stable enough to keep him secure during the flight. He was unconscious when they brought him in, skin pale, breathing shallow but steady. The doctor had warned us quietly that he would most likely sleep for the next few days—his body healing, his wolf fighting battles we couldn't see.
Samantha stayed with him. She wouldn't leave his side for even a second, not when we boarded, not when the engines roared to life, not when the plane lifted into the sky. She remained curled beside him, fingers locked around his hand as if letting go might undo the miracle she had just pulled from the jaws of death. It was understandable. Any mate would do the same—but there was something more there, something raw and unyielding, as if she were daring the world to try and take him again.
We flew in silence.
No one spoke. No one needed to. The weight of what had almost happened pressed down on the cabin, thick and suffocating. Enoch, who had managed to wash up back at the hospital, no longer smelled of blood or smoke, but the exhaustion clung to him just the same. He sat rigid, jaw tight, hands clasped together like he was holding himself together through sheer force of will.
Melanie sat wrapped in both twins' arms, her head bowed, their bodies forming a protective barrier around her. I still don't know how she manages the two of them—how she balances their energies, their devotion—but right now, they were anchoring her, keeping her upright in the aftermath of chaos.
As soon as we landed, Callen mind-linked several trusted staff members ahead of us, issuing precise orders to prepare the King's quarters with everything necessary to care for Kieran. Nothing was left to chance. Every detail mattered. He also mind-linked the pack healer, arranging for regular checkups throughout the day and night. We could have asked Dirge to oversee his care—normally, that would have been the obvious choice—but he seemed to be handling everything that had happened far harder than any of us expected.
Cameran had asked us to give him time.
So we did.
For now.
Because some wounds, even for healers, run deeper than magic can reach
Arriving at the pack house, Kieran was taken directly to his quarters, Samantha at his side the entire way. She never once looked back. Never loosened her grip on his hand. It was as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist the moment he crossed the threshold of that room.
The rest of us gathered in the living room, the space heavy with unspoken fear and calculated calm. Every movement felt deliberate now. Every breath measured. We all knew the Elders would come—there was never any doubt about that. They always came when blood was spilled. When power wavered. When they thought they could take something.
We agreed quickly: business as usual.
No panic. No mourning. No visible cracks.
"We will stay with the Queen at all times. We will protect her," Dawson said firmly, breaking the silence.
My instinct flared immediately. Too obvious. Too loud.
"I don't think hovering around her constantly is a good idea," Callen countered, voice calm but sharp. "If people notice, they'll start asking questions. We don't want suspicion. You two will need to be careful."
He was right. The Elders thrived on suspicion.
"And we all know Samantha can take care of herself," I added quietly.
That earned a few grim nods. If anything, that was the understatement of the century. My wolf shifted uneasily beneath my skin, reverent and alert. She had not stopped pacing since the hospital.
Callen straightened suddenly. "Border patrol just mind-linked. We have visitors arriving in five minutes."
So soon.
"All ready?" Cameran muttered. "They really don't waste time."
"They never do," I replied.
"It's most likely the Elders," Callen said. "We'll act as if SilverFlame arrived for a scheduled meeting with the King. We'll receive them accordingly."
The twins nodded in unison.
A staff member entered moments later, clearly tense. "Sorry to interrupt," she said, bowing her head respectfully. "You have visitors. Elders Silvester and Elder Tram are here to see the King."
Of course they are.
"Send them in here, please. Thank you, Belle," Callen said smoothly.
We rose as one, forming a loose but deliberate line as the Elders made their way inside. Both wore polite smiles—too polite. The kind that always preceded bloodshed disguised as law.
"To what do we owe the displeasure, Elders?" Callen asked evenly.
"No need to be crude, Royal Beta," Silvester replied lightly. "We are only here to see the King."
"He is busy," Callen said without missing a beat. "As you can see, we were in the middle of receiving our guests from SilverFlame."
"Ah yes," Silvester said, glancing at the twins. "So I see. I heard your pack experienced… activity recently. How are things? I heard the King himself was involved. How is he?"
My wolf snarled low in my chest. Bait.
"We are fine," David answered calmly. "Kieran assisted and was victorious."
"Kieran?" Tram echoed, amused. "How informal of you when referring to your King."
The twins didn't move. Didn't blink. Power answered power in silence.
"What is it you want?" I asked coolly. "We are quite busy."
Silvester's smile thinned. "Let's dispense with the pleasantries. The King was gravely injured. We are here to confirm his death. With that, we are starting recognition of any new leadership."
Bold.
Dangerously bold.
"Who is dead?"
The voice cut through the room like frost over flame.
Every head snapped toward the doorway.
Samantha stood there, calm and terrifying, her presence shifting the air itself. The Elders turned, visibly surprised—and then smiled.
"Oh," Silvester said. "You must be the girl."
The girl.
My wolf bristled. Goddess help them.
"Your mate is dead—or close to it," Tram said casually. "We are here to confirm. I'm terribly sorry, but this does not concern…" his gaze dragged over her dismissively, "…you."
"Excuse me?" Samantha asked, stepping forward.
"Kieran is just fine," she said calmly. Too calmly. "That is your confirmation. Now leave. You are not welcome here."
Tram laughed and stepped closer. "We understand you're grieving. But this is not your concern. Nor do you have any authority."
Samantha didn't react. She studied him. Measured him.
"Fated or not," Silvester continued smugly, "you cannot be his mate. You are not Alpha-born. You are weak. Frankly, the Goddess made a mistake. Even if Kieran marks you, the power he grants would never be enough. You need it in your own blood."
The room went deathly silent.
My wolf bowed.
Sam did nothing. Said nothing. Just listened.
"Move aside and let us confirm his death," Silvester finished. "Child."
"I said you are not welcome here," Samantha replied softly.
The shift was instantaneous.
A fraction of her aura slipped free.
That was all it took.
Silvester and Tram dropped to their knees as if gravity itself had turned against them, gasping, faces drained of color. The rest of us clenched our jaws, gripping furniture, walls—anything—to stay upright. Her power wasn't directed at us, but the magnitude of it rolled through the room like a tidal wave.
My wolf pressed fully to the ground inside me, reverent and trembling.
And in that moment, with absolute clarity, I understood:
The Elders had not come to confirm a death.
They had come to kneel before a living monarch.
And they had no idea.
"What was that you just said?" Samantha asks softly.
Her voice is calm. Too calm.
She watches them with measured stillness, head tilted slightly, silver fire licking behind her eyes as if she's dissecting them piece by piece—deciding how much mercy they deserve.
Both Elders are still on all fours.
Elder Silvester grits his teeth and tries to push himself upright. His arms shake violently, muscles screaming in protest as he fails again. Humiliation burns hotter than pain on his face.
"Has he marked you?!" he snarls desperately, spittle flecking his lips.
Samantha doesn't answer.
She lets just a fraction more of her aura loose.
Silvester's head slams into the floor with a sickening crack.
Bone breaks.
Blood splatters across polished stone as his nose collapses beneath the force. He screams, clutching his face, the sound raw and animal.
Elder Tram doesn't even attempt to move.
My wolf shudders inside me.
Samantha steps closer.
"Do I look marked to you?" she asks quietly. "Do I scent like a claimed female?"
Silvester can only sob now, hands slick with blood as he wheezes through ruined cartilage.
Tram lifts his head just an inch.
Just enough and gasps.
he sees her eyes.
True silver flames burn within them—ancient, luminous, unmistakable.
"W–white wolf," he gasps.
Samantha raises one brow.
"Mmh," she hums, as if mildly surprised it took him this long.
As if the truth should have been obvious from the beginning.
Her gaze sharpens.
"Like I said," she continues evenly, "Kieran is fine. You are not welcome here. And I strongly suggest you leave my home immediately."
She reins in her aura slightly.
The pressure eases just enough for the rest of us to draw steadier breaths, though my knees still feel weak. The Elders scramble awkwardly to their feet—Silvester clutching his broken nose, Tram shaking so badly he can barely stand.
They stagger toward the door like frightened prey.
"Oh," Samantha adds.
They freeze.
Even wounded, even terrified, they obey.
She turns her head just enough for them to see her profile—every inch a Queen.
"Just so we are clear," she says calmly, voice ringing with finality. "The Elders' Council is dismantled effective immediately. The Accords are abolished."
Whatever color remained in their faces vanishes completely.
Their eyes widen in pure, naked terror.
Without another word, they stumble out the door, fleeing like cowards chased by truth.
The door shuts.
Silence crashes down around us.
Samantha exhales—and with it, draws her aura fully back in.
Her shoulders sag the slightest bit.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly, turning to us. "I didn't mean to— I'm still lear—"
I step forward instantly, cutting her off.
"You have nothing to apologize for," I say firmly. "Not ever. Not for defending your mate. And not for defending your throne."
She looks at me, something vulnerable flickering across her face, then sighs softly.
"I only came down," she admits, voice gentler now, more human, "to ask if we could go into town. I want to get Kieran some supplies. Herbal ingredients—for tea."
My chest tightens.
Of course she does.
Even after everything… she's thinking about caring for him.
I take her hand without hesitation, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Then I glance back at the others before meeting her eyes again.
"Of course," I say. "We'll go with you."
I pull her into a hug, squeezing her tight—hoping she feels what I can't quite put into words.
That she's not alone.
That we never will doubt her again.