Epilogue #2
The doors opened on the city below. Outside, the wind howled, and the old world waited for us to come back. I took a breath and braced for whatever came next.
I could still feel the weight of all those eyes, the endless scrutiny, the suspicion. But for once, it didn’t feel like a death sentence.
It felt like hope.
The next morning before “church,” Pearl insisted on feeding us all breakfast. The scent of fried bacon hit you at the threshold, a wall of comfort and cholesterol, followed by the even heavier thump of biscuits drowning in sausage gravy.
I found my usual seat at the corner of the big table, back to the wall, direct sight line to the kitchen and both exits.
Habit. Gunner was already there, two plates in, mop of auburn hair wild from his morning run.
He looked up and grinned, brown eyes bright.
“You’re late, city boy,” he said, and slid a pile of bacon onto my plate.
“Don’t start,” I shot back, but took the bacon anyway. He was right. I preferred this—real food, real faces, real problems—to the politics and artifice of Chicago. The memory of the Council chamber still sat like a stone in my gut.
Pearl herself ran the kitchen, apron smeared with flour, voice carrying over the crowd.
“Sit down, eat, then you can solve all the world’s problems,” she shouted, and every shifter in the building obeyed without question.
Even Bronc got in line for the buffet. He wore a black T-shirt stretched tight over his chest, arms folded, eyes always scanning.
Aspen and Papa walked in just as Pearl started pouring the coffee.
Aspen was a changed creature. No trace of the scared, hungry ghost she’d been at the edge of the clearing just days ago.
She laughed easily, bumping hips with Papa and making a beeline for the cinnamon rolls.
Even Oscar, her furry sidekick, had a fresh swagger.
She spotted me and gave a little salute with her fork.
We piled our plates and then settled in for the morning ritual. Bronc called us to order by clearing his throat and rapping his knuckles on the tabletop, sending half the drinks sloshing.
“Alright, shut up and listen,” he said, tone half-serious, half-fatherly. “We’re here because we have unfinished business. The Council cleared us, but the job isn’t done. Wrecker, you got an update?”
Wrecker set down his fork, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and leaned forward.
“Morgantown Pack is dirty. I’ve been digging in their books—there’s weird wire transfers, shell corporations, and a whole lot of cash that ain’t going through legitimate channels.
They’re not just running a chop shop. They’re moving product. Maybe people.”
A growl ran down the table—real, low, animal. Even Gunner’s voice dropped half an octave. “Trafficking?”
“That’s the best guess,” Wrecker said. “And every time we get close, something blows up. Last week, their Beta got shot in a parking lot in Fort Worth. No one’s talking.”
Bronc nodded, chewing it over. “So what’s the play?”
“We need eyes on Steiner,” Wrecker said. “He’s the only one with a clean record. Never seen him in the same room with any of the heavy hitters. He’s more like a mafia kingpin than an Alpha.”
Bronc’s gaze moved to me. “Arsenal, you and Gunner are on recon. Nothing fancy. Watch, learn, report. We don’t want a fight. Yet.”
I gave a nod, and Gunner thumped the table, eager. “About damn time.”
Pearl swooped by, dropping off another platter of eggs, and leaned down to whisper, “Y’all be careful out there. Steiner’s got friends in high places, and a lot of money buys a lot of bullets.” She winked at Gunner, then kissed the top of Bronc’s head before heading back to the kitchen.
Across the table, I watched Aspen lean close to Papa, her hand on his forearm. She whispered something, and he covered her hand with his, squeezing gently. For a second, I felt a pang—a memory of something lost. But it was gone as quick as it came.
Bronc tapped the table again. “Alright. Gunner, Arsenal, roll out tonight. Wrecker will feed you everything he’s got by sunset. The rest of you—run the routes, keep the businesses up, and keep your ears open. We’re not letting anyone in this pack get blindsided again.”
He paused, blue eyes sweeping the table. “And if you see anything strange—witches, vamps, or anything that doesn’t smell right—you call it in. No more solo heroics.”
Everyone nodded. The meeting adjourned itself, and the noise picked right back up, louder than before.
I finished my coffee, then stood to go. Gunner followed. Outside, the Texas sun was already burning off the night, the world turning gold and bright.
He clapped me on the back. “Bet you wish you’d stayed in Chicago, huh?”
I snorted. “You kidding? This is home. At least here I know who wants to kill me.”
He laughed. “Fair. Race you to the truck?”
I grinned. “You’re on.”
We ran, both of us a little lighter for it, the weight of the past few weeks fading with every step. There was work to do, wolves to hunt, secrets to uncover. But for the first time in a long while, I looked forward to it.
Let the world try to keep up.
Recon was my element. Nothing calmed my nerves like long hours of surveillance, the taste of burnt coffee and the slow piecing together of a target’s life from patterns and probabilities.
Gunner wasn’t built for patience, but he played the part—he could sit for hours, as long as you gave him a snack every forty minutes and let him snark about the parade of idiots we watched from the battered pickup parked outside the Morgantown Pack’s “compound.”
The place was a joke. Three metal buildings: a machine shop, an auto body garage, and a dive bar that looked like it survived on meth and karaoke.
Supposedly thirty wolves belonged to the pack, but most of the traffic was in-and-out muscle types—never the same faces twice, no females, no pups, and not a single sign of a real home. It was a front, and not a good one.
Steiner, their Alpha, wasn’t even here. Wrecker finally found his true headquarters outside Fort Worth. We hit the road and headed east with a list of several businesses he apparently owned. A fancy restaurant, a dive bar, and a high-toned strip club were included in the mix.
“Interesting that there’s no sign of an MC patch in sight.” Gunner said, voice low. “I think that’s just bullshit back in Morgantown just for show.”
“He’s compensating,” I said, keeping the camera on Steiner. “Everything about this operation is surface. No real discipline. No family.”
“Maybe he ate them,” Gunner said, deadpan. “Wouldn’t be the first psycho Alpha who culled his own pack.”
I nodded, not disagreeing. The itch in my scalp told me there was a bigger game in play—maybe trafficking, maybe worse.
Just past 2200, a black Escalade rolled up. Steiner got in, followed by his muscle, and they headed west. I nudged Gunner awake. “Showtime.”
We tailed them for 25 miles, right to the outskirts of downtown. They parked at a fancy-looking strip club disguised as some kind of oasis. He went through a side entrance marked PRIVATE. There were valets in bow ties and fancy cars in the parking lot.
“What the fuck is this place?” Gunner muttered. “Think we’re overdressed?”
“Stay sharp,” I told him, palming my knife. “If Steiner’s meeting, he’s meeting someone with teeth.”
The club inside was a fever dream—mirrored walls, leather booths with blackout curtains, bartenders in designer dresses pouring top shelf for a crowd of men who looked like they were handling million-dollar business deals.
Others could have been members of the Russian mob.
The bouncers were the biggest tells: they wore tailored jackets, but the bulges under their arms said they preferred Glocks to persuasion.
We took a table at the back, ordered two beers, and watched. Steiner moved like a man who owned the world, never looking twice at the talent, heading straight for a private booth by the stage. He sat, back to the wall, his muscle flanking him, eyes everywhere.
Then the first dancer came out, and I nearly dropped my glass.
She was five feet, six inches of perfection. Legs like blades, blonde hair in a waterfall down her back. Her skin glowed under the lights, but it was the eyes that got me. Blue, sharp, and all business, like she saw everything and cared about none of it.
Gunner whistled, low. “Holy hell. That’s not your average party favor.”
My heart hammered so hard I thought I’d bust a seam.
She stalked the stage, fluid and perfect, never once glancing at the crowd.
On the second turn, her eyes locked with mine.
For a half-beat, the whole club faded out.
Her expression shifted—recognition, then shock, then something like shame.
She looked away so fast it felt like I’d been shot.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. The rest of the set was a blur. When she finished, Steiner’s man flicked a folded bill onto the stage, and she scooped it up, vanished behind the curtain.
Gunner looked at me, worried for the first time all night. “You okay, man? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Let’s go,” I said, voice rough. “Now.”
We hit the parking lot, air like a slap to the face, and I doubled over by the truck, trying to keep my lunch down.
Gunner hovered. “Who was she?”
I pressed my fist to my chest, forcing the words out. “Harper fucking Larsen. She was… She used to be… nobody.”
Gunner let the silence stretch. “You want to go back in?”
I shook my head. “No. I need to think.”
We climbed in and headed for the highway, headlights slicing through the black. Every mile, the memory of her face—those eyes—burned hotter, brighter, until I wanted to claw my own skin off just to get free of it.
For years, I’d buried Harper. Buried everything about her. I’d thought it was dead and gone. But it was back now, and I didn’t know what to do with it.
Gunner drove, silent, hands steady at the wheel. He didn’t push, didn’t joke. He just let me work through it, like a true brother.
When the lights of Dairyville finally glowed on the horizon, I found my voice again. “Thanks, Finn.”
He nodded, eyes never leaving the road. “Anytime, Jess.”
Everyone thought I was a hardass, that I never gave the women they brought to the pack a break, even though fate had brought them together.
That’s because fate had given me a mate too.
But fate can’t keep your mate from rejecting you.
Looks like things didn’t work out so well for mine after she left me.
You’d think that would bring me some kind of satisfaction.
But deep down, I knew better. It only made me want her all over again.