Hunter #2
The last three soft words reverberate around the room with the force of an atomic bomb.
We don't use that word. The four of us—the pact we made, the walls we built—none of it included that word.
Hearing it from Grayson's mouth, hearing the raw conviction behind it, cracks the foundation of a building I helped construct in real time.
"Systems matter more than feelings, Gray." I say it the way I've said it a hundred times. The phrase that's been my compass since I was nineteen and watching our father dissolve. "The second we start making policy based on emotions instead of logic—"
"Your sister-in-law is vomiting every morning and crying every night because her best friend and her bonded family are at war. Is that logical enough for you?"
Guilt is not an emotion I hold. It's inefficient—backward-looking, unproductive, a drag on forward momentum.
But the image of Lila—brilliant, sharp-tongued Lila who managed my impossible brother for two years—hunched over a toilet because I couldn't be bothered to sit through a meeting, breaches every defense I have.
"The lodge is isolated. No cell service, press, or spectators.
You said she wanted a stage to grandstand.
The lodge takes that off the table. You'll be able to negotiate in person without all of this," he gestures around the office, "getting in the way.
" Grayson's voice has shifted from command to strategy.
"You sit down with her, find some kind of framework for resolution, and settle this quietly. That's all I'm asking."
"You're not asking. You're ordering."
"I'm both." No apology. No softening. "And you'll do it because the woman carrying your niece or nephew deserves to eat breakfast and keep it down without worrying that her brother-in-law has a vendetta against omega rights attorneys."
The word niece or nephew unexpectedly roils me.
Tectonic plates deep in my chest shifts.
Just a fraction. Just enough to crack. Family.
It has always been about family. Even the pact we made to never mate an omega, was supposed to preserve our family.
Save us from ever being taken down by a mating gone wrong.
Now that Grayson's broken the pact, we will still circle around him to keep him and his mate from harm.
"Fine. One weekend," I say as if he gave me a choice. "Off the record. And if she tries to use anything from that meeting in her filing—"
"Handle it. You're the lawyer."
He's at the door before I can argue further. His hand is on the handle when he pauses. "One more thing. Don't underestimate her. Lila says Jaleesa's the smartest person she knows, and Lila doesn't say things like that about anyone." His blue eyes hold mine. "Including you."
"I'm always the smartest person in the room," I tell him with a pointed look. He gives a quick bark of a laugh, and pats me on the back.
"You just keep thinking that—while she keeps outsmarting you. After all she wanted a meeting and looks like she's going to get it."
I glare at him again as he continues chuckling as he leaves.
He's right and we both know it. Damn her.
I stare at the stack of documents on my desk—the policies I drafted, the frameworks I built, the legal architecture I designed to keep biology from infiltrating the boardroom—and for the first time in my career, I wonder why I'm fighting so hard to control the uncontrollable.
Grayson broke our pact for his omega. And despite their whirlwind they're more in love than any couple I've ever met.
I bury the thought before it takes root.
Sentiment is a luxury. The law doesn't care about feelings, and neither should I.
I pick up the phone. Three calls: one to the lodge's property manager, one to my assistant to clear the weekend, and one to Jaleesa Henderson's office to inform her that a mandatory mediation session has been scheduled at a location of my choosing.
Her receptionist puts me on hold for four minutes—deliberate, I'm sure—before Henderson picks up.
"Mr. Vaughn." Her voice is exactly as I remember from the dinner—low, precise, carrying the authority that most lawyers have to fake. "I assumed you'd forgotten how phones work, given your trouble with calendar appointments."
"Ms. Henderson. I'm calling to schedule a mediation session. This weekend. At the Vaughn Lodge upstate."
A pause. Calculating. I can almost hear her running scenarios. "A private venue selected by opposing counsel. How impartial."
"The alternative is a courtroom. You filed this morning. I can have your suit tied up in procedural motions for eighteen months before we see the inside of a hearing room. Or we can sit down like professionals and attempt a resolution."
"Oh, are we being professionals, now?" I grind my canines to molars, biting back a pointless rejoinder. I let her have her small battle, while I win the war. After I don't take the bait, she responds. "I'll have to check my calendar."
I roll my eyes. "Fine, you do that. Meanwhile, I'll send the details. Friday afternoon through Sunday."
"A whole weekend. Isolated. With you." The way she says it makes it sound like a prison sentence. "I'll need assurances that this is legitimate mediation and not an attempt to—"
"It's legitimate. Off the record, without prejudice, nothing admissible. You have my word."
"Your word." A beat. "The word of the man who confirmed a meeting and never showed."
The barb is precise. Surgical. I respect the craftsmanship. "I'll be there, Ms. Henderson. You have my word on that as well."
"Fine. Send the details. And Mr. Vaughn?" Her voice almost warms. Almost. "Bring your A game. You're going to need it."
The line goes dead. I set the phone down and stare at the far wall of my office, where my degrees are framed in neat rows—Harvard Law, Order of the Coif, every honor and accolade that proves I earned my position through intellect and discipline, not biology and luck.
Friday. Two days. A full weekend in an isolated lodge with a woman who wants to dismantle everything I've built, defending policies I wrote to protect a company I bled for, while my brother's pregnant omega suffers at home because I was too proud to take a meeting.
I should be strategizing. Should be pulling case law, preparing arguments, and building an airtight legal framework that has won me every negotiation I've ever entered.
Instead, I'm thinking about her voice. The cadence of it.
The way she pauses before she strikes, letting the silence do half the work.
The confidence that isn't performed but structural—built into her the way the law is built into me.
I shut it down. File it away. Opposing counsel. Nothing more.