Chapter 29
Menace
They’d thought to whisk us away from the arena like a pair of war criminals awaiting execution.
After what I’d just been through, though, I was not in whisking shape.
The guards in Council blue flanked us, rifles slung but unnecessary.
My people followed us here, so no one in this castle was going to start a riot, not with the mutt who’d just killed their king, bleeding a river down the front of his own chest. Every corridor stank of ozone and disinfectant the deeper we went.
The stone walls and ancient radiators stuttered to keep up with the late fall chill.
Savannah never let go of my arm. Even as we were funneled through the marble halls of the Midwest King’s estate—once Dominic’s, now mine by right of blood—she clung with the tenacity of a bulldog with a bone.
I wanted to hold her close, to carry her on my back, but the wound in my side made every breath a warning shot, so we walked together, two ghosts leaving a trail for the living to follow.
At the medical ward, Savannah put her foot down.
She braced herself in the threshold, green eyes flicking to the nurse on duty—a severe type with black lipstick and a stethoscope like a noose.
She moved too slowly as far as Savannah was concerned.
With too much ambivalence. “This. Is. Your. New. King. That makes me your queen. He’ll be tended to.
Now get him a bed and get the healer.” The nurse suddenly understood the meaning of respect.
Her eyes finally took one look at the mess of me and set to work, barking orders for bandages and saline and to fetch their healer.
They stripped my robe and laid me on a clean table.
The healer’s hands on me were professional as she went about healing various injuries from the fight with Dominic.
But I felt a slight tremor in her fingers as she finally unwrapped the wound left by Declan.
She peeled the crusted bandage from my skin.
There should have been a hole, a tunnel bored straight through my ribs.
I closed my eyes as I remembered Declan’s blade singing with each inhale.
But when she cleaned away the gore and blood, all she found was smooth skin as pink as a newborn’s.
No gash. No scar. Nothing but the faintest ring where the angel’s hand had snuffed out death.
The healer paled, the color draining from her face.
Something that I’d seen only a few times before—usually after a bombing, when the living realized they were the only ones left breathing.
“Impossible,” she muttered. “You were stabbed. I saw—everyone saw—” Her voice dropped to a whisper, equal parts awe and fear.
“The angel’s touch. As a healer, I have the ability to knit wounds together, but there is always evidence that the wound was there.
This—this looks as though you were never touched by the knife. It’s extraordinary.”
Savannah had watched it all, arms folded tight around her ribs. I caught her gaze, saw the aftershock of it there. She’d loved me, lost me, and gotten me back in less than five minutes. No wolf should have to survive that much loss especially not in one lifetime.
I reached out and brushed her cheek with the back of my hand. “I’m fine,” I said, and for the first time in years, it was true. The healer cleaned the area, more for her own comfort than mine, then shuffled away, muttering prayers to herself.
We were alone in the exam room for a heartbeat.
Savannah blinked hard, then set her jaw. “You died, Bridger.” The words vibrated with the sweet music of her voice , something I would never tire of hearing. “I felt it. Your soul left your body. Mine was fighting to go with it.”
I shrugged, or tried to. The movement pulled at the phantom wound, and I made a face. “Didn’t take.”
She let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You idiot,” she said, but softer than before. “You absolute idiot.”
“I had to be sure you’d remember me if I came back wrong.” I was only half-joking. I saw the shadow flicker behind her eyes, a memory of every man who’d tried to own her and failed. She was mine now, but only because she chose it. The thought was humbling.
She bent low, pressed her lips to my forehead—gentler than a nurse, rougher than a saint. “Go. Clean up. You’re due in the conference room in an hour.”
“And you?” She still had my blood caked on her clothes and body.
“I look like I battled in the arena. I’m going to get cleaned up too. Meet you in the conference room?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I told her.
She nodded, then slipped away, her scent trailing after her, a thread of honey and roses.
The staff had assigned me a guest suite.
I guess it was a bit macabre for me to take Dominic’s chamber while his body was barely cold.
I didn’t care. This room was opulent, with velvet curtains and a huge shower with several showerheads.
I stepped in, let the water run as hot as I could stand.
For a long time, I just stood there, waiting to see if the blood on my hands would ever come off.
It didn’t. Not that it could be seen. The stain was in my bones.
When the hot water scalded away the last of the surface pain, I stepped out and looked at myself in the mirror.
The face staring back at me was a horror even though the healer did a good job and things were looking and feeling better.
My left eye was swollen, but at least I could see out of it now.
Jaw was puffy like I had a rotten tooth, my scar looking more silver than usual.
The split places on my lips had closed, so at least I’d be able to eat without too much discomfort.
My chest and arms were crosshatched with new bruises, the color of twilight on a battlefield.
But there was no wound over my heart, just the perfect oval of fresh skin, paler than the rest of me.
I stared at it, wondering if the angel had left anything behind—a message, maybe, or a ticking bomb.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was now a haunted house, and something old and divine had moved in for good.
I dressed in the clothes provided by the staff: dark jeans, black button-down, boots of the most expensive leather. Everything fit better than I expected, but I felt like a child in his father’s best suit, pretending at adulthood.
Before I left the room, I pressed my palm over my heart, expecting to feel the echo of the knife. There was nothing. Only a steady, perfect pulse. I let my hand linger a moment longer, then turned and walked out, ready to face whatever came next.
The conference room was dressed for a feast, but it looked more like a wake.
Someone had laid out platters of roast meats and cheeses, silver urns of coffee, and trays of rolls that steamed in the ambient heat from the chandeliers.
Everyone feasted. This was a hard-won celebration.
I was fortunate to be alive, and everyone was damn happy I was.
At least my people were. And though the wine flowed, serious discussions had to take place, so moderation was the word of the night.
Savannah was already there, hunched at the table next to Bronc and Juliet.
Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, and she wore a stylish long dark green long sleeve emerald color dress.
Whoever dressed her recognized she was indeed their queen.
She gave me a small nod when I entered, but her eyes skipped past mine.
I recognized the look. It was the same one I wore after every op that left bodies and headlines in its wake: Don’t touch me, I’m radioactive.
She’d mount me on the goddamn conference table if she could.
I couldn’t help but grin. My mate. Fuck.
She was every good and fierce thing in my life.
I made a beeline straight for her and kissed her hard.
I didn’t give two fucks who saw. And she kissed me right back.
The Council Chairwoman stood at the head of the table, all sharp angles and silver hair, her eyes like two holes punched in heavy paper. She raised a glass—not to the victor, but as if she needed something physical to keep her upright. She cleared her throat.
“Let the record show the Eastern throne stands empty,” she announced; no preamble, no time for anyone to catch up.
“Declan Calloway, by Council order, will be put to death by public execution at sunrise for the murder of Bridger Hardin, Vice President of the Iron Valor Pack. His resurrection notwithstanding. His son, Callum Calloway, is now a fugitive, wanted for conspiracy and the murder of witch Moira Blackthorn. All parties should update their records accordingly.”
The words rippled down the table like a chemical spill.
At the far end, Rafe sat with his arms folded, impassive, the muscle at his jawline ticking every time the Chairwoman uttered a new fact.
He was playing the long game, but his scent betrayed him—he reeked of pride and fury, and I couldn't tell which weighed heavier.
Juliet reached for Savannah’s hand and led her to the table.
I followed her and Bronc. I took my seat to the right of the Council Chairwoman, Bronc to her left.
Savannah sat next to me with Juliet next to her.
Juliet leaned over Savannah to me. “Is it true?” She whispered, eyes flicking to me and back. “They’re going to execute him?”
I nodded. “He’s not getting up this time.”
Savannah flinched at that, but she didn’t cry. Instead, she stared at the centerpiece—a twisted arrangement of black calla lilies and bone-white roses—and I could see her inventorying every moment of her father’s life that led to this. There wasn’t enough space in the world for that sort of math.