Chapter 25 #2
I keep walking, cataloging what I see. Not the smooth operation Harper’s coordinating—the fractures underneath it. The wolves who turn away when she approaches. The reports that take too long to filter up the chain. The patrols that “forget” to check in on schedule.
Phil’s been here, all right. Working his way through our structure like rot through wood.
Reyna stands near the armory with Derek. They’re not talking, just watching. Their postures mirror each other, angled away from the main house where Marcus normally holds court. Interesting.
Ben appears at my right shoulder, silent as always.
“Harper’s fitting in,” I observe.
“Shadow Peak wolves adapt fast,” he replies, neutral. No opinion offered. No insight shared.
That’s new. Ben’s always been economical with words, but never withholding. But, he does have history with Harper. I hope her being here doesn’t cause a problem. I don’t need relationship shit fucking things up even more than they are now.
“The sentries reported movement along the eastern ridge. Nothing confirmed.” Ben hands me a small notepad. His handwriting is crisp, detailing times and positions. “Wyatt took a team to investigate.”
“Without authorization?” My voice stays even.
Ben shrugs. “He said you were occupied.” A razor-thin pause. “With Nova.”
I don’t react. “And you?”
“I’m here.” Simple. Direct. But not the answer to what I’m really asking.
Our conversation cuts short as shouting erupts near the storage shed. Two wolves—Jason and Eli—face off, shoulders bunched, eyes flashing amber. Jason shoves first, sending Eli stumbling backward into a stack of firewood.
I’m moving before the first log hits the ground. Ben stays a step behind me, ready but not interfering.
By the time I reach them, they’re locked in a grapple, snarling and snapping. Small crowd forming, nobody stepping in.
“Enough,” I say.
Neither breaks apart. Eli lands a solid right hook to Jason’s jaw.
I grab both by their collars, yanking them backward. “I said enough.”
They separate, breathing hard, still glaring at each other.
“He’s been skipping perimeter duty,” Jason accuses, wiping blood from his lip. “Second time this week.”
Eli’s eyes darken. “Because you keep changing the rotation without telling anyone.”
“Take it up with your lieutenant,” I tell them.
They back away, not apologizing, not acknowledging me as Alpha. Just ... moving on. The small crowd disperses, conversations resuming like I’m not standing there.
Ben watches, face expressionless. “They’re scared,” he says quietly.
“Of what?”
“Not what. Who.”
I scan the compound as the afternoon light fades.
Marcus stands on the porch of the main house, talking with three wolves who used to report directly to me—Derek, Torres, and Elena.
His gestures are calm, measured. Leadership posture.
He’s not undermining me openly. He’s doing something more dangerous: offering what looks like better answers.
I catch fragments of conversation as I move closer, staying in the shadows.
”—organized search grid, not random patrols—“ Marcus’s voice carries authority without aggression. “We map the territory properly, mark where Jensen’s team disappeared, work outward from there.”
Derek nods, leaning forward. “Makes sense. We’ve been reactive instead of strategic.”
“Jensen’s team deserves better than hope,” Marcus continues. “They deserve a plan.”
Torres shifts his weight, glancing in my direction before looking back to Marcus. “Alpha said we’re adjusting patrol rotations.”
“Adjusting isn’t finding.” Marcus’s tone stays reasonable, factual. “Our packmates have been gone three weeks. Three weeks of adjustments haven’t brought them home.”
Elena’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t disagree. None of them do.
I watch Marcus guide the conversation—not with emotion or rebellion, but with practical solutions that make my leadership look reactive instead of proactive. He’s building something. Not a challenge. An alternative.
And the wolves are listening.
Evening meal. The pack gathers in the main lodge, the routine we’ve built over months. Communal dining—one of the few traditions I insisted on from the beginning. Everyone eats together. No hierarchy at mealtimes. Equal access to food, equal seating.
Except tonight, equality fractures in real time.
Marcus sits at the far table with Derek on his left, Torres on his right. Elena settles across from them without hesitation. Mateo hovers nearby, uncertain, then slides onto the bench beside Derek. A younger wolf whose name I can’t recall joins them a moment later.
Six wolves. Marcus’s table.
They’re not loud. Not hostile. They eat, pass dishes, talk in low voices. Normal pack behavior.
Except for the three feet of empty space surrounding them like a moat.
The rest of the pack clusters at the other tables—closer to me, closer to Ben and Callum. Harper moves between groups, trying to bridge the gap with her natural warmth. She approaches Marcus’s table with a platter of bread.
“Anyone need more?” Her voice carries forced brightness.
“We’re fine.” Marcus’s tone stays polite. Distant. “Thanks, Harper.”
She lingers a moment, clearly wanting to say more. Derek gives her a nod—respectful but dismissive. She retreats to the main tables.
Ben sits beside me, tracking the same dynamics I am. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t need to. His gaze flicks between the two groups, calculating distances, noting who sits where.
Wyatt pauses in the doorway, tray in hand. His eyes move from my table to Marcus’s group. For five seconds, he stands frozen—physically caught between factions. Finally, he joins us, but his gaze keeps drifting toward the other table. Toward Marcus.
Reyna enters last, Derek’s usual patrol partner. She scans the room, spots him at Marcus’s table, then deliberately chooses a seat with us. But her posture stays rigid, her jaw tight. Torn.
“This is how it happens.” Nova’s voice comes from behind me, quiet enough that only I hear. She’s leaning against the wall, observing like she’s cataloging data for a report. “Not explosion. Erosion.”
I watch my pack eat dinner in two separate groups.
Not one pack anymore. Two.
The food tastes like ash.
After the meal—which I couldn’t bring myself to eat—I climb the watchtower, needing altitude and perspective. From here, I can see the entire compound laid out below me. The pack moves in strange patterns now—new alliances forming in how they walk, who they avoid, where they gather.
No one looks up at the tower. No one seeks my guidance or approval.
A pack doesn’t fall in battle. It bleeds out in silence—while its Alpha watches.