Chapter 45
Dane
Istay rooted at the edge of the clearing as the fire dies down. Ash drifts through the air, settling on my shoulders, in my hair. I don’t brush it away.
The pack remains still—a frozen tableau of grief and respect. No one speaks. No one needs to. The only sounds are the dying crackle of embers and the soft rustling of pine bows overhead.
I give a single nod, releasing them from the circle. They break away slowly, shoulders relaxing incrementally as the ritual’s formality eases.
Wyatt is the first to move with purpose. He pulls a flask from inside his jacket, takes a small sip, then passes it to Devon. Someone produces a cloth bag of bread, torn into chunks. Simple food for after death. An old tradition; life continues, bodies need sustenance.
The wolves who shifted during the ceremony ease back into human form, muscles rippling under skin as they rejoin the group.
They dress quickly, silently. The wolves with angel blood use the magic taught to them by the angels to weave clothes around them; then they do the same for the non-angelic ones.
The tension hasn’t disappeared, but it’s changing shape—from sharp grief to something more sustainable.
Nova stands a few paces from me. Close enough that I feel her presence, far enough to give me room to be what the pack needs right now. Her eyes track movement at the forest’s edge.
Shadow Peak’s delegation waits there—a respectful distance, but present. Witnesses to our loss. To our strength.
Caleb steps forward first, crossing the invisible line between observer and participant. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. His presence says enough: I see you. I honor your dead. I stand with you.
I meet his eyes, acknowledge him with the barest tilt of my chin.
“Marcus never hesitated,” Ryder says suddenly, voice rough with smoke and emotion. “Not for a second. He saw Faelan coming for Kyle and just ... moved. Pure instinct to protect.”
Near the treeline, Rafe stands with Ansel, their voices low in quiet conversation.
Kari’s path takes her past them as she moves to check the eastern watch post. Her steps don’t falter, but her spine stiffens.
She doesn’t look in Rafe’s direction, but I catch the tight set of her jaw, the way her hands clench briefly at her sides.
Whatever’s driving her aversion to him, it’s getting stronger.
“That was Marcus,” Elena agrees quietly. “Always put others first.”
“He bought Kyle enough time to get clear,” Ryder continues, jaw tightening. “Kid would’ve been dead otherwise. Faelan knew exactly what he was targeting our weakest. Marcus knew it too.”
The silence that follows feels right. Marcus didn’t die from carelessness. He made a choice that defined exactly who he’d been all along.
The weight on my chest shifts—not lifting entirely, but changing position. Making room for what comes next. I scan the faces around me, noting each expression, each posture. My pack. Wounded but whole. Grieving but standing.
Ready.
I watch the flames die to embers, their orange glow casting long shadows across tired faces. Our circle remains unbroken, but the rigid formality begins to soften. Bodies shift. Shoulders relax. The ritual part is over.
Finn, one of the younger wolves from Shadow Peak, steps forward hesitantly. He clears his throat, drawing attention without demanding it.
“I remember the first time I met Marcus,” he says, voice steady despite his obvious nervousness.
“It was just last year, when he first came to Shadow Peak. I was on border patrol—thought I knew what I was doing, you know? Caleb had given me some real responsibilities, so I figured I had it handled.”
A few heads turn, interest piqued.
“Found what I thought was a breach in the eastern perimeter. Had my whole plan worked out, ready to report back that we had an intruder.” Finn’s lips quirk up.
“Marcus watched me for maybe two minutes before he stepped out of the shadows. Didn’t say I was wrong—just asked me what else I was seeing. ”
He pauses, swallowing hard.
“Turned out the ‘intruder’ was an injured doe who’d been using the same path for three days, trying to get to water.
I was tracking the right signs, but missing half the story.
Marcus showed me how to read the full picture—the blood drops, the favoring of one side, the desperation in the gait.
” Finn’s voice drops. “Made me better at something I thought I was already good at. That was Marcus—he didn’t tear you down.
He just ... built you up from where you already were. ”
A few quiet nods ripple through the circle. Understanding. Recognition.
Wyatt’s voice is gruff when he speaks. “Sounds about right. Man never made you feel stupid for what you didn’t know.”
“Just made sure you learned it properly,” Reyna adds softly.
Mateo laughs, obviously thinking of another memory. The sound is bright against the somber backdrop. It’s the first crack in the wall of grief we’ve built around ourselves.
The laughter seems to give others permission.
Stories begin to flow—some hilarious, others quietly touching.
Derek talks about Marcus teaching him to fight left-handed after a training injury.
Nora shares how he’d slip her extra rations when she was recovering from the flu, pretending he’d “miscounted” the portions.
Wyatt tells a story about Marcus getting his boot stuck in mud during a patrol and refusing help for an hour out of pure stubbornness. “Had to dig him out with a stick eventually,” he says, grinning. “Man was ankle-deep and still insisting he had it handled.”
The grief doesn’t disappear. It just becomes something we can carry together, lighter for being shared.
Movement at the edge of my vision draws my attention. Caleb separates from his pack, crossing the clearing with measured steps. Not intrusive, but purposeful. He stops a few feet away, his gaze on the dying embers of Marcus’s pyre.
“Isla saw it,” he says quietly, his voice low enough that only Alpha hearing would catch it.
“Three days ago. She woke from a vision of your pack tearing itself apart, wolves corrupted by purple light from within. She saw Marcus fall. Saw the choice you’d have to make.
” His jaw tightens. “She also saw that if we didn’t come, Ash Hollow would be slaughtered. ”
I don’t respond immediately. “You came because of a vision.”
“We came because you needed us,” Caleb corrects. “The vision just told us when.” He pauses, watching the embers. “Isla wanted us to leave the day she had it. I made her wait—wanted to be sure.”
I don’t respond immediately. Just watch the embers glow and fade. Without Shadow Peak’s intervention, Marcus’s faction would have killed my loyal wolves. Ben. Wyatt. Callum. All of them.
“You got here,” I say finally.
“That’s what pack does,” Caleb says, and there’s weight in those words. “We show up when it matters. Even when you’ve chosen to build something separate from us. Pack is always pack.”
I nod once. Between Alphas, that’s enough. Acknowledgment. Gratitude. The wordless understanding of what was risked and what was saved.
Caleb doesn’t wait for more. He returns to his pack at the clearing’s edge, and I let him go.
My gaze shifts across the clearing. Nova stands apart, neither inside the circle nor fully outside it. Her gaze meets mine briefly before she moves toward the cluster of healers at the edge of the clearing.
Lyanna, Isla, and Elysia have formed their own quiet node of connection.
“The root mixture worked better than expected,” I overhear Lyanna saying as Nova approaches. No emotional processing, just practical healer talk. But I recognize it for what it is: grounding through purpose.
Nova nods, immediately engaged. “The bleeding stopped faster this time.”
“We’ll need more willow bark,” Elysia adds. “I know where to gather it.”
Some bonds form through blood and battle. Others through shared skills and understanding. I see both happening across the clearing tonight.
Kari remains alone, arms crossed tight against her chest. When Rafe walks past, their eyes meet for a split second. Hers narrow. His remain impassive. The air between them practically crackles with unresolved tension.
I file that away for later. Not my focus tonight, but something to monitor.
Callum approaches, offering a nod instead of words. I return it. Between us, no speeches are needed. He understands what it means to carry the weight of lives. To lose one under your watch. As a seasoned warrior with Shadow Peak pack, he’s seen his share of losses.
The pack continues to loosen, stories flowing more freely now. Remembering Marcus through their own experiences. Not just how he died, but how he lived.
I stay silent, watchful. This moment isn’t about my voice. It’s about theirs. Finding their way back to each other through shared memory.
And finding a path forward through pain that won’t disappear but can be carried together.
The smell of woodsmoke and ash lingers, but beneath it runs something else—the scent of the pack binding itself together again. It’s not pretty. It’s not clean. But it’s necessary.
Nova stays with the healers, occasionally glancing my way. I give her space. This isn’t about us right now. It’s about them.
Movement catches my attention. Rafe, who has been circling the edge of the gathering, pauses.
His shoulders square slightly, head tilting just enough to indicate he’s caught something.
Most wouldn’t notice the change, but I’ve spent years reading micro-expressions in combat situations.
His sudden focus is like a flare in my awareness.
I continue listening to Mateo’s story about Marcus teaching him to fish, but track Rafe with my peripheral vision. He makes his way smoothly to where Ansel stands, moving with deliberate casualness. The two exchange words, heads bent close, voices too low for even enhanced hearing to catch.
Ansel nods once, shoulders already shifting toward the forest. No questions asked. No unnecessary confirmation. He simply slides into the treeline, his exit so natural that none of the grieving wolves even notice his departure.
My instincts sharpen. I wait, letting nothing show on my face as Wyatt finishes an anecdote about Marcus winning a bet with three cherry stems and a blindfold.
Rafe returns to the circle, standing beside me with a relaxed posture. Only the rigid line of his jaw betrays his alertness.
“We have an observer,” he says quietly, eyes still on the flames. His tone is conversational, steady. “Nothing immediate. Holding distance on the north ridge.”
I don’t turn my head, don’t break my attentive stance toward the pack. “Faelan?”
“Not his signature.” Rafe takes a slow breath. “Too controlled. Too patient. Just ... watching.”
I grant him a short nod, processing his assessment against my own growing awareness. Now that he’s named it, I can sense it too—a faint pressure at the boundaries of my consciousness. Not threatening, not yet. But distinctly present.
The feeling reminds me of being stalked by a mountain lion once. The predator hadn’t attacked, just tracked me for miles, maintaining a precise distance. Curious but cautious.
I glance at Nova, wondering if her fae senses have picked up our visitor. Her attention remains fixed on Lyanna, who demonstrates something with leaves and twigs. She hasn’t noticed. Or hasn’t chosen to respond.
“Ansel will track but not engage,” Rafe continues softly. “Better to understand what we’re dealing with first.”
“Agreed.” I scan the trees beyond the clearing, seeing nothing but feeling everything. My territory. My responsibility.
The stories continue around the fire, laughter occasionally breaking through the solemnity. Ben steps forward to share something about a mission with Marcus. The pack leans in, hungry for connection after too much death.
But beneath the grief, beneath the healing, something stirs. A subtle shift in pressure. The forest inhales, holding its breath.
We aren’t finished here. Not by a long shot.
“Keep the circle strong,” I tell Rafe, my voice low. “I don’t want whatever’s out there sensing weakness.”
He nods once, then moves to join a cluster of wolves near the fire’s edge. His presence steadies them immediately, their postures relaxing without conscious thought.
I remain where I am, feet planted firmly. Alpha. Guardian. Target, maybe.
Let them watch. Let them wait.
My pack is grieving, but it isn’t broken.