Chapter 45 The Beginning of the End
Over the next month, we tore through everything we’d taken from Thomas.
Night after night we sat at the desk, cross-referencing financial records with the footage from the hidden cameras Jackson had planted. The deeper we dug, the clearer the rot became.
Thomas didn’t sit idle either.
Two wolves had started tailing Jackson almost immediately. They sat outside our apartment some nights, watching the windows. Other times they followed him when he left for runs or errands, never close enough to touch him, but always there.
Jackson confronted them once in the parking lot. They claimed they were there for his “protection.”
When he went to Thomas about it, his father had smiled that thin, cold smile and said the same thing. Protection. Especially now that the Crescent Peak alliance had fallen through.
We both knew the truth: Thomas wanted eyes on his son. He wanted to know every move Jackson made and every hour he spent with me. He was planning something. Something to separate us.
From the office cameras we watched him meet with two hypnosis therapists late at night. He asked detailed questions about memory suppression, suggestion, and how much could be erased without permanent damage.
The recordings left little doubt. If it came to it, he was looking for ways to rewrite Jackson’s mind.
He had also pulled the paperwork on Jackson’s trust. One afternoon we watched him spend hours on the phone, carefully learning what it would take to freeze the accounts or, if that failed, force them through himself. Money was the one leash he still thought he could pull.
Still, we kept moving.
We catalogued every dirty secret, every payment, every name. The evidence kept stacking higher, but none of it would matter unless the right people saw it at the right time.
Then we found the perfect stage.
Missy Harlan was turning sixteen. Her parents were wealthy and deep in Thomas’s inner circle, and they were throwing her a lavish birthday party at the packhouse main hall the following weekend.
The highlight of the night was a video slideshow Missy had been preparing for months.
The entire pack leadership would be there.
It was the cleanest stage we were ever going to get.
The plan came together piece by piece over the following days.
First Jackson went back to Thomas’s house the same way he had before.
He pulled the cameras from the study, wiped every trace of them, and got out clean.
Then, on a separate night, he entered the packhouse itself and installed two new high-resolution cameras in the main hall, one with a direct line to the projector feed.
Brian helped us build a remote override and a timed release package.
The moment the slideshow switched, copies of the files, videos, and supporting documents would automatically be sent to every pack email address we could find.
Even if someone killed the projector in the first thirty seconds, the damage would already be done.
I would be the one to press the button that exposed everything Thomas had spent decades hiding.
The night of Missy’s sweet sixteen, Jackson and I sat on the couch with the laptop open between us. Artemis was curled in my lap, purring contentedly as he kneaded my thigh, completely oblivious to the storm we were about to unleash.
The live feed from the packhouse main hall filled the screen.
The party was already in full swing. Colorful streamers and balloons hung from the ceiling.
Shimmering fairy lights wrapped the pillars.
The dance floor was packed with teenagers moving under the music.
Around the edges of the room, parents and pack higher-ups stood in small clusters with drinks in hand, doing the usual quiet elbow-rubbing while the kids celebrated.
Jackson’s fingers drummed restlessly against his leg. “Almost time.”
I remained still, gaze locked on the screen. Ready.
At nine o’clock, the lights dimmed. A hush fell over the crowd as the large projector screen at the front of the room flickered to life.
The first images were soft and sweet. Missy as a baby.
Family vacations. Birthday parties from years past. Soft murmurs of affection moved through the room as people watched.
I waited for the right gap between photos, then triggered the switch.
The screen went black for half a second. Then it lit up with the first clip.
Thomas sat behind his massive oak desk, speaking into the phone.
“I don’t care how you do it,” he said coldly. “Squeeze them harder. Thirty percent of their income isn’t enough anymore. Tell the enforcers to start collecting early. If they cry about rent or medical bills, remind them who owns this pack.”
The clip ended.
A stunned silence gripped the room for several seconds. Then the first murmurs started, low and uneasy. The second clip began before those whispers could fully settle.
Thomas sat in the same office, speaking with two of his closest advisors.
“Nineteen years and that boy is still out there. He has a stronger claim than I ever will if the old laws are ever invoked. I want him found.”
One advisor hesitated. “At some point we have to consider he might be dead.”
“No.”
The advisor exchanged a glance with the other man. “And if he’s found?”
Thomas leaned back, eyes cold. “The pack doesn’t need another heir.”
The hall erupted. People shouted. Some stood up from their chairs. Phones came out all over the room as people started recording frantically. The third clip began before anyone could regain control.
Thomas was in his office again, this time with a man in a dark suit. The conversation was clinical, detached.
“The latest shipment cleared the border without issue,” the man said. “Five this time. All under twelve. The buyers are already lined up in the city.”
Thomas leaned back, satisfied. “Excellent. Keep the supply steady. The demand is growing.”
A heavy knock suddenly rattled the apartment door. Jackson and I both froze.
The laptop speakers kept playing. The packhouse hall was erupting into chaos. Shouts of outrage. Chairs scraping across the floor. A woman’s voice rising in a broken sob. Someone yelling for the screen to be turned off. I slammed the mute button, cutting the noise short.
This time the knock landed hard enough to make the wall vibrate. Artemis shot off the couch, fur bristling along his spine, a low growl rumbling in his small chest.
Nobody should have been here.
Jackson rose slowly to his feet. “Expecting anyone?” I asked, voice low.
“No.”
Another knock. Then a voice from the other side, low and commanding.
“Open the door, Jackson.”
My cat came awake instantly. Every instinct in me screamed danger. Beside me, Jackson went completely still. For a second neither of us moved.
What the hell was he doing here?
Another knock landed harder than the first.
“Jackson.”
Jackson glanced at me. We both knew the same thing. If we didn’t open the door, Thomas would make a scene right outside, and the neighbors would talk. Better to control the battlefield.
As Jackson walked to the door, I snapped the laptop shut.
The second he opened the door, Thomas shoved past him and strode into the apartment without waiting for an invitation.
His gaze swept the room before landing on me.
Pure, undiluted malice burned in his eyes.
His lip curled with contempt as he took me in.
Ten years ago I might have looked away. This time, I looked right back at him.
Jackson moved immediately, positioning his body between Thomas and me. The shift forced Thomas’s attention off me and onto him.
His voice was cold, devoid of pleasantries. “What do you want?”
“I gave you a month,” Thomas said.
Jackson frowned. “A month for what?”
“To come to your senses.”
“You mean dump my mate and fall back in line?”
“You’ve spent your entire life preparing for your future.”
“My future?” Jackson laughed once, sharp and bitter. “You mean yours.”
Thomas’s phone rang. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and declined the call.
“You have responsibilities. Obligations.”
“I have choices,” Jackson said.
“I built this pack for you.”
“No,” Jackson replied. “You built it for yourself and expected me to live in it.”
For a moment the room was silent.
Then Thomas smiled. It wasn’t pleasant.
“Do you know what happens when people make bad decisions?”
Jackson didn’t move. “Say what you mean.”
The phone rang again. Thomas declined it, jaw tightening. His eyes flicked toward me for a split second before returning to his son.
“Jason’s scholarship. Lia’s internship. Rick’s father’s job. All of them depend on pack connections. Those things are fragile. They can disappear faster than people expect.”
The threat was quiet. Precise. Aimed through Jackson, not at him.
“You’re threatening my friends,” Jackson said, voice dangerously low.
“No,” Thomas replied smoothly. “I’m reminding you how connected everything is.”
The phone rang a third time, shrill and insistent. Thomas finally answered, irritation snapping through his posture. “What?”
The voice on the other end was loud and panicked. Thomas’s expression shifted — confusion, then dawning horror.
“A video?” he barked. “What video?”
I watched the color drain from his face as the person on the line kept talking. For the first time since he’d barged in, Thomas looked genuinely shaken.
“Goddamn it.” He ended the call with a violent stab of his thumb and glared at us. “This isn’t over.”
Then he turned and stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the walls.
For several seconds neither Jackson nor I moved.
Artemis finally emerged from under the table and let out a loud, offended meow. My cat wasn't nearly as forgiving.
I looked toward the door, then back at Jackson. “He’s getting desperate.”
“He’s losing control of me and he knows it.” He turned to me, eyes dark. “But those threats… He can make Jason, Lia, and Rick’s father suffer without ever touching us directly.”
I nodded. “He’s trying to force your hand. Make you choose between me and them.”
“There’s no choice.”
For a moment neither of us moved. Then Jackson exhaled and gestured toward the laptop.
We returned to the couch. I reopened it. “Let’s see what we missed.”
The live feed was still running, but the packhouse looked worse than before. We rewound through the recording.
In the ten minutes we had missed, the videos had kept playing and the crowd’s reaction had turned ugly.
People were on their feet, shouting and pointing at the screen.
Several of Thomas’s inner-circle members tried to restore order, which only made everyone angrier.
One man I recognized from the blackmail notebook was red-faced and yelling at someone near the stage.
Another woman stood a few feet away, openly crying.
Someone finally reached the projector and yanked the cords free. The screen went black a second later.
The room didn’t calm with it.
The fighting continued. Voices rose. People shoved past each other. Chairs scraped and toppled as the crowd refused to settle.
As we watched the playback, Jackson’s phone started buzzing nonstop. Notifications lit up the screen one after another.
Jason: Holy shit, did you hear?
Rick: What the fuck is this?
Lia: Are you okay? I've been thinking about you. I know I messed up. I just want to talk.
More messages followed. It wasn't just them. Notifications were flooding every pack group chat we knew about. The timed release had worked exactly as planned. By now every member with a phone already had copies of the videos. Even if Thomas managed to regain control of the room, he couldn’t pull the plug on thousands of screenshots, downloads, and forwarded messages already spreading outside his reach.
I leaned against his shoulder. “They’re turning on him. Fast.”
“They’re going to challenge him,” he replied.
Many of the wolves in that room had spent years obeying Thomas because they believed he was strong. Others had followed him because they thought he was protecting the pack. Tonight had shattered both illusions.
Satisfaction curled low in my chest.
“I want to see him lose his position. Status was everything to him. Taking that away… that’s the kind of wound that never heals.”
Jackson’s hand found mine, squeezing once. “Then we keep going,” he said. “Until there’s nothing left of him.”
We sat in silence for a while, watching the recorded chaos unfold. The first cracks in Thomas’s power were showing.
Everything was moving in our favor.
So why did it feel like something terrible was about to happen?