Chapter 18 #2
Greta appears in the doorway behind Brenna. She looks at Bern the way a farmer looks at a fox circling the henhouse… without surprise and with complete understanding of what she’s seeing.
“You’ll have coffee,” Greta says. “Kitchen’s through here.”
She turns and walks inside. Bern follows, because nobody refuses Greta. His aide trails behind with the tablet, already taking notes.
I catch Brenna’s arm as she turns to follow. The touch sends a shock through me.
“Not now,” she says. Low. For my ears only.
“I know. But, Brenna—” I keep my voice down. Rook has positioned himself between us and Bern’s fighters in the yard. “Be careful with him. He can’t be trusted.”
Her eyes meet mine. For a second, the armor thins and I see the woman from the bunkhouse: raw, unguarded, terrified of what’s happening between us. Then it’s gone.
“I know,” she says. “I’ve known men like Bern my whole life. They come with smiles and leave with everything you have.”
She goes inside. I follow.
In the kitchen, Bern sits at the table like he belongs there, accepting Greta’s coffee with studied graciousness. His aide stands behind him, still taking fucking notes. Willow sits across from Bern with a grim set to her mouth that could curdle milk.
Cameron comes downstairs. Stops in the kitchen doorway. Takes in the scene: the strange wolves in suits, the polished man at the table, the tension in every adult in the room. His eyes go sharp.
“Cameron,” Brenna says. Calm. “This is Elder Bern, from the Wolf Council. They oversee wolf affairs.”
“I know who the council is.” Cameron’s voice is cold. He doesn’t enter the room.
Bern turns in his chair and looks at Cameron. And something crosses his face. A quick, assessing interest that’s more focused than a casual introduction warrants.
“Young man.” Bern stands. Extends his hand. “I’ve heard about your ordeal. The council is deeply concerned about Syndicate activity in this region.”
Cameron looks at the hand. Doesn’t take it. Looks at Brenna. Looks at me.
“Ma?” he says. Just the one word. Asking permission, asking for a read, asking whether this man is safe.
“It’s fine,” Brenna says. Her tone says it’s not fine, but courtesy requires it.
Cameron shakes Bern’s hand briefly, then retreats to the bottom of the stairs. He stays. Watching. The survival instincts from six months as a lab rat are telling him to keep his eyes on the new predator in the room.
Bern sits back down, sips his coffee, and then begins laying out the council’s position.
“We’ve received reports about an attack here. Purists, I’m told. Quite serious.”
Brenna’s voice cuts in. “That’s an exaggeration. We managed just fine.”
“That’s good news.” Bern inclines his head toward her. “Has Ravenclaw filed a formal complaint with the council? There are protocols for addressing inter-pack violence. Mechanisms that exist precisely for situations like this.”
“We handled it ourselves,” Brenna says.
“So I’ve heard. A parley with Ashfall. Unconventional, but effective in the short term.
” He folds his hands on the table. “The question is sustainability. These regional tensions don’t resolve themselves.
They fester. A council delegation could mediate.
Establish formal agreements, ensure all parties are heard.
Prevent future violence before it erupts. ”
“I said we handled it.” Brenna’s voice is pure ice. “And we’ll handle it again, if need be.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that. Which brings me to my next matter.” He faces me. “The elders have been discussing your situation with some concern, Merric.” He sets his cup down with deliberate care. “Frostbourne is one of our strongest southern packs. Your absence has been… noted.”
“My beta has things well in hand.”
“I’m sure he does. But there’s a difference between a pack managed and a pack led, wouldn’t you agree?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Your people need you back. You can’t be expected to deal with things here as well as oversee your own responsibilities.”
Every sentence lands with the precision of a man who’s been doing this for thirty years. Positioning the council as essential, me as overextended, Ravenclaw as a problem that requires institutional management.
It’s a masterwork. And it’s complete bullshit.
I let him talk. Watch his hands, his eyes, the micro-expressions that flicker beneath the diplomacy.
This is the man who shaped southern wolf politics for thirty years.
Who decided which packs thrived and which withered.
Who sat in a room with me and engineered the end of a mating bond because it didn’t fit his vision of how the world should work.
I was afraid of him then. Afraid of what he represented, what he could take away.
I’m not afraid anymore.
“Elder Bern,” I say, during a pause in his presentation. “I appreciate the council’s concern. And I’ll give your proposals the consideration they deserve. But I should be clear about something.”
He waits. Attentive. The good listener.
“I’m not going back to Frostbourne until the situation here is stable. Ravenclaw is under my protection… formally, as of the parley we held two days ago with the Ashfall delegation. Any council discussion about Ravenclaw’s status goes through me and through Brenna. Not around us.”
I hold his eyes. He holds mine.
“Understood,” Bern says. Smooth. Accommodating. Not a crack in the surface. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m here to support, Merric. Nothing more.”
He’s lying. I can smell it. Not the lie itself, but the pressure of it. The shift in the air that says something is coming.
I smile back. Two men lying to each other across a kitchen table while the women in the room watch with varying degrees of contempt.
The morning grinds on. Bern tours the ranch, escorted by Rook, who doesn’t let him out of his sight. His fighters set up a clean, efficient camp near the main road, just inside the property line. His aide takes notes on everything.
And Brenna and I don’t get a single moment alone.
She’s always moving. Ward work, supply logistics, briefing Willow, checking on Cameron.
Every time I catch her eye across the yard, she looks away.
She’s rebuilding the fortress. Brick by brick, hour by hour, with Nathan Bern’s presence as both the excuse and the mortar.
And I can’t fault her because his presence here is a big red flag.
By evening, the ranch feels different. Watched. The easy rhythm of the last few days has been replaced by the stiff performance of people being observed. Bern’s fighters are polite, professional, and impossible to ignore.
I stand on the bunkhouse steps after dinner and watch the light fade.
Bern’s camp glows white at the property’s edge.
Inside the main house, I can see Brenna through the kitchen window, standing at the counter, head bowed, hands flat on the surface.
The posture of a woman holding something up by pure will.
Cameron sits on the front porch, watching Bern’s camp.
He hasn’t spoken more than ten words since the introduction this morning.
But his body language says everything: coiled, vigilant, the alertness of a boy who spent six months in a facility run by men who spoke in measured tones and hurt him anyway.
He doesn’t trust Bern. He’s right not to. The man’s a snake.
I need to talk to Brenna. About last night, about Cameron, about the fact that Nathan Bern is sitting inside our territory with the entire political infrastructure of the southern wolf world behind him.
But she’s not ready. I can feel it. She’ll talk to me when the crisis demands it. Not before.
So I wait. The way I waited on this porch last night. The way I’ve been waiting for eighteen years, if I’m honest.
Patience. The one skill I never wanted and can’t stop needing.
The night settles. Bern’s camp goes quiet. The ranch holds its breath.
Somewhere inside the house, a woman who should be mine is standing at a kitchen counter trying to hold the world together, and I’m out here on the steps doing the same thing, and neither of us knows how to do it in the same room.
Tomorrow. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.
It’s becoming a habit. Pushing everything important to tomorrow.
I just hope we can deal with the fallout when tomorrow inevitably comes.