14. Stellan #2
Ifind Kieran in the command center an hour later, bent over a map of Bloodtusk territory with Barrett and Roman.
Roman is up and moving now, bandaged but healing, his left side still stiff from the shrapnel that nearly killed him.
Margot hasn't let him out of her sight since he woke up, but even she couldn't keep him from this meeting.
"Stellan." Kieran looks up as I enter, his expression the careful neutrality he wears when he's holding something back. "Good timing. We're reviewing the intelligence from the captured Bloodtusk fighters."
I take my place at the table, studying the map. Red markers indicate known Bloodtusk positions, blue markers show our own forces, and a web of lines connects strategic points across the territory. It looks like war. It looks like casualties waiting to happen.
"When do we move?" I ask.
"Two weeks, maybe three. We need time to rebuild our forces, replenish supplies, coordinate with our allies.
" Barrett's silver eyes are cold, calculating.
"The assault on the compound cost us, but it cost them more.
Dragan's primary strike force was decimated.
If we hit them before they can recover?—"
"We end this," Roman finishes. His voice is rougher than usual, the aftermath of his injuries, but his eyes are sharp. "Once and for all."
"That's the plan." Kieran's gaze drifts toward the door, toward the common room where June is still working with Kira. I catch the movement, subtle but unmistakable. "We hit their stronghold. We take out their leadership. We finish what they started."
"And Dragan?" I ask.
Something shifts in Kieran's expression. Something dark and personal that he usually keeps buried deeper. "Dragan is mine."
The words are flat, final, carrying the weight of fifteen years of history.
I've known Kieran since I joined the Ironfang at nineteen, watched him lead this club through wars and peace and everything in between.
I've seen him command with cold efficiency, make impossible decisions without flinching, carry burdens that would break weaker men.
But I've never heard him sound like this.
Like he's been waiting for something, and that something is finally within reach.
"History?" I ask quietly, echoing the question I asked days ago.
"History." He meets my eyes, and for a moment the mask slips, letting me see the grief and rage that live beneath his careful control.
"Fifteen years ago, Dragan took something from me.
Something I can't get back. This war isn't just about territory, Stellan.
It's about settling a debt that's been owed for far too long. "
I want to ask more. Want to understand what Dragan took, what drives the cold fury I can see burning behind Kieran's eyes. But this isn't the time, and Kieran isn't the type to share more than he's willing to give.
"The war will end," I say instead.
"Will it?" Something flickers across his face, there and gone. "Not until Dragan is finished. And that's a debt that won't be paid easily."
The conversation shifts to tactics, troop movements, supply lines.
Roman and Barrett debate the merits of different approaches, and Kieran listens, contributes, plays the role of commander that he's worn for over a decade.
But I keep watching him, noticing the way his attention drifts toward the door when he thinks no one's looking.
"She's a mystery," I say during a lull in the strategic planning, pitching my voice low enough that only Kieran can hear me over the murmured discussions happening around Roman's desk.
He doesn't pretend to misunderstand who I'm talking about. "June?"
"She handled herself during the attack. More than handled herself, actually. I saw her take down a Bloodtusk enforcer with a precise move that wasn't born from luck or panic-driven instinct. That was training. Real training, the kind that takes years to develop into muscle memory."
"I noticed." Kieran's voice is carefully neutral, adopting the same measured tone he uses when he's deliberately revealing nothing, when he's building walls instead of bridges. "I notice a lot of things about her."
"And?" I press, watching his profile for any crack in that practiced composure.
"And she's not my primary concern right now. The war is. Dragan is. Keeping this club intact through what's coming—that's what matters."
"The war will end," I repeat, echoing my earlier words. "What then?"
"Then we rebuild. We bury our dead. We try to remember what peace feels like." He pauses, and something shifts in his expression. "Focus on your woman, Stellan. Let me worry about mine?—"
He stops. The word hangs in the air between us, unexpected, revealing more than he intended.
"About the war," he finishes, but the slip has already happened. "Focus on Esmerelda. She's good for you. The whole club can see how much you've changed since she started reaching for you."
"Changed?"
"Lighter. Less like you're waiting for disaster every moment." He almost smiles. "It's good to see you happy, brother. Even if you don't quite trust it yet."
"Is it that obvious?"
"To someone who's spent fifteen years watching you? Yes." He clasps my shoulder, the same way Harlan did earlier, and I find it doesn't make me flinch this time. "Happiness doesn't always destroy us. Sometimes it saves us. Let it save you."
He returns to the map, to the war planning, to the careful commander's mask he wears. But I carry his words with me when I leave the command center, turning them over in my mind as I go to find Esmerelda.
Happiness doesn't always destroy us. Sometimes it saves us.
I want to believe him. The beast wants to believe him. And maybe, for the first time in fifteen years, I'm ready to try.