2. Osias
TWO
OSIAS
Osias’s stomach was a hollow cavity, and a low growl vibrated in him that had nothing to do with his lion and everything to do with the clock showing two PM.
He’d been moving since five AM in a relentless circuit of obligations.
A breakfast with international distributors that tasted of profit margins, a board meeting that felt like polite warfare, and a call with a director about a script that was raw and brilliant and would almost certainly lose money—the kind of project he funded without hesitation.
Now, driving north through the winding canyons toward the pride territory, the hunger was a sharp thing. It reminded him he was still flesh, still part animal, beneath the three-thousand-dollar suit and the weight of two kingdoms.
He parked his Ferrari Roma in the small lot beside the pride’s town hall, the car’s red paint a shocking, vibrant statement among the sensible SUVs and trucks.
The vehicle was his one indulgence, a machine of pure, controlled power that felt like an extension of his own pulse.
He’d earned it. He’d built an empire from a single production company fifteen years ago, transformed a grieving pride into a fortress of prosperity, and if that meant he drove a piece of Italian engineering that made people stare, so be it.
His father Gideon had worn flannel shirts and driven a truck until it rusted.
He’d taught Osias that integrity wasn’t in what you owned, but in how you used what you had.
But the car didn’t define him. His actions did.
The respect of his people wasn’t bought with luxury; it was earned by showing up, every damn time, even when he was running on fumes. Just like he was right now.
He pushed through the heavy oak doors of the hall, and the familiar scent of polished wood, old books, and his pride washed over him.
A hundred faces turned his way, conversations hushing into expectant quiet.
It was not a command, but a natural settling, and his lion stretched beneath his skin with satisfaction.
His twin sister Lissa was already at the front, organizing stacks of flyers with the brisk efficiency of a general. She shot him a look—part greeting, part assessment—her blue eyes missing nothing. But he saw the faint concern there, the sisterly knowledge that he’d probably skipped lunch again.
His Beta Juno leaned against the wall near the podium, a study in relaxed vigilance, and gave Osias a barely perceptible nod.
His stepmother Margot sat in the front row, her posture perfect, a cup of tea steaming untouched on the table beside her.
She offered him a smile that was all polished enamel and ice-blue calculation.
He returned a polite nod, the temperature between them dropping several degrees like it always did.
And there was Pell, standing off to the side, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the room with the calm focus of a historian. He caught Osias’s eye and took a step forward, but Osias raised a hand.
“After,” Osias said, his voice low but carrying.
Pell nodded once and settled back into his patient observation.
His stepbrother Braxton’s absence was a familiar space in the room. He’s probably on set right now like usual, so Osias pushed down a flicker of annoyance. It wasn’t deliberate avoidance; it was his brother’s career. Still, presence mattered at these pride meetings.
Osias moved to the podium, the simple act enough to draw the room’s focus into a single, tight point. “Let’s begin.”
The meeting unfolded with the steady rhythm of a well-maintained engine.
Osias delivered updates on pride business—land acquisitions finalized, a new community health initiative.
His voice was calm and factual, a pillar in the center of the room.
Several minutes later, Juno stepped up next, his security report characteristically succinct.
“Perimeter’s clean. No incursions. Some minor human hiker curiosity near the northern ridge, handled with a few well-placed ‘Private Property’ signs and a growl from the trees.” A faint ripple of laughter moved through the pride, but Juno’s face didn’t change. “Stay alert out there.”
Margot followed, her presentation on the foundation’s charity efforts a masterpiece of data and dignified persuasion.
She spoke of image, of optics, of building a legacy that shone.
Osias listened, agreeing with the goals while silently disagreeing with every unspoken priority.
Her legacy was a monument. His was a home.
Finally, Lissa bounded up, her energy infectious.
“Alright, the important stuff,” she announced, grinning.
“The annual pride festival is next week. We’ve got the usual: feast, games for the cubs, the bonfire.
But this year, we’re adding a storytelling circle after sunset.
” She paused, her gaze sweeping the room, landing momentarily on Pell, whose expression had softened into something approaching warmth.
“A time for anyone who wants to share a memory, a tale, or something worth hearing.”
A storytelling circle.
The words resonated in Osias’s chest, a deep, familiar chime.
The Telling.
It was a ghost of his mother’s greatest tradition, revived by Lissa’s fearless heart.
He’d almost forgotten the festival was so close.
Another obligation, another event on a calendar that bled into the margins.
But this one felt different. It felt like a homecoming he desperately needed and had no time to attend.
He nodded to Lissa, a silent communication of approval and thanks. “Make it happen.”
As the meeting adjourned and the hall filled with the comfortable noise of his people dispersing, the gnawing hunger in Osias’s gut reasserted itself with a vengeance. He needed food, coffee, and five minutes of silence before the next wave of decisions crashed over him.
He turned, already mentally mapping the quickest route to his mansion, when a quiet, deliberate cough stopped him.
Pell stood before him, hands still clasped and his intelligent eyes sharp behind his glasses. “A moment, Osias? It won’t take long.”
Osias suppressed a sigh. But this was Pell. The request was never frivolous. “Follow me,” Osias said, his voice a low rumble.
The California sun painted everything in harsh gold as Osias stepped through the heavy oak doors of the pride town hall.
The meeting had drained him more than he’d expected—not the business itself but the constant vigilance required to keep everyone moving in the same direction while maintaining the illusion that it was effortless.
“Gerri Wilder called me this afternoon.” Pell’s voice remained steady, but something flickered behind his glasses—a combination of obligation and genuine interest that immediately sharpened Osias’s attention. “She’s requesting you take a meeting tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”
Osias felt his jaw tighten as he mentally scrolled through his schedule.
The morning was already a battlefield of obligations—a breakfast with the board, three contract reviews, a conference call with London that couldn’t be moved, and somewhere in the margins he’d hoped to steal twenty minutes to actually eat something substantial.
“I don’t have time for another meeting.” His response came out more clipped than he’d intended, but exhaustion had a way of stripping away diplomatic niceties. “My schedule’s packed through next week.”
Pell moved almost imperceptibly and he looked genuinely uncomfortable. The expression was so unusual on his normally composed features that Osias found himself paying closer attention.
“This is important.” Pell’s fingers adjusted his glasses—a nervous habit from decades past that only surfaced when he was navigating particularly delicate territory. “I owe Gerri a favor from years ago, and... well, I think this may interest you.”
A favor?
Osias knew enough about Pell’s history to understand that debts to Gerri Wilder weren’t taken lightly. The woman had an uncanny ability to appear exactly when people needed her most, and her requests always came with implications that stretched far beyond their surface meaning.
Still, his patience was wearing thin. “Who’s the meeting with?”
“Celina Bates.”
The name hit him like a physical impact, stopping his automatic refusal mid-breath. His lion stirred beneath his skin—not with aggression but with something sharper and more unsettling. Recognition without understanding.
Celina Bates.
Every person in America knew that name. Academy Award winner.
Box office gold. The kind of actress whose face appeared on magazine covers in grocery store checkout lines and whose personal life generated headlines whether she wanted them or not.
He’d seen her films, of course—impossible to avoid them—but had never given much thought to meeting her in person.
The entertainment industry was full of beautiful, talented people who ultimately proved hollow beneath the surface polish.
He’d built his career on finding the exceptions, the artists who carried something real beneath the performance.
But his lion’s reaction suggested there was more here than celebrity curiosity.
“What’s this about?” His voice came out rougher than intended.
Pell’s expression shifted into something approaching relief, as if he’d been bracing for a much more difficult conversation. “Gerri mentioned that Celina owns Bates Films—a small production company that’s been around for two years. Not particularly well-known, but...”
Osias’s interest sharpened immediately. He’d heard of Bates Films, had even watched several of their productions during his ongoing research into emerging competition.
The company specialized in character-driven stories that larger studios routinely rejected as too risky, too honest, or too unmarketable.
They were exactly the kind of authentic projects he’d built his empire to support.