Chapter Fifteen
Adrian
The fort didn’t have Brannigan Castle’s grace.
It had edges. Adrian noticed them every time he crossed the yard.
Stone corners were not rounded by age so much as worn down by use.
Slit windows set high and narrow. Walls built without apology for their purpose, not architectural grandeur.
This place had never pretended defence was optional.
Tonight, it felt too closed in. The heat from the great hall pressed thickly against his skin, smoke clinging low beneath the rafters. Conversation softened when he passed, voices fading mid-sentence before picking up again, never quite reaching their former volume.
Adrian was halfway down the corridor toward the kitchen to grab coffee, and then he’d spend time in his study reading through a medical psychology journal before going to bed. Max fell into step beside him, his eyes narrowing.
“You’ve got a problem,” Max said quietly.
Adrian didn’t slow. “Mon ami, I have several of those.”
“This one’s got shoulders and a temper,” Max replied. “And he’s been pacing like a dog that’s caught a scent.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened. “Garrett.”
They reached the study doors. It was Adrian’s refuge filled with contemporary furniture, soft music, and a desk filled with gadgets that put a hacker to shame.
This was the one room in the fort that didn’t demand he be King every second.
It let him be a man who read, practised his hard-learned psychology skills, thought, and remembered the world had once been simpler than the now filled with Veils, Councils, and towns that shouldn’t exist.
As Adrian entered the room, he saw Garrett inside and alone near the long table in the centre. He’d lit no fire, but the room felt hot anyway, probably charged by the sheer force of his anger. He turned as Adrian came in while Max stayed by the door, his arms folded, silent but present.
Adrian shut the door behind him. “You wanted to talk?”
Garrett’s mouth twisted. “I want to know if you’re going to tell your people the truth.”
Adrian’s gaze was steady. “Which truth would you like? The one where I’m partly responsible for a village that fell out of another realm, or the one where the Council of Veils might come knocking, or the one where everyone’s suddenly calling me a title I didn’t ask for?”
Garrett’s eyes flashed. “Don’t play clever. You know what I mean.”
Adrian stepped closer to the table, his boots quiet footfall on the rug. “Say it.”
Garrett’s voice rose, echoing off the shelves.
“This is all bullshit. You’re putting us all in danger with your connection to that Brannigan bastard.
” He spat the name, clearly finding it foul.
“He’s a rough bastard who takes over, barks orders, and suddenly the valley’s full of magic and prophecy, and people bowing like we’re in a bloody fairy tale. ”
Adrian’s jaw clenched. “Watch your mouth.”
Garrett leaned forward, his hands braced on the table. “No. You watch yours. Your clan is listening, and we all see what you’re doing.”
Adrian cocked an eyebrow. “And exactly what am I doing?”
Garrett’s eyes were fever-bright. “Letting them name you. Letting them bind you. Letting that village sink its hooks into you until you can’t tell the difference between duty and manipulation.”
Adrian felt heat rise in his chest. Anger, yes, but something else too: fear, sharp and unwanted. Some part of him had asked the same questions.
Max’s voice cut in, calm and dangerous. “Careful, Donaldson.”
Garrett ignored him. “You’re going to lead us into danger because you think you must. Because you’ve been told you’re some kind of Valour.” His lip curled. “And because you’re tethered to Connor fucking Brannigan.”
Adrian’s hands curled into fists. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Garrett laughed harshly. “I know enough. You spend more time in that fucking village than here with your pack. I know you’re making decisions you wouldn’t have made a month ago.”
Adrian stepped around the table, closing the distance. “I’m making decisions to keep people alive.”
Garrett straightened, squaring his shoulders. “Then prove it.”
Adrian stopped. “Prove what?”
Garrett’s grin was all teeth. “That you’re still the kind of King worth following.”
Gauntlet thrown. Adrian felt Max shift behind him in warning. He didn’t look back, keeping his eyes on Garrett.
“You want to fight,” Adrian said softly.
Garrett’s gaze didn’t waver. “I want to know if you’re still King of the Gauthier clan, you damned peacock, or if you’re becoming whatever the village wants you to be.” He grinned nastily. “I’m challenging you since you hadn’t noticed your head is stuck far up Brannigan’s arse.”
Adrian’s pulse thudded hard. He could refuse. He could order Garrett out of his fort, banishing him from his pack for such disobedience and mutiny. But refusal would fester, turning into whispers, doubts, and fractures. And fractures were how clans died.
Adrian’s voice was quiet. “In the clearing?”
Garrett’s grin widened. “Aye. In the clearing.”
Max swore under his breath.
Adrian turned toward the door. “Get word to the rest of the clan. I want witnesses. This is a dominance challenge, not a slaughter.”
Max’s gaze was hard. “You sure about that?”
Adrian’s jaw clenched. “Do it.” He sent a scathing look at the grinning Garrett. “His defeat for the kingship of this clan obviously wasn’t enough for him. He wants to lose again.”
Word travelled through the fort like wildfire. Men stepped out of corridors, women paused in doorways, their faces tight with concern. As he walked, Adrian felt them wondering about his clan’s trust, their fear, and their hopes. A weight on his shoulders he’d borne for years.
Outside, the air was cold enough to sting.
The moon had risen, lending its light to the events.
The clearing lay beyond the tree line. A flat stretch of grass bordered by pines, used for training, for meetings, for the occasional fight that needed space.
It was filling when Adrian arrived. Max at their head, Piper beside him, Jasmine with her arms folded, Laurence looking grim, and Rowland muttering something about men and their egos.
In the distance, the rest of his people gathered, a surprising amount considering the lateness of the hour.
Garrett stood in the centre of the clearing like he owned it. Adrian stepped into the open and stopped opposite him. Max’s gaze flicked over him, assessing. Adrian met it briefly, an acknowledgment.
He lifted his chin. “Rules are simple. No shifting. Yield ends it.”
Garrett’s smile was sharp. “And if you don’t yield?”
Adrian’s voice was cold. “Then you’ll learn.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Garrett stepped forward. “You’re doing this because you have to keep the peace.”
Adrian stepped in, closing the gap. “I’m doing this because you’re poisoning our clan with fear.”
Garrett’s eyes flashed. “Fear keeps people alive.”
Adrian’s mouth twisted. “Fear makes people stupid.”
Garrett lunged. Adrian met him head-on.
The first impact was brutal: shoulder into shoulder, fists landing hard, boots digging into wet ground. Garrett was heavier, stronger than Adrian expected, rage fueling his momentum. He drove Adrian back a step, trying to force him off balance.
Adrian let him. Then he shifted his weight, hooked Garrett’s arm, and twisted. Garrett grunted, stumbling, but recovered fast, swinging his fist, which Adrian barely dodged. The punch grazed his cheekbone, bright pain flaring.
The crowd reacted with sharp breaths, low growls.
Adrian tasted blood and felt his wolf surge under his skin, furious at being restrained.
He kept it down. He drove forward, using leverage and training, not brute force.
Garrett fought like a man trying to prove something to himself, his moves wild, powerful, and reckless.
Adrian fought like a King who wouldn’t lose.
Garrett caught Adrian’s shirt and yanked, dragging him close. “You’re bound to him,” he snarled, his breath hot. “You can’t even see it, can you? You’re already—”
Adrian moved. He slipped aside with a dancer’s precision, letting Garrett’s momentum carry him forward. He spun, recovering fast, throwing a heavy fist at Adrian’s ribs, which Adrian blocked with his forearm to absorb the punch.
Garrett was fast. Adrian was faster.
He pivoted, sweeping Garrett’s leg in a clean, practised arc. He stumbled but stayed upright, snarling as he came in again. This time angrier. Each blow designed to punish rather than defeat.
Adrian didn’t meet him strength for strength. He used angles. Timing. Precision.
Garrett swung. Adrian ducked. Garrett charged. Adrian sidestepped and redirected his weight, sending Garrett crashing into the courtyard wall.
The crowd murmured.
Garrett pushed off the stone, his chest heaving. “Fight me properly!”
“I am,” Adrian said softly. He waited.
Garrett roared and rushed him. This time, Adrian met him head-on. He twisted in close, hooking Garrett’s arm and using his mass against him. With a sharp shift of weight, he brought Garrett down hard, pinning him to the ground with his forearm braced across his windpipe.
Garrett thrashed beneath him, fury burning hot in his eyes. “Get off me.”
“Yield,” Adrian said.
Garrett shoved against him, but Adrian didn’t budge. “Yield,” he repeated, his voice calm and firm as stone.
Garrett bared his teeth in humiliation. “You think this makes you fit to lead?”
Adrian leaned in enough so Garrett had to hear every word. “I think you don’t know what leadership is.”
Garrett’s breath hitched in rage. “You’re going to get us killed.”
“And you’re going to tear this clan apart if you keep trying to divide us.” Adrian tightened the pressure, enough to still Garrett, not kill him. “Yield,” he said again.
Garrett resisted a moment longer. A heartbeat. Two. Then slowly, he slapped the stone beneath his fist.
Adrian stood, his chest rising with controlled breaths. Garrett rolled onto his side, coughing, surely humiliated, but alive.