Chapter 235
“I didn’t come here to debate philosophy,” I say when the posturing circles back on itself. My voice cuts clean through the room, not raised, not soft. Just final. “Name the actions. Not what you feel. Not what you intend. What you did.”
The older Alpha scowls. “You know damn well what happened.”
“Then say it,” I reply. “Out loud. On record.”
He hesitates. That tells me more than anything else.
The younger Alpha shifts, fingers tapping against the table. “My pack acted within the new guidelines.”
“That’s not an action,” I say, eyes on him now. “That’s branding.”
Silence stretches tight.
Finally, the older Alpha speaks. “Your patrol crossed into our territory. Not once. Three times. No notice.”
The younger Alpha opens his mouth, then closes it again when I look at him.
“Confirm or deny,” I say.
“Confirm,” he admits. “But it wasn’t aggressive.”
“Intent doesn’t negate impact,” I say. “And reform doesn’t excuse provocation.”
Both of them bristle.
Good.
We spend the next hour stripping language down to bone. Who crossed where. Who retaliated. Who benefited from the confusion. Every time one of them tries to float a justification, I cut it off and drag them back to facts. It’s ugly work. Necessary. By the end, neither of them looks satisfied.
That’s how I know it’s balanced.
The agreement we reach isn’t elegant. It isn’t generous. It’s enforceable. Mutual restitution. Shared patrol oversight for thirty days. Consequences if either side tests the boundary again.
When they leave, neither Alpha thanks me.
I don’t expect them to.
Being neutral means everyone is angry at you.
I sit alone for a moment after the door closes, shoulders finally slumping now that no one is watching. The exhaustion creeps in slow and familiar, like a weight settling across my chest. Fixing things doesn’t feel like winning. It feels like holding two wolves apart with your bare hands and hoping they don’t notice when your grip slips.
Outside, the light has shifted. Afternoon now. I wash my hands at the rusted sink by the door.
The water runs brown for a second before it clears.
I scrub hard, fingers aching, skin reddening. don’t know why I do it. There’s no blood. There never is. But my hands remember things my Qld reflex. Old
Don’t hold onto
ดาเ
habit. When I finally stop, my palms
sting and still don’t feel clean.
I dry them on my pants and step back into the clearing.
My phone buzzes before I reach the car.
One message. Coded.
From Sally.
Short. Careful. Every word chosen to mean two things at once.
Patterns aligning. Quiet coordination. Not violent. Not yet.
I lean against the hood of the car and reread it twice.
This isn’t random unrest. This is structure forming beneath the surface. Packs talking to each other together
without ever being seen
Leaderships feeling the same
pressure and reacting the same way.
Reform didn’t erase power hoarding.
It forced it underground.
Not abusers. Not tyrants with blood on their hands. Something more dangerous. Wolves who learned how to smile while they waited. Who learned how to speak reform language without believing a word of it.
My phone buzzes again.
Another message incoming.
Anonymous request.
No crest. No location yet. Just a line of text.
Requesting Savannah alone.
I stare at the screen, pulse steady even as something cold curls in my gut.
Alone is a choice. Alone is leverage.
I don’t respond.
Not yet.
I get in the car, start the engine, and pull back onto the road, already mapping what this could mean the cast of being the fixer isn’t blood or threats It’s becoming the one everyone looks at when things start to crack.
And knowing one day, someone will decide breaking you is easier than fixing anything at all.