Chapter 236
I decline the escort before Ben finishes asking.
“No,” I say, already pulling on my jacket. “I’m going alone.”
Ben’s jaw tightens immediately. He leans back against the counter, arms folding slowly like he’s giving himself time not to snap. He learned a long time ago that pushing me harder never gets the result he wants. It just hardens my heels into the ground.
“You don’t know who reached out,” he says. “No crest. No location history. That’s not caution, Savannah. That’s reckless.”
“I know exactly what it is,” I reply. I lace my boots, tug the knots tight until the pressure feels familiar. Anchoring. “It’s a test.”
“Of what,” he asks, brows drawing together.
“Of whether I still need to be obeyed to be effective.”
“That’s not an answer,” Ben says flatly.
“It’s the only one that matters.”
He exhales, long and controlled, the way he does when he knows he’s losing ground but isn’t ready to concede it yet. “At least let me stay close. Same town. Same hour. Somewhere I can move if something goes wrong.”
“No,” I say again, softer this time. Not kinder. Just steadier. “If he sees backup, he won’t talk. He didn’t ask for Savannah the enforcer. He asked for Savannah alone.”
“That’s exactly what worries me.”
I stop moving and finally meet his eyes. “That’s why it has to be me.”
Ben holds my gaze for a long second. I see everything he isn’t saying there. Risk calculations. Contingencies. The quiet fear he never voices because he knows I’d dismiss it out of reflex. Then he nods once, sharp and reluctant.
“You check in when you leave,” he says. “And when you’re done.”
“I will.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he steps aside. That’s trust. Not agreement. There’s
a difference, and we both know it.
The town is human. Deliberately so.
Low buildings pressed close
together like they’re sharing secrets. Narrow streets that smell faintly of exhaust and bread. A bakery on the corner vents warm air that carries sugar and yeast into the cold hardware store with faded signage and a window display that hasn’t changed in years. No pack
markings. No subtle claims. Nothing
sharp enough to cut on.
I park a block away and walk the rest, hands loose at my sides, posture deliberately unassuming. No scanning rooftops. No Alpha stride. Just another woman in a jacket moving through a place that doesn’t know what she is and doesn’t care.
The café sits halfway down the street, wedged between a florist and a closed storefront with papered windows. The bell on the door rings when I step inside, a bright sound that feels almost intrusive after the quiet outside.
It smells like burnt coffee and cleaning spray.
Chipped tables. Mismatched chairs. A counter scarred with years of use. Ordinary people fill the space, talking about work schedules, about kids who won’t sleep, about weather that never cooperates. Conversations that won’t get anyone killed. Conversations that won’t end in blood or broken treaties.
I order coffee and sit where I can see the door without making a show of it.
The wolf arrives five minutes late.
I feel him before I see him. The
tension in the air shifts slightly, like a wire pulled too tight. When the door opens, he hesitates on the threshold long enough for the bell to ring twice its eyes dart around the room, cataloging faces, exits, reflections in glass. When he spots me, relief and panic hit him at the same time.
He’s young. Early twenties, maybe. Shoulders hunched like he’s learned to make himself smaller. Hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets like he’s afraid they’ll betray him if he lets them free. His pulse is loud enough that i can hear it when he stops across from me. Not aggressive. Not predatory.
Terrified.
He doesn’t sit right away. His eyes flick around the room again, repeating the scan, slower this time but no less frantic. When he finally drops into the chair, it’s like his legs give out beneath him.
“You came,” he says, voice barely steady.
“I said I would.”
He nods, swallows hard. His hands shake when he pulls them free of his pockets.
He presses them flat against the table like that might anchor them. It doesn’t.
“My Alpha doesn’t know I’m here,” he says.
“I assumed.”
“They’d kill me if they did.”
I don’t react. I don’t soften my expression or lean in with reassurance. I don’t interrupt. I just wait. Silence can be a kindness if you know how to use it.