The morning light filtered through the high windows of the Den to cast long streaks across the stone floor. The dining hall smelled of roasted venison and herbs, though neither scent did much to ease the heaviness that hung in the air.
Justus sat at the long oak table, eating with the calm precision of a soldier. His movements were steady and controlled; an illusion of order he forced himself to maintain. Across from him, Matron lingered, fussing with a basket of linens that didn't need fussing at all. Her eyes kept darting to him, her lips pressing into thin lines as though she were holding something back.
At length, Justus set down his knife and fork. Without looking up, he said, "I can tell you want to say something, Matron. What is it?"
Her hands stilled, fingers tightening around the cloth she held. She cleared her throat nervously and leaned closer, lowering her voice. "I was only wondering if you've… looked into what we spoke about last time?"
Justus finally got himself to meet her gaze, while ensuring that his face was unreadable as stone. He understood her well. She had been here before he ever was, and had raised Travis as though he were her own blood. Now, in his absence, she hovered like a hawk over anyone who might hold answers.
A smile tugged faintly at Justus's lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. He rarely smiled, but he had to soften for her sake. In truth, her question struck the very wound he was trying to conceal. Things were spiraling out of control. The scouts he'd sent had returned with negative reports of rogue attacks growing bolder, ambushes along the trade paths, and whispers of bloodbaths threatening to stain the Alpha's lands with fear.
This was not his strength. Travis was the strategist, the one who ensured victory out of impossible odds. Justus's gift on the other hand was execution. Together, they were unstoppable. But with Travis gone and his wolf strangely unreachable as though he'd sealed himself away, Justus felt like a sword without a hand to guide it. He had no plan. And that terrified him more than he would admit.
Still, he could not let Matron see his fear. She would be crushed beneath it.
"I assure you, Matron," he said smoothly, forcing calm into his tone, "things are under control."
Her eyes narrowed, unconvinced. She leaned in further, casting a glance around the empty hall as if checking for spies. "My source tells me there's been a bloodbath at the…"
He cut her off before she could finish, his voice sharper now. "I know." His jaw tightened. He had spent the night poring over those very reports, his hands stained with the weight of bad news. "You have nothing to worry about, Matron. Trust me."
But she did worry and her eyes said as much. She drew a slow breath, trying again, her voice softer now, almost pleading. "And the Alpha? Any word of his whereabouts?"
Justus rose from his chair, reaching for the napkin at his side. He wiped his hands with deliberate calm, as though by controlling small movements, he could control the storm inside.
"All I can tell you," he said at last, "is that he will be home soon."
It wasn't a lie. Not entirely. But it wasn't the truth either.
Matron searched his face, clearly unsatisfied, but she knew better than to press further. Her shoulders sagged, the weight of her worry making her look older than she was.
"Now," Justus continued, his voice firm but respectful, "I have pressing matters to attend to and I expect you'll get back to work and allow me handle the rest."
He inclined his head briefly, a soldier's gesture of respect, and turned away. His footsteps echoed against the stone floor as he left her standing there, clutching the folded linens like they were the only anchor she had left.
And though he had assured her all was well, the hollowness in his chest told her otherwise.
***
Jessie slipped into the classroom late with dark shades covering her tired eyes. Her head still throbbed from the alcohol haze of last night's party, and she winced when every head turned briefly toward her. The room smelled faintly of chalk dust and fresh coffee, pages rustling as final-year students scribbled notes.
At the front of the class, Professor Barry Harcourt, looking immaculate as always in a crisp white shirt and rolled sleeves, had paused mid-sentence with his gaze landing on her, sharp and steady.
"You are late to my class again, Miss Cruise," he said, his tone even, though it carried enough weight to make her heart stumble.
Jessie slid into the nearest seat, clutching her notebook. "I'm sorry, sir," she murmured.
For the briefest moment, she caught it, a faint curl at the corner of his lips. Almost a smile. "Nice choice of fashion, Miss Cruise." His eyes flicked to her oversized shades before returning to the whiteboard.
The class chuckled softly, and Jessie sank lower in her chair as heat crawled up her neck. She told herself to focus on the lecture, but her attention betrayed her almost instantly.
Professor Harcourt was explaining a core topic from Crisis Intervention Planning: How early detection of potential crises in an individual can prevent future trauma. His voice was calm and authoritative as he gave examples that got him nods from diligent students. Yet Jessie heard nothing as her eyes were busy trailing the movement of his hands as he gestured, the way his shoulders held tension, the measured cadence of his words. She was completely lost in the silent pull of a man she had no business wanting.
By the time the lecture ended, the room emptied quickly. Chairs scraped, laughter filled the hallway, but Jessie remained rooted in her seat, staring at him like someone caught in a spell.
"Jessie?"
Her name, spoken softly, snapped her out of her daze. She blinked up, startled to find him standing directly before her desk. Not Miss Cruise. Not formal. He had simply called her Jessie
Shame flushed through her. She scrambled for words, fumbling with her notebook. "I…I'm so sorry, sir."
He smiled then, slow and deliberate, a glint sparking in his eyes. Leaning back slightly, one brow arched, he let his gaze linger on her. "Tell me, Jessie, do you make a habit of doing things just so you can apologize later?"
Her pulse stumbled, quick and uneven. Twice now he had called her Jessie, and the way his eyes held hers felt… personal. Too personal. Heat crept up her neck as she tugged at the strap of her bag, throat tight. She turned her face away, silently scolding herself. "Jessie, get a grip. Final year, and here you are; losing your head over a professor."
"Miss Cruise," his voice came again, smooth as velvet, "is there something you wish to discuss with me?"
The question nearly undid her. Her chest ached with the urge to pour out everything burning inside her, to confess the humiliating truth: that she wanted him. But sense crawled its way back into her head in time to save her from embarrassing herself beyond repair, and she forced a weak laugh. "No, sir."
He studied her a moment, unreadable, then crossed his arms over his chest and gave the smallest shrug. "Alright. Have a good day, then, Miss Cruise."
Relief and disappointment tangled in her stomach. She bobbed her head, eager to escape before she made a bigger fool of herself. "And you too, sir. Have a good day."
She was halfway to the door when his voice cut through the quiet.
"Jessie."
She went rigid where she stood. Slowly, she turned to be met with his calm expression, but his eyes, those eyes flashed with something she couldn't name. Dark intensity like a door opening for only a second before closing again.
"Save me a table at the diner tonight."
And then he walked past her, out the door, leaving no room for her to answer.
Jessie was transfixed, unable to move, her breath caught in her throat. Was that a green light? An invitation? Or was he just toying with her, testing boundaries? She didn't know.
But excitement thrummed in her veins, bubbling over her shame. Against her will, her insides leapt. For the first time, the impossible no longer felt so far away.
***
Hunter tugged on his boots, revolver snug at his hip.
"Hunter," his mother pleaded, "you can't keep living like this. The streets don't need more blood."
"They need justice," he snapped. "And if it means sweeping out every last monster, so be it."
Before she could protest, he kissed her cheek. "We'll talk when I get back, Mom. For now, I've got work to do."
The door shut hard, rattling the frame and she remained rooted, dread clawing at her chest. Something told her he was marching straight into a storm.