Chapter 47

DEREK

The press conference had only been two days ago, but it felt like a lifetime.

I still hadn’t slept. Not really. Not in any way that counted.

I’d crashed for a few hours on the couch in my office the night after—boots still on, half-dressed, a mostly full glass of whiskey sweating rings into my desk.

It was still there. Same glass. Same whiskey. Still untouched.

The quiet was heavier than usual tonight. The kind that made a man feel like the walls were closing in, like the fire in the hearth was burning just to keep the shadows from swallowing the room whole.

I leaned forward on the couch, elbows braced on my knees, hands clasped tight enough to crack bone. My eyes fixed on the dying flames. I didn’t move.

Not when the embers popped.

Not when the clock ticked past midnight.

Not even when her voice echoed through my memory again.

“Until now,” she’d said, lifting her chin at the podium like she belonged there. Like she wasn’t afraid of a single one of them.

Godess, she was magnificent.

Even now, after everything. Even when my blood still ran hot with resentment, confusion, regret—she’d stood beside me and held the line.

We’d both lied through our teeth for the sake of the Alliance. Lied, smoothed edges, played the parts we had to play.

And I’d looked at her and realized I didn’t know where the performance ended.

The way her fingers had threaded with mine when the press started circling like sharks—that hadn’t felt like acting.

Or maybe I just wanted to believe that.

I exhaled hard through my nose and rubbed a hand over the back of my neck.

There were too many questions and not enough answers. About her. About what came next.

About how much longer we could pretend we weren’t still tethered together by something ancient and cruel and impossible to break.

I didn’t even notice Joe had come in until the door clicked softly shut behind him.

“Alpha.”

His voice was low. Careful.

That got my attention.

I straightened, tension already coiling in my spine. “Tell me you’ve got something.”

He nodded, walking toward me. A folder in one hand. He laid it flat on the table between us.

“I’ve got something.”

I took a deep breath, knowing just by looking at him that I wasn’t going to like what he was about to tell me.

“You’re not going to like this,” he said. I hated always being right.

And if he said it, it meant I was going to absolutely hate it.

He opened the folder. I didn’t reach for it. “The note?”

“Yeah. Forensics came back this morning.”

I stared at the folder, the fire’s reflection flickering over its contents. “Tell me.”

“The paper? Common. Cheap. Generic stock from a dozen office supply stores. The ink? Same deal. Nothing proprietary. Nothing traceable. No DNA from the envelope.”

“So, nothing,” I muttered, already annoyed.

Joe shrugged and took a seat opposite me. “Not quite nothing.”

That got my attention.

He flipped the folder around so it was facing me and slid a page across the desk. “The handwriting analyst found some things. Said the letter was written by someone right-handed. Pen pressure was confident. No hesitation or shakiness—whoever wrote this, they weren’t nervous. They knew exactly what they were doing.”

“Gender?”

“Inconclusive.”

“But…” I pressed, catching the way his lips tugged to the side like he was holding something back.

I looked at him, waiting for him to finish.

“She said it looked like someone educated. Like, private-school educated. Polished script. Formal sentence structure. No idioms or slang. Raised in the upper echelons, someone used to refinement.”

I felt something cold settle in my gut. “Can she tell what pack?”

Joe hesitated. “She wouldn’t say for sure. But… she’s pretty confident the person was raised in Silverclaw.”

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating.

I leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking beneath me, and stared up at the ceiling. A dull ache pulsed behind my eyes.

It was one thing to suspect it. To know, deep down, that someone close to me had done this. But hearing it confirmed, even indirectly—it twisted something in my chest.

I stood abruptly, walked to the fire, and poured myself another drink. The bottle clinked against the glass like it had something smart to say. I threw it back and let the burn sit in my throat.

Joe didn’t leave. He knew better.

“You think it was someone we know?” he asked after a while.

“Yes.”

“You think it was someone close?”

I stared into the flames. “I think someone in our pack wanted Elena dead before I ever knew who she really was.”

He didn’t respond, and I didn’t ask him to. I needed silence. I needed time.

After Joe left, I stayed there a while longer, watching the fire as it devoured log after log, sparks vanishing like secrets in the dark.

Eventually, my mother came in, her heels clicking softly against the stone floor.

“You’ve been quiet today,” she said.

I didn’t turn around. “It’s been a long week.”

She moved to the sideboard and poured herself a cup of tea—always tea, never anything stronger. “You’re not sleeping.”

“No.”

She took the seat Joe had vacated and crossed her legs neatly. Her eyes scanned me like they always did—measuring, evaluating. Not unkindly, but carefully. She’d learned that from my father.

“What is it?” she asked finally. “And don’t say nothing.”

I let out a long breath. “Did you and Dad ever deal with traitors in the pack?”

That got her attention. Her back stiffened, her expression cooling in a way that reminded me exactly why she’d been Luna for two decades.

“Why?”

“Because I think we have one now.”

She didn’t speak right away. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Your father handled traitors quickly. Quietly. Definitively.”

“That sounds like him,” I murmured.

She nodded. “Though there was one time… when things weren’t so clean.”

I turned toward her. “There was what?”

She hesitated, fingers tightening around her teacup. “Do you remember your father’s Gamma?”

“Sherman?”

“No. Before him. Pierce.”

The name hit me like a punch to the ribs.

I remembered Pierce. Barely. He’d been Gamma when I was away at school.

I hadn’t spent much time around him, but I remembered his voice—deep and rough, like gravel. He’d always seemed just a little too quiet. A little too watchful.

“What about him?”

My mother set her cup down and sighed. “Information came out. Things he’d planned. Dangerous things.”

“Like what?”

“Attempts to manipulate alliances. Leverage secrets. Even suggestions that he meant to do harm to... other packs. Children, even. We couldn’t prove it—he was careful—but there were too many coincidences to ignore.”

I leaned back, letting the information sink in. Processing.

“Why wasn’t he executed?” I finally said.

“Because your father was a good man. Pierce had served Silverclaw faithfully for years. He was given a choice—banishment or death. He chose banishment. Your father offered his family clemency, but they refused. They left together.”

“So they were kicked out of the pack?” No pack meant death in our world. No family. No protection. Most werewolves sought out the human world. If you were excommunicated from a pack, no other pack would take you.

“When was this?” I asked.

“Just… Just before your father died.”

There was something in her voice that made my eyes snap to hers.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

She looked away. “There were… rumors. That Pierce orchestrated it somehow. Your father’s death. Revenge.”

“Mother—"

“We couldn’t prove it,” she said, and for the first time in my life, I heard my mother’s voice crack. She answered my next question before I could even ask it.

“And you were grieving. Trying to hold the pack together with both hands. I didn’t want to put that on your shoulders.”

I ran a hand through my hair, heart pounding.

“Do you know where Pierce is now?” I asked.

“No one does,” she said. “He disappeared after the funeral. Some say he left the territory. Others think he was waiting.”

“For what?”

She stood. “To finish what he started.”

The words hung in the air, chilling in their simplicity.

At the door, she paused. “If someone crosses you, son… act swiftly.”

She looked over her shoulder, eyes colder than I’d seen in years.

“And permanently.”

She left me with that.

I barely had time to sit again before my phone rang. I looked at the screen. Elena.

I hesitated, emotions thrashing through my head like branches in a gale.

I answered anyway. I had to. It was her.

Her voice came through, sharp and angry. “Is it true?”

I leaned back in my chair. “Is what true?”

“Did Cassandra leak my identity to the press?”