Cracks in the Armor

The conference room stank of stale coffee and frustration.

Maps covered the table, red circles marking rogue activity. Reports stacked high beside half-drained glasses of water. The weight of too many sleepless nights hung in the air.

Aiden leaned over the table, stabbing his finger at the map. “They’re pushing toward the river. If we don’t cut them off now, they’ll carve a path straight through Midtown.”

Across from him, Dante leaned back lazily in his chair, golden eyes glinting under the overhead lights. “And if we charge in now, we’ll be walking into their ambush. They want us desperate.”

“So your plan is what?” Aiden snapped. “Sit back and let them run over us?”

“My plan,” Dante drawled, “is to not be an idiot. You strike fast, you burn out. You wait, you win.”

Aiden’s jaw clenched. His wolf snarled, restless. “Funny. I thought Alphas led from the front, not from a leather chair.”

For a heartbeat, the room went still. Dante’s smirk widened. Then he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “Careful, Blackthorn. Push me, and you’ll find out exactly how I lead.”

The words hit like sparks against flint. The air thickened, charged. Aiden’s pulse jumped, though he masked it with a cold smile.

“Is that a threat?” he asked.

“Depends,” Dante said softly. “On how badly you want it to be.”

The silence snapped when Aiden’s father cleared his throat sharply from the head of the table. Adrian Blackthorn’s glare could cut steel. “Enough. We’re here to solve problems, not measure egos.”

Lucien Veyron’s voice followed, low and scathing. “Though some of us seem to have very little to measure.”

Dante’s jaw tightened, the smirk faltering for a fraction of a second. His father’s gaze pinned him like a knife, unrelenting.

Aiden’s chest twisted. He shouldn’t have cared. But he saw it—the brief flicker in Dante’s eyes before he masked it. A crack in the armor.

Hours later, when the room had emptied, Aiden lingered, gathering reports with shaking hands. His father’s disappointment still echoed in his head. He slammed a folder shut harder than necessary, frustration clawing at him.

“You work too hard,” a voice drawled.

Aiden didn’t look up. “You spy too much.”

Footsteps padded closer. Dante leaned against the edge of the table, too close, too casual. “Occupational hazard.”

Aiden shot him a glare. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

Dante’s smirk was faint, but his voice was quieter than usual. “You think carrying all this weight alone makes you strong. It doesn’t. It makes you break faster.”

Aiden frowned. “And you’d know?”

Something flickered across Dante’s face. For once, his arrogance dimmed. “My father doesn’t want a son. He wants a weapon. Sharp enough to cut his enemies. Obedient enough to never question. But weapons break. And when they do, they get replaced.”

The words dropped heavy, like stones in water.

Aiden stared, something shifting inside him. He had never thought of Dante as anything but untouchable. But in that moment, he looked human.

Vulnerable.

His voice came rough. “Maybe we’re both breaking.”

For a heartbeat, their eyes locked. Gray and gold. Enemy and enemy. The pull between them sharpened, dangerous.

Then Dante’s smirk snapped back into place. “Don’t get sentimental, Blackthorn. It doesn’t suit you.”

But it didn’t reach his eyes.

That night, shadows stirred elsewhere.

Julian Blackthorn stood on a balcony, cigarette glowing faint red. The city sprawled below, blind to the poison growing in its veins.

“You’re quiet,” Julian said without looking back.

Leo Veyron paced behind him, restless, his jaw tight. “Quiet doesn’t mean calm.”

Julian exhaled smoke, slow and smooth. “You hate him that much?”

“Dante?” Leo’s laugh was bitter. “He’s everything. The heir, the golden Alpha. Everyone follows him without question. And me? I’m nothing but his shadow.” His eyes burned. “I want him to bleed.”

Julian’s smile was sharp. “Then we make him bleed. Along with Aiden. Together, they’re dangerous. But pull one string, and they’ll choke each other.”

Leo’s pacing stilled. He looked over, grin spreading. “And when they fall, we’ll be standing where they can’t.”

Julian flicked ash into the night. “Exactly.”

Their laughter was low, sharp, wrong. The city kept roaring beneath them, blind.

Back at the safe house, the quiet was unbearable.

Aiden sat on the edge of his bed, reports spread around him, but his eyes kept straying to the memory of Dante’s face. Not smirking. Not taunting. Just… cracked.

He hated that he’d seen it. Hated that it mattered.

A soft knock at the door.

He stiffened. “What?”

The door creaked open anyway. Dante stepped inside, leaning against the frame. “Relax. I’m not here to bite.”

Aiden scowled. “Then get out.”

Instead, Dante crossed the room, stopping close enough that Aiden could smell the faint iron of blood, the sharper scent of wolf beneath his skin.

“You’re shaking,” Dante said quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

Aiden’s throat worked. He wanted to shove him back, to tear into him, to end this unbearable closeness. Instead, he sat frozen as Dante reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the bandage at his ribs.

The touch burned. Aiden’s breath caught.

Their eyes locked, heat crackling, too much, too close. His wolf surged, restless, hungry.

For one dangerous moment, he thought—this is it. The point where hate breaks into something else.

Then Dante’s smirk flickered back, sharp and cold. He withdrew his hand. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I just don’t want my sparring partner bleeding out too soon.”

He left without another word.

Aiden sat in the silence, his body trembling with something he refused to name.

Hate wasn’t supposed to feel like this.