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The Council’s Whisper

Author: Merryn
last update Last Updated: 2025-09-28 02:00:54

POV: Marcus

The steward’s knock was careful—measured, the way a man carries bad news he’d rather not say. He stood in the doorway with a folded sheet of paper, small and sudden as an accusation.

“Safehouse breached, my lord,” he said. “Children taken. Likely Iron Fang. Olivia absent. Blood at the scene.”

I let the words sit. Men bring me what they cannot bear elsewhere; they expect angle and ledger, not outrage. I scanned the lines the way I scan a balance: entries, deficits, the tilt of advantage.

Heirs stolen. Olivia weakened. Luther in the mud. A theft that could be turned into proof. Reasons arranged themselves on the table, polite and cold.

“Wolves,” I said, folding the parchment flat. “They gnaw at the edges. Bring me the Council. This”—I tapped the paper—“will be our leverage. A public case. A demand for order. We will own the frame.”

The steward’s relief was palpable. “Shall I issue notices, my lord?”

“Yes. Prepare a preliminary statement. Emphasise the pack’s cooperati
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  • Alpha’s Regret: His Luna, His Heirs, His Redemption   A Divided Council

    POV: Marcus Dawn put a pale knife along the Hall’s windows, etching each pane with the kind of light men mistake for truth. The Council gathered—Calder with grief tight behind the eyes; Maren upright with scripture in her spine; Voss perfumed in hunger. Silver kettles steamed. Opportunity scented the room. I stood where the banners crossed, hands light on the table’s edge—the picture of a man the pack could forgive itself for needing. “Thank you for coming at first light,” I said, voice pitched to stone. “Rumour has a shape. Here’s the truth: our enemies breached a private residence and abducted four children under our protection.” A ripple. I let it run, then bridled it. “We will not panic. We will bring them home. We will make the guilty pay.” I moved to the lever. “To do this cleanly, we centralise command. No splinter hunts. No crusades. One hand on the rope. The pack needs one voice—” Careful, Varros prowled my ribs. You say “voice” and mean “leash.” “—and I will se

  • Alpha’s Regret: His Luna, His Heirs, His Redemption   The False Den

    POV: Luther / RecceThe river warehouses slouched like old wolves, tin roofs coughing the last rain into gutters. The air reeked of damp stone and oil—and beneath it, the skin-itch of rogues. My men fanned along the alley mouth; only the soft clack of magazines and fabric on brick.Olivia stood three paces behind my shoulder in a black coat that made light choose. I told her to stay back. She came anyway. Some moments you don’t argue with.“Tracks hold?” I asked.Garron, low at the loading door, nodded. “Fresh. More than six. One limps. Blood on the latch.”I ran a thumb over metal—sticky, not ours. Aria had bought seconds with that paring knife and spent them well.I drew my blade across my palm—dark smear on rusted steel—and pressed it to the door. Old signal. Let them feel us coming.We went in.The door screamed. The first rogue lunged; my knife met him. His breath hit my neck warm; his heart hit the floor cold. We poured through the side door, broken windows, ripped dock curtain

  • Alpha’s Regret: His Luna, His Heirs, His Redemption    The Council’s Whisper

    POV: Marcus The steward’s knock was careful—measured, the way a man carries bad news he’d rather not say. He stood in the doorway with a folded sheet of paper, small and sudden as an accusation. “Safehouse breached, my lord,” he said. “Children taken. Likely Iron Fang. Olivia absent. Blood at the scene.” I let the words sit. Men bring me what they cannot bear elsewhere; they expect angle and ledger, not outrage. I scanned the lines the way I scan a balance: entries, deficits, the tilt of advantage. Heirs stolen. Olivia weakened. Luther in the mud. A theft that could be turned into proof. Reasons arranged themselves on the table, polite and cold. “Wolves,” I said, folding the parchment flat. “They gnaw at the edges. Bring me the Council. This”—I tapped the paper—“will be our leverage. A public case. A demand for order. We will own the frame.” The steward’s relief was palpable. “Shall I issue notices, my lord?” “Yes. Prepare a preliminary statement. Emphasise the pack’s cooperati

  • Alpha’s Regret: His Luna, His Heirs, His Redemption   Evidence AndFury

    POV: OliviaThe night had the wrong kind of quiet.Not the hush after bedtime stories, not a house settling. Hollow—heat sucked from walls, breath from my chest—leaving the safehouse like a body missing organs.The front door sagged on splintered hinges. Safety glass glittered on gravel like false frost. Someone had straightened the porch light, as if neatness could hide violence.Barefoot—heels in hand, dress hitched—I stepped inside. Lemon cleaner. Cinnamon from Hope’s cookies. Beneath it: iron and fur. It should have smelled like crayons, wool, warm breath on a couch cushion. It smelled like absence.“Clear the entry,” Luther said behind me—flat, controlled, for his men, not for me.I kept walking.The den iced my bones.Hyden’s drum split clean, blade-straight. Daisy’s storms—pages scattered, clouds smeared to bruises by boot and paw. Lily’s boots crooked, laces snarled—her disorder was a scream. Rowan’s sweater was half-folded, sleeve dragged. Hope’s blanket is torn, seam split,

  • Alpha’s Regret: His Luna, His Heirs, His Redemption   Fractured Sanctuary

    POV: Olivia The applause rolled over me; for a heartbeat I let it. Chairs scraped. Handshakes stacked. Expensive cologne and polite victory hung in the air. We’d done it—again. The new headquarters gleamed: glass veils, polished stone, a staircase curled like a ribbon of light. The gala was our answer to rumours, to absence, to wolves. “Ms Wade,” a reporter called as I moved from stage to mezzanine, “what’s the secret to rebounding this fast after—” “Focus,” I said, smiling to the camera. “Vision. Partners who bet on execution over noise.” Flash. Flash. Everything was staged to soothe a world that values gloss: a quartet on the balcony, orchids spilling down the stairs, champagne in flutes that chimed if you breathed wrong. The program ticked—welcome, donors, board toast, pledge—each beat saying: Olivia Wade is steady. My dress helped: midnight silk, clean lines, a strategic neckline, and a cuff at my wrist. Chosen like a statement to the Street—what calms, what cuts.

  • Alpha’s Regret: His Luna, His Heirs, His Redemption   Breaking Point

    POV: AriaThe laundromat door chimed behind Olivia, and I sat for a moment longer, staring at the dead tracker in my palm. Small, ordinary—black plastic, a magnet no bigger than a coin. But I knew better. Wolves didn’t always need claws. Sometimes they used tools, human hands, and laws sharp as teeth.I slipped it into my pocket and stepped into the rain. Needles of water stung the pavement, headlights dragging white scars across the wet street.By the time I reached the safehouse, the children were stirring. Daisy met me at the door in socks, curls wild as if she’d been wrestling with dreams.“Is Mama back?” she whispered.I bent, brushed hair from her eyes. “Not yet. She’s making the world look steady.”That seemed enough. Daisy trusted steadiness more than promises.Inside, Lily had stacked books against the den door. Hyden paced, fists tight, Rowan steadying him with a hand to the arm. Their fear wasn’t loud—it was disciplined. That frightened me more than screams ever would. Chil

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