Carrying His Claim

There’s a specific kind of quiet that settles over a pack house after a birth, not silence, exactly, but a held breath that finally lets go. I’ve learned to love that sound almost as much as I’ve learned to walk away from it.

“You’re sure you won’t stay for the naming?” Odette Renwick asked, shifting the baby against her shoulder like she still couldn’t quite believe he was real. Six pounds, four ounces, a full head of dark hair, and lungs that had made the pack’s healer wince an hour ago. Perfect.

“I’m sure.” I finished folding the last of the paperwork into my bag — discharge notes, the healer’s signature, my own copy of the closing statement — and offered her the smile I always end a contract with. Warm enough to mean it. Distant enough to mean this is where it ends. “He’s yours now. Officially and otherwise. Congratulations, Luna.”

Odette’s eyes went bright, and for a second I thought she might try to hug me again, the way she had in the delivery room, sweaty and sobbing and grateful in a way that made my chest tight even now, three days later. I stepped back instead, hitched my bag onto my shoulder, and let the motion do the talking. Professional. Complete. Closed.

“Five years of doing this,” her mate said from the doorway, arms crossed, still looking a little shell-shocked in the way most new fathers did around me, like they weren’t sure whether to thank me or apologize, “and you’ve never once wanted to know how any of them turn out?”

“I know how they turn out.” I nodded at the baby. “That’s him. That’s the whole job.”

It wasn’t a lie. I did want to know, in the small, unprofessional corner of myself I never let anyone see — whether the twins from my third contract still fought over everything, whether the little girl from two years back still had her father’s stubborn chin. But wanting to know and needing to stay weren’t the same thing, and the difference between those two things was the entire foundation my career was built on.

I said my goodbyes, took the car the Renwick Pack had waiting, and didn’t look back at the compound as it shrank in the rearview mirror. That part wasn’t performance. Five years and twelve contracts in, I genuinely didn’t feel the pull to look back. That was the whole point of me.

My name is Runa Vance, and I carry other people’s children for a living. Not casually — not the way a human surrogate might, filling out forms and hoping the biology cooperates. What I do requires a bloodline most wolves have never heard of and almost none of them have.

My grandmother called it the Conduit gift, the way her mother had called it before her, going back generations on a thread of women nobody outside the family had ever bothered to name properly. In a species where conception only happens through an active bond — a real one, scent-deep and involuntary, which is exactly why so many Alphas without a living mate, or a fertile one, end up desperate enough to pay a stranger’s rate — my body does something most bodies can’t. It opens a channel. No bond required. No history, no promises, no risk of anyone’s heart getting tangled up in the process, at least not on my end.

That’s the sales pitch, anyway. It’s also, mostly, true.

I built my practice on it: five years, twelve packs, a reputation solid enough that brokers came to me now instead of the other way around. I didn’t do this because I loved children, exactly, though I didn’t dislike them either. I did it because I was extraordinarily good at something almost nobody else could do. After all, it paid better than anything else available to a Conduit-blooded wolf with no pack of her own, and because — this part I kept to myself, mostly — it let me walk into rooms full of Alphas and Lunas who held more power than I’d ever have and know, with total certainty, that they needed me more than I needed them.

I liked that math. I’d built my whole adult life around it.

My office — if you could call the second floor of a converted boathouse on the coast an office — smelled like salt and the lavender candle Petra insisted made clients feel less like they were signing their lives away. I dropped my bag on the desk, peeled off the blazer I’d worn to the discharge meeting, and caught my reflection in the window glass on the way past: dark hair coming loose from its twist, curves I’d stopped apologizing for somewhere around twenty-three, tired in the particular way that came from being useful to someone for nine straight months. I looked like exactly what I was. I didn’t mind that.

Petra was already at her desk when I came down, feet up, phone wedged between her ear and shoulder, waving me over before she’d even finished her call. She hung up as I dropped into the chair across from her.

“Renwick pack settle the final payment?”

“This morning.” I tipped my head back against the chair. “Healthy baby, happy Luna, zero complications. Another one for the file.”

“You say that like it’s boring.”

“It’s not boring. It’s reliable.” I closed my eyes for a second, let myself feel the particular satisfaction of a job done cleanly, start to finish, with nothing left dangling on either end. “That’s the whole appeal.”

Petra made a noise that wasn’t quite agreement. She’d been saying for two years now that I was going to meet a contract I couldn’t close out cleanly, that the math I liked so much would eventually run into a client who didn’t play by the rules I’d built my whole practice on. I usually let her have the theory without arguing, mostly because arguing with Petra about my emotional availability was a losing bet on a good day, and today I was tired.

“You’ve got that face,” she said.

“I don’t have a face.”

“You have exactly one face, and it’s the one you make when you’re about to pretend you didn’t hear something important.” She nodded at my phone, sitting face-up on the desk between us, screen lit with a missed call and a voicemail icon. “That came in twenty minutes ago. Broker line.”

I picked it up. The number was one I recognized — Halloway, the broker who only called when the job was big enough to be worth the interruption. I hit play, put it on speaker, and Petra leaned in without pretending not to.

“Runa, it’s Marcus. I’ve got something you’re going to want to hear in person, not over voicemail, so call me back the second you get this. Ashwood Pack. Alpha needs an heir, and I mean he needs it — border situation up north’s gotten ugly, and his Council’s putting pressure on the succession. His intended can’t carry. I already told him about you specifically. This is a Conduit job, and it pays like one — highest offer I’ve brokered in three years. I need an answer by tomorrow.”

The message ended. Petra’s eyebrows had climbed somewhere near her hairline.

“Ashwood,” she said slowly, like she was turning the name over for a memory she couldn’t quite place. “Isn’t that the pack that lost their Alphas in that border raid a few years back? The one all over the pack-network boards?”

“Maybe.” I was already pulling up the number, already running the math I always ran — payout, timeline, risk, distance, none of it more complicated than any other contract I’d signed. Big pack. Big money. Big problem that had nothing to do with me beyond the paperwork.

I’d done harder jobs than a straightforward heir contract. I’d never once, in five years, taken one I couldn’t close out clean.

I hit call.

“Marcus,” I said, when he picked up on the first ring. “Tell me everything.”