Chapter 50

Narrator's pov

Council chambers always feel like a coffin, don’t they? Air so thick with torch smoke and suspicion you practically choke on it. Dominic parked himself at the head of the table, jaws clenched so tight. He hated this place, and who could blame him? The walls were crammed with scowling portraits of Alphas past, all looking down their crooked noses like, “Oh, we’d never mess this up.” Liars. None of them ever ruled with blood running hot and betrayal stinking up every decision.

Now he’s the prey, not the predator, every pair of crusty old council eyes aimed right at his throat.

“Alpha,” wheezed good old Elder Greaves, voice like gravel dragged across asphalt, “the pack’s on life support. Rogues pour in, warriors trip over each other, folks are gossiping like market hens.” He didn’t even blink. “We want your brother back. Dante gets his job or this place falls apart.”

Wham.

Like a gavel to his skull.

Dominic leaned in, fingers digging trenches into the polished wood. His words hung there, daring someone to call his bluff.

Elder Mara, never one to play nice, hit the table so hard that it shook.

“Treason, my ass. Anybody could’ve written those letters, and the timing’s suspicious as hell.” Her glare promised war.

People started muttering, storming up a tidal wave of unrest.

Dominic’s head pounded. He kept picturing Dante, stone-faced in the dank dungeon, tight-lipped, wouldn’t even defend himself. If he’s innocent… Why the act? Then Mira’s venom slithered across Dominic’s thoughts, her voice whispering poisonous little doubts. “Your throne is what he wants.” She would shove those damned letters into his hands, eyes full of secrets and half-regret. For weeks she had prowled too close, hissing poison about Elora.

But Elora...

Nope.

I couldn't go there. She was a walking storm. Always in Dante’s corner, always upstaging Dominic with her fire and sense of duty, stepping in where he’d stepped back. Sometimes he wondered if the pack respected her more than him. Did he hate her for it? Hell, no. Sometimes he wished he had even half her guts, but if it didn’t make him feel smaller every time she spoke.

Greaves piped up, louder and colder. “Don’t let Dante go, we’ll hold council without you. Push us, and the pack will pick...Alpha or protector.”

A tidal wave of angry voices roared. Dominic’s hand itched for his sword. His pride screamed to shut them up; his job told him to listen.

Duty. What a joke. The word felt like a choke collar.

He shot to his feet, chair legs screeching on stone. “Enough. You’ll get my answer. But no one moves against me. I’m still in charge.” Or so he hoped.

He walked out, the echo of their shouting following him down the halls, so loud he could barely hear his own heartbeat. The way things were going, he wasn’t sure how much longer anyone would actually listen to him.

**********

The whole pack was falling to pieces.

Elora stood out on her chilly stone balcony, watching battered warriors limp home from the border. Some dragged themselves along, smeared in mud and blood. A couple carried the less lucky ones, broken bodies on stretchers. Nobody strutted, nobody shouted. The only thing left of their pride was the busted armor.

Her wolf raged inside her skull, restless, furious. This was not how things were supposed to go. Dante should be out there, protecting the pack, not stuck in that cell.

She held the railing, knuckles turned white. The memory of his face hurt, proud. The words he had whispered still stung. Begged her to leave Dominic, to take the bond. Not happening. Not yet.

Walking away from Dominic? That would buy her a one-way ticket to exile...bye-bye Luna, so long protection, good luck earning the pack’s trust back. Not unless she had a good plan… and right now, she didn’t.

Even as she rattled off excuses in her head, Elora couldn’t shake the truth. Her heart? Oh, that thing had never so much as flickered for Dominic. Not the way it blazed for Dante, anyway.

A knock, gentle but stubborn, snapped her back. Mara. Of course it was Mira, the wise old crone, face carved from stone and worry, lips nearly disappearing in a grim line.

“The council’s pushing for Dante’s release,” Mira said, not bothering with a hello. “We tried talking sense into Dominic, but he’s digging his heels in. That leaves you, Luna. Talk to him.”

Great.

Elora’s throat felt like it had been lined with sandpaper. “He barely talks to me, Mira. I could tattoo the words on my forehead and he’d still give me side-eye.”

Mira’s expression thawed a bit. “Exactly why you’re the one who can do this. The pack, they trust you. They see every weight Dominic shrugs off and land on your shoulders. Speak up for Dante now, and you’re not just saving him. Honestly, you might save us all.”

Elora just nodded, not really feeling her own body for a second. Mira left, closing the door and leaving her to herself.

She drifted over to the balcony, letting the night breeze slap some sense into her. She sighed at the fact that everyday brought new trouble to her. Rogues were sniffing around with way too much confidence. If Dominic didn't stop acting like a paranoid freak, there’d be bodies in the streets.

Her wolf wasn’t subtle, a low, angry growl in her head. He’s gonna wreck everything if he keeps it up. Dante’s the one we need. You know it.

Elora pressed her palm to her chest, fingers trembling. She could still feel Dante’s calloused hand cupping hers through those cold bars, his voice raw and desperate. Leave him. Choose me.

Her lips moved, a whisper blurred into the shadows. “I can’t lose you.”

Somewhere out there, war crept closer,she could practically taste it in the air, all copper and fear. And right in her ribs, a decision throbbed hotter each day.

Pretty soon, she’d have to pick a side. Not just between two brothers, but between what kept the pack alive, and what actually kept her heart beating.