Chapter 2.2: The Wolf's House.

Savannah Whitlock

It is, unfortunately, one of my worst traits that when I get nervous, I get mouthy.

Not graceful.

Not poised.

Not mysterious.

Mouthy.

So naturally, standing in the middle of a room full of strangers who may or may not have just participated in some sort of mountain cult intervention, I looked directly at the man who had silenced everyone with a single word and said the first stupid thing that came to mind.

"So... what's the plan here?" I asked, lifting my chin and aiming for bold even though my knees seemed very interested in folding in on themselves. "Do I need to sign a waiver? Or is there, like, a ‘you wandered into the wrong forest fine I should know about?"

A few people who were halfway to leaving the room froze.

One older woman turned so fast I thought she might pull something. Somebody behind me made a soft, scandalized noise.

I almost regretted speaking.

Almost.

Asher didn't bark. Didn't snap. Didn't look offended.

He just looked at me.

There was a flicker across his face. Small. Fast. Hard to name. Surprise, maybe. Or amusement that hadn't decided whether it was allowed to exist.

The firelight caught him differently now, and because my brain had clearly chosen violence against me, I noticed things I absolutely did not need to be noticing in that moment.

His hair was black and slightly messy, like he either didn't care what anyone thought of it or had more important things to worry about. A rugged beard framed his jaw. And his eyes...

God.

Dark brown. So deep they almost looked black in the firelight. Steady in a way that made the rest of the room blur around them. They stayed on my face a second too long, like he was trying to read every thought I hadn't managed to hide.

Heat rushed into my cheeks before I could stop it.

Mortifying.

"I—um." I cleared my throat. "Sorry. That came out... sassier than I meant it to."

One corner of his mouth twitched.

Not a smile. Not really.

But it was close enough to do something stupid to my stomach.

"You're coping," he said evenly. "I've seen worse."

That should not have made me feel better. It did anyway.

Before I could scrape together a reply that didn't make me sound like I was actively losing my mind, another man stepped beside me. Solid. Quiet. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him through my coat. He angled himself just slightly between me and the rest of the room, not enough to feel threatening. Just enough to feel deliberate.

His gaze flicked to the closed doors, then back to me.

"Don't you worry about Scar-face and his lackeys," he murmured, voice low and almost amused. "He talks big, but if you noticed, he was the first one to get to the door."

I blinked.

The blond man’s mouth tilted.

"Not much of a threat when his feet are already halfway out of the pack house. Especially dragging his sons and the other simpletons behind him."

The deadpan delivery caught me off guard hard enough that a laugh slipped out before I could stop it.

Quick. Sharp. Real.

But my brain snagged hard on two words.

Pack house.

I didn't react outwardly.

Inside, though, every thought I had tripped over itself.

Pack house?

What exactly was that supposed to mean?

Because there were only so many ways those words could be interpreted, and none of them fit into anything remotely normal.

It took every ounce of self-control I had not to blurt out the question immediately.

But this room didn't feel like the place to advertise exactly how confused I was. Not with guards behind me. Not with strangers still watching. Not with whatever fragile thread of control was keeping this whole situation from becoming something worse.

So I swallowed it.

Forced the curiosity down into the same place I'd been stuffing my fear all night.

Instead, I tilted my head and let my mouth save me again.

"So..." I said lightly, "lots of bark?"

The blond man grinned.

"Not nearly enough bite, little one."

Then he looked toward Asher. "I like this one, Asher. You chose well."

Asher’s gaze never fully left me, but I caught the side-eye he gave the blond man when he called me little one. It was brief, but sharp enough to shave with.

"Rowan."

The blond man—Rowan, apparently—straightened a fraction.

"Please refrain from nicknames," Asher said calmly. "She has not chosen whether she wishes to stay."

That caught me off guard.

Not if she stays.

Whether she wishes to.

Like this was actually my decision.

Like I had any control over anything right now.

Rowan lifted his hands in mock surrender.

"Understood."

He stepped back, though not far. Relaxed, but alert in the way people only are when they know exactly how dangerous a room can become if the wrong thing is said.

Asher turned back to me.

"You," he said, and now his tone was quieter somehow, softer around the edges, "probably have a boatload of questions."

I folded my arms mostly because I didn't know what else to do with them.

"A boatload?" I said. "Sir, it’s more like a shipping container. Maybe an entire fleet."

To my horror, I giggled at the end of it.

A real one.

Asher’s expression shifted again. That same flicker. Amusement, maybe. Relief. Something I couldn't quite pin down.

"I would like to answer them," he said. "But not here."

His eyes flicked briefly toward the others still lingering. The ones pretending not to listen. The guards standing too straight. The house itself somehow seemed to lean in around us.

"If you'd like," he continued, "I could take you to my study. It is more private there." A small scowl touched his mouth. "And you would not be treated like entertainment."

My throat tightened.

Alone with him sounded terrifying.

But staying here, inside a room that still felt half like a tribunal and half like a trap, somehow sounded worse.

I opened my mouth, hoping something sensible would come out.

Then his eyes held mine, and all my thoughts scattered like birds.

The heat rushed right back into my cheeks.

"Okay." I said, quieter now. "Somewhere private."

He nodded once, like that answer was enough.

Then he did something that surprised me.

With a small courtesy that felt strangely normal in a house that was anything but, he turned toward me as if we were being introduced at a dinner party and not in the aftermath of what had felt suspiciously like a revolt.

"Savannah Whitlock," he said, voice formal and calm.

I like the way he says my name.

The thought hit me so fast I nearly choked on it.

"I did not introduce myself properly."

He extended his hand.

Not like a challenge. Not like a trap.

Just... polite.

"My name is Asher," he said. "Asher DravenHart."

I stared at his hand for a second like it might suddenly sprout claws and answer every question I had.

Then I put my fingers into his palm.

His skin was warm.

Way too warm.

Not normal warmth. Not human warmth after standing near a fire. Something else. Something that sent a sharp spark racing up my arm, like static right before lightning strikes. My breath caught.

His grip closed carefully around my hand, gentle in a way that suggested he was being very, very intentional about it.

"Follow me, then," he said softly. "To my study."

And somehow that felt more dangerous than the entire room full of people had.