Chapter 45

My Cheating Mate

Jeremy pov

The war room was packed—every warrior, enforcer, and combat-capable wolf in the pack, plus representatives from Silverbrook and Moonshadow. Maps covered the table, showing defensive positions, patrol routes, potential attack vectors.

"Black River will likely strike from the northwest," I was saying, pointing to the terrain map. "The forest is densest there, giving them cover until they're practically on top of us. We need triple patrols in that sector, with overlapping fields of fire—"

My phone rang. The sound cut through my tactical briefing like a knife.

"Ignore it," my father said. "We need to finish—"

But something about the ring made my wolf surge forward, hackles raised. Instinct. Danger.

I pulled out my phone. Unknown number.

"I should take this," I said, already moving toward the door.

"Jeremy, we're in the middle of—"

"It could be about Emma." The excuse came out automatically, though I knew somehow it wasn't. This was something else. Something worse.

I stepped into the hallway and answered. "Yes?"

"Jeremy Trent." The voice was male, rough, with an accent I couldn't quite place. "Future Alpha of Crescent Moon Pack. I've heard so much about you."

My blood ran cold. "Who is this?"

"I think you know who this is." A dark chuckle. "Or rather, who I represent. Black River sends its regards."

The mercenary leader. Had to be. The massive wolf who'd charged at Emma, who'd fought with professional brutality, who'd escaped into the forest.

"What do you want?" I kept my voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system.

"What do I want? That's an interesting question." I could hear him moving, background noise suggesting he was outdoors. "Originally, I wanted one thing. One female. Emma Smith. Simple contract. Clean kill. Everyone goes home happy."

"That's not happening."

"No, it's not. Because you made it complicated. You embarrassed my organization. Killed my wolves. Exposed our intelligence source." His voice hardened. "You turned a simple assassination into a fucking catastrophe for our reputation."

"Good."

"Good?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Future Alpha, you have no idea what you've done. Black River doesn't fail contracts. Ever. Our entire business model depends on guaranteed results."

"Then maybe you should have sent better wolves."

"Oh, I did. I sent fifty of my best. Against your pack, they should have been more than enough." A pause. "But you fought well. Better than expected. So now I'm sending a hundred and fifty."

The number hit me like a physical blow. A hundred and fifty. Not a hundred like our intelligence suggested. Fifty percent more than we'd planned for.

"You're bluffing."

"Am I? Ask yourself—would I waste time calling you if I was bluffing?" More movement sounds. "I've consolidated three factions. Black River, Bloodmoon, and Ash Creek. Plus I've hired independent contractors. All told, one hundred and fifty professional mercenary wolves. All motivated by revenge and the promise of double payment if we succeed."

My mind raced, recalculating defensive positions. We had one hundred and ten wolves. Even with home territory advantage, being outnumbered by forty percent was—

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked. "Why give away your numbers?"

"Because I want you to understand what's coming. Want you to know that you can't win. Want you to have time to consider my offer."

"What offer?"

"Give us Emma Smith. Hand her over, and we walk away. The pack survives. Your people live. You get to be Alpha someday instead of dying in a pointless battle."

"Never."

"Think about it," he continued as if I hadn't spoken. "One life versus hundreds. One female versus your entire pack. It's simple mathematics, Future Alpha."

"She's my mate. The answer is no."

"Your mate?" He laughed. "The one you cheated on for six months? The one Vanessa Quinn paid us half a million dollars to kill because you couldn't keep your dick in your pants? That mate?"

The words were designed to hurt, to undermine. And they did. Because he was right. This was my fault. All of it.

"Things have changed," I said through gritted teeth.

"Have they? Or are you just afraid of what it says about you if you hand her over?" A pause. "Jeremy, I've done my research. I know about the affair. Know about your plan to use her as a broodmare. Know you only started caring about her after she nearly died. That's not love. That's guilt."

"You don't know anything about us."

"I know numbers. I know that you're facing one hundred and fifty professional killers with barely a hundred wolves, many of whom have families. Children. Mates of their own." His voice turned almost reasonable. "How many of them will die for your guilty conscience?"

"They're not dying for my conscience. They're fighting to protect their Luna."

"A Luna who wasn't good enough for you until it was almost too late." He let that sink in. "Here's what's going to happen. In seventy-two hours, we attack. We'll come at dawn, from three directions simultaneously. Your wolves will fight bravely. They'll die bravely. And in the end, we'll still find Emma Smith and complete our contract."

"You'll have to go through all of us first."

"That's the plan." A pause. "But it doesn't have to be that way. You have seventy-two hours to reconsider. Hand over the female. Save your pack. Live with the guilt of sacrificing your mate—assuming you even care about her enough for it to bother you."

"I'm not handing her over."

"Then I'll see you on the battlefield, Future Alpha. Try not to die too quickly. I've been looking forward to killing you personally."

The line went dead.

I stood in the hallway, phone still pressed to my ear, my wolf snarling and pacing in my head. One hundred and fifty wolves. Seventy-two hours. An offer to trade Emma's life for the pack's survival.

"Jeremy?" My father appeared in the doorway. "Who was that?"

"The mercenary leader." I turned to face him. "Dad, we have a problem."

Ten minutes later, the entire war room knew. One hundred and fifty enemies instead of a hundred. A coordinated three-pronged attack at dawn in three days. An offer—trade Emma for everyone's survival.

"That's not even a question," Marcus said immediately, his eyes flashing gold. "We don't negotiate with terrorists. We don't hand over pack members to mercenaries."

"Agreed," my father said. "But we need to adjust our defensive strategy. One hundred and fifty wolves changes everything."

"We're outnumbered forty percent," Elder Morrison said grimly. "Even with allied support and defensive positions, those odds are—"

"Unacceptable," I interrupted. "Which is why we don't fight defensively. We take the fight to them."

The room went silent.

"Explain," my father commanded.

"They're expecting us to turtle up. To protect pack lands and wait for them to attack. That's the defensive playbook." I moved to the map. "But we know their numbers now. Know they're consolidating in neutral territory. If we strike first, hit them before they're fully coordinated—"

"That's suicide," one of the Silverbrook wolves said. "Attacking a superior force in the field?"

"It's unexpected," I countered. "They've spent weeks planning an assault on our fortifications. They're not prepared for us to bring the fight to them."

My father studied the map, his expression thoughtful. "It's risky."

"Everything's risky. But Dad, if we wait for them to attack on their terms, we're fighting a defensive battle against overwhelming numbers. If we attack first, we choose the battlefield, the timing, the terms of engagement."

"You're talking about a preemptive strike," Marcus said slowly. "Taking the war to them before they're ready."

"Exactly."

"It could work," Elder Morrison admitted reluctantly. "If we can catch them consolidating, before they're fully positioned—"

"We'd still be outnumbered," another wolf pointed out.

"But not by as much. And we'd have surprise on our side." I was already calculating. "We send scouts now. Find their consolidation point. Plan a strike for tomorrow night, forty-eight hours before they expect us to engage."

"That gives us less than twenty-four hours to plan a complex offensive operation," my father said.

"Better than waiting three days for them to attack us on their terms."

The room erupted in debate—wolves arguing for and against, weighing risks, calculating odds. But I could see my father considering it. See the tactical wheels turning.

"If we do this," he said finally, his Alpha voice cutting through the chaos. "If we commit to an offensive strike—we need total coordination. Perfect execution. No room for error."

"Agreed."

"And Jeremy?" He met my eyes. "You'd be leading this. Your plan, your operation, your responsibility."

The weight of it settled on my shoulders. One hundred and ten wolves, going into battle based on my strategy. If I failed, if my planning was flawed, people would die.

But if we waited, if we let Black River attack on their terms, more people would die.

"I can do it," I said. "I can lead this."

"Then you have twenty-four hours." My father's expression was grave. "Plan the operation. Coordinate with allied packs. Brief the warriors. And Jeremy—" A pause. "Make it count."

The next twenty hours were a blur. Planning strike teams, coordinating logistics, identifying the mercenary consolidation point through scout reports. Silverbrook and Moonshadow pledged full support—they understood that if Black River succeeded here, other packs would become targets too.

I barely slept. Barely ate. Just worked, planned, calculated. Trying to find the strategy that would give us the best chance of surviving.

Around midnight, my phone buzzed. Emma.

"Hey," I answered, stepping away from the maps. "You okay?"

"I should be asking you that. Dad told me about the phone call. About the numbers." Her voice was strained. "Jeremy, one hundred and fifty wolves—"

"I know. But Emma, we have a plan. We're not waiting for them to attack. We're striking first."

"That's—that sounds dangerous."

"It is. But it's our best option." I paused. "Emma, he offered a trade. You for the pack's safety."

Silence. Then, quietly: "Are you considering it?"

"What? No! Emma, of course not. I'd die before I let them touch you."

"Even if it means the pack—"

"Even then. Emma, we don't negotiate with terrorists. Don't hand over pack members. Don't trade lives like that." I softened my voice. "And even if all that wasn't true—even if it was tactically smart to consider—I couldn't do it. I love you. I'm not losing you. Not to mercenaries, not to anyone."

"Jeremy—" Her voice broke. "Please be safe. Please come back to me."

"I will. I promise." I checked the time. "We strike tomorrow at midnight. Forty-eight hours before they expect engagement. If everything goes according to plan, this will be over in a day."

"And if it doesn't go according to plan?"

"Then we adapt. But Emma, I need you to know—if something happens to me—"

"Don't. Don't say it."

"I need to." I took a breath. "If something happens, your father will come get you. He'll make sure you're safe. And Emma, don't blame yourself. None of this is your fault."

"It feels like my fault."

"It's not. It's Vanessa's fault. Black River's fault. My fault for creating the situation that led to this." I paused. "But Emma, even knowing how it turned out—I don't regret us. Don't regret mating you. Don't regret falling in love with you, even though I was too stupid to realize it until almost too late."

"I love you too," she whispered. "So much. Please, please come back."

"I will. I promise."

After we hung up, I returned to the war room. Twelve hours until we struck. Twelve hours to finalize every detail, brief every warrior, prepare for a battle that would determine everything.

One hundred and fifty mercenary wolves.

One hundred and ten of ours.

One chance to end this before it destroyed everything.

The odds weren't great. But they were better than waiting.

And I'd be damned if I let Black River win.

Not after everything we'd been through.

Not after finally getting Emma back.

This ended tomorrow. One way or another.

And I was going to make sure we were the ones left standing.

For Emma. For the pack. For the future we deserved.

Whatever it took.