Chapter 2: Echoes of Contempt

Sunlight streamed through the high arched windows of the council chamber, illuminating dust motes dancing in the tense air.

Alpha Marcus sat at the head of the heavy oak table, flanked by Beta Elara and his senior advisors.

Across from them, Alpha Damon presided over his Stone River delegation, his posture radiating controlled impatience. Maps lay spread between them, marked with territorial lines and patrol routes.

I moved silently along the edges of the room, refilling water goblets, trying to make myself as unobtrusive as the carved panels on the walls.

Every time I neared Damon, the air crackled. The mate bond pulsed, a dull ache beneath my ribs whenever his scent – that infuriating mix of pine and storm – grew stronger. My hands weren’t entirely steady.

"The Grayfang Ridge patrols," Alpha Marcus was saying, his voice tight, "have reported increased rogue activity. Uncoordinated, but bolder than before."

Damon leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on the map. "Specificity, Marcus. 'Bolder' tells me nothing. Numbers? Tactics? Scent markers?" His tone was crisp, demanding.

He gestured curtly, fingers tapping a spot on the map, without looking up from it. "Water."

My breath hitched. He meant me. I moved forward, pitcher in hand. My knuckles brushed his sleeve as I reached for his goblet – a fleeting contact that sent a jolt straight up my arm. I flinched, almost spilling the water.

His head snapped up. Not at me, but at the slight disruption. His eyes, cold and dark, flickered over me for less than a second before dismissing me entirely. He turned back to Marcus. "If your patrols can't provide actionable intelligence, they're worthless."

The bluntness made Beta Elara stiffen beside Marcus. I retreated quickly, my face burning. Worthless. The word echoed Torvin's earlier jibe, but coming from Damon, it landed differently. Sharper.

Later, as I cleared away empty plates from a side table where the advisors had taken a brief recess, Torvin swaggered over, grabbing a discarded apple core.

"Still skulking in the shadows, scentless?" he sneered, deliberately loud enough for the Stone River wolves nearby to overhear. He nudged my arm as he passed, not quite tripping me, but enough to make me stumble against the table. Dishes rattled.

I saw Damon glance over from where he stood speaking quietly with his own stern-faced Beta. His eyes rested on Torvin, then flicked to me, struggling to regain my balance, my cheeks flushed crimson.

A muscle feathered in Damon's jaw. For a bizarre, suspended moment, I thought he might speak, might reprimand Torvin.

He didn't.

His gaze returned to his Beta, dismissing the incident, dismissing me, as beneath his concern. He continued his conversation as if nothing had happened.

The familiar cold seeped back into my bones. I gathered the plates, my hands trembling slightly now, forcing myself to move steadily towards the kitchens. Keep your head down. Don't draw attention. Blend into the stone.

The effort was immense. Being near him was like holding two opposite poles of a magnet close – a constant, straining tension.

I found myself scrubbing furiously at a nonexistent spot on a silver platter in the relative quiet of the serving alcove, just needing something to focus on other than the relentless pull towards the man who clearly despised my very existence.

A faint, sharp pain pulsed behind my eyes, an old echo I usually managed to ignore, triggered by the stress.

"The trade route securities are non-negotiable, Marcus," Damon's voice carried clearly from the main table as the meeting resumed. "Stone River cannot subsidize Silver Crescent's inefficiencies."

Alpha Marcus bristled. "My pack is strong, Damon. We honor our agreements."

"Strength requires vigilance," Damon countered smoothly, but with an edge like honed steel. He gestured broadly, encompassing the room, the guards standing less than perfectly alert, the general state of things. His gaze swept past me in the alcove, a dismissive flicker. "It requires maintaining standards. Allowing weakness, in any form, invites disaster."

His eyes didn't linger, but the implication was brutal and clear. He might as well have pointed directly at me. Weakness. Inefficiency. Disaster.

I ducked my head, the silver platter blurring before my eyes. The insult, though not spoken to me, felt like a physical blow, expertly aimed. He saw me as the embodiment of everything he found lacking in my pack.

And he wasn't entirely wrong.