Tension

Mara

Crowe.

The name hit like a stamp on every file I’d been carrying around in my head. Crowe Construction was on two fire scenes, three permit pulls, and a dozen “nothing to see here” shrug-offs from people who suddenly couldn’t remember basic facts. And now I had it—spoken in a backroom like it belonged to someone you could threaten, not a company you could sue.

I stayed glued to the crack in the door, shoulder pressed to the greasy wall. The voice memo in my pocket kept recording, because at least one part of me was still trying to be smart.

Inside, Coat Guy clicked his tongue. “Crowe’s been sloppy. That’s the problem with letting humans think they’re useful.”

Big Guy—Punchy-Knuckles—laughed low. “Humans built the pipeline for you. Humans laundered it. Humans burned the place when you asked.”

My stomach flipped. Burned the place. Like it was taking out trash.

Coat Guy snapped, “We didn’t ask for that last one. That fire wasn’t ours.”

“Sure,” Big Guy said. “And the missing kid wasn’t yours either.”

My jaw went tight. Eli Porter. Seventeen. Last seen near a Crowe-owned lot. The police called it runaway. His aunt called me sobbing because nobody even took a statement.

Coat Guy took a breath, controlled and ugly. “Watch your mouth.”

A fourth voice spoke—quiet, calm, the one that had flattened the room earlier. “Enough.”

I still couldn’t see him. Just shadow near the far wall, like the light refused to claim him.

Coat Guy rushed on, trying to seize the conversation back. “You promised this would stay contained. No witnesses. No heat. Now one of my men is dead and Crowe’s talking about pulling out.”

“Crowe doesn’t get to pull out,” Big Guy growled. “Not after what he’s seen.”

My pulse jumped. What he’s seen. My mind threw images at me—burned beams, blood in snow, a body dragged out of sight. I hated that my brain could fill in blanks.

The calm voice didn’t rise. “Crowe is frightened.”

Coat Guy scoffed. “He should be.”

There was a soft tap, knuckles on metal. “He’s frightened because the fire wasn’t controlled,” the calm voice continued. “It drew attention. It forced movement. It made the pack look messy.”

Pack.

Not “pack” like a crew of guys. Pack like territory. Like rank. Like rules. The word landed heavy in my gut.

Big Guy shifted; his chair scraped. “Don’t blame this on us. Your pack wanted the purge.”

Purge.

My stomach lurched again. I’d heard that word once, years ago, from an old bartender who’d gone quiet mid-story and told me to mind my business. I’d laughed then. I wasn’t laughing now.

Coat Guy’s voice dropped. “Say that word again and I’ll tear your throat out.”

That wasn’t a normal threat. That was a promise said like a reflex.

My body finally sent up a flare: leave. Back away. Now. But my feet stayed planted. Anger does that to me. So does proof.

Big Guy let out a harsh laugh. “We all know what this is. You wanted the traitors gone. You wanted Crowe’s money and Crowe’s mouth shut. You wanted the pack to look strong.”

There it was again. Pack. Like everyone in that room agreed what it meant.

Coat Guy said, “Crowe is outside our laws.”

“He’s inside our problems,” Big Guy snapped.

The calm voice cut through both of them. “Crowe will be handled. That’s not why we’re here.”

Silence followed—thick, weighted. Even through the door, I felt it settle. This wasn’t a debate. It was a reminder.

Then Coat Guy asked, carefully, “So what are we doing with the witness?”

My heart stopped. Witness. Me. They didn’t know my name, but they knew someone had been close enough to matter.

Big Guy’s tone sharpened. “What witness?”

Coat Guy sounded irritated. “Don’t play dumb. The girl.”

Girl. Great. Not even “woman.” Just a problem with legs.

Big Guy swore. “You didn’t say there was a girl.”

“I said there was a complication,” Coat Guy shot back. “If you’d done your job, there wouldn’t be.”

Big Guy growled.

Not the fake bar-fight kind. This sound vibrated, low and rough, and my skin tightened like it recognized it. Every old story in town suddenly felt less like folklore.

Coat Guy lowered his voice. “If she talks, Crowe becomes irrelevant. We’ll have cops. Reporters. Cameras. The council will be on us.”

Council. Another word that didn’t belong in a normal criminal conversation. Too structured. Too official.

The calm voice asked, “Has she seen anything?”

That was a loaded question. Even if there were things being done that I hadn't seen, I knew something was going on. It was just a matter of figuring out what exactly that was.

My stomach dropped so hard I tasted bile. My hand closed around my phone like it could keep me upright.

Big Guy answered, “Does it matter? Human eyes make trouble even when they don’t understand.”

Coat Guy said, “It matters if she talks.”

I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth to quiet my breathing.

My brain tried to go clinical, because that’s what I do when I’m scared: details, details, details. Three men, one duffel, one steel table. Expensive coat, heavy boots, voices that knew each other too well. And a fourth presence—Gage—who didn’t waste breath. The hallway smelled like bleach and old beer, but underneath it was something sharper, like wet earth after rain. I told myself it was the mop bucket. I did not believe myself.

Pack.The word still hung in the air. Were they-

Could they be? Real?

Grandma used to tell me the hills had rules. Don’t wander after dark. Don’t pick fights with “those families.” If you hear howling, you go inside and you lock the damn door. I’d always rolled my eyes and told her wolves were wildlife, not a community board with bylaws.

Now I was the idiot pressed against a door, eavesdropping on a “pack” like it was real. And if this went wrong, the only thing I’d leave behind was a recording and headlines.

Footsteps crossed the room—measured, sure. The light shifted. Shadows changed shape.

Coat Guy cleared his throat. “Gage—”

So that was the name. Gage, said like a line you didn’t cross.

Gage’s voice came again, closer now, flat with authority. “If there’s a witness, we secure her. Quietly.”

Big Guy snorted. “Secure. Like last time?”

A pause—small, deadly.

Then Gage said, “Last time was necessary.”

Coat Guy sounded uneasy. “The council didn’t agree.”

Gage didn’t answer immediately. When he did, there was no warmth at all. “The council can argue after the pack survives.”

My skin prickled. That was a man who made choices first and asked permission never.

A soft clink—glass against metal. Someone poured a drink. Someone’s hand shook. Mine sure as hell did.

Then Gage stepped forward.

He moved into the slice of light I could see through the crack, and the room seemed to tighten around him. Tall. Broad. Huge arms. Still—not relaxed, not casual. Controlled. Dark hair, dark clothes, a devilishly handsome face built for hard decisions.

But it was his eyes that pinned me.

Gold. Not “kind of amber.” Gold like an animal’s stare caught dead-on.

He lifted his gaze slowly, and for one terrifying second it felt like he was looking straight through the door—straight at me—like the crack wasn’t protection at all.