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Elliot nodded.
Down the wide hallway they walked, passing numerous images of past alphas and representations of historical moments the pack had experienced. They passed doorways to rooms Callum knew, and a lot he didn’t, and beyond the humming vending machines.
Callum ignored it all.
“That’s a last resort,” Elliot pointed out. “I don’t want that role either. And none of us wants this to get violent.”
Callum glanced over, but for Vivian’s sake, didn’t respond.
He was still angry and wanted Norman’s head.
When they came to the wide double doors which opened into Thatcher’s meeting—and for lack of a better term, throne room—Elliot checked his phone, pocketed it, and pulled on the right door handle.
Inside, the long table that had occupied a lot of the room was absent, folded up against one wall. Most of the room was vacant but for the ugly ass chair Thatcher occupied and Norman who was pacing in front of Thatcher’s chair.
Both the alpha and beta looked up. They were barely through the threshold before Norman was charging toward them. His gaze was locked on Callum, but his words were directed at Vivian. “You traitorous little bitch!”
Callum stepped in front of her before Norman was even halfway across the room. The action was unnecessary, as Thatcher shouted, “Norman!”
The beta skidded to a halt, glaring over his shoulder at his alpha.
“Come here.” He pointed to a spot on the floor near his seat. “Let them get in the goddamn room first.”
Please let that be a good sign, Callum prayed.
He kept Vivian sheltered as they approached.
Thatcher’s gaze was hard as he studied each one of them. With a deep breath, he relaxed into his chair. “Elliot, you can leave.”
“I’d rather not.” Elliot’s voice was calm, but his body was tense.
“This doesn’t concern you.”
Elliot’s chin lifted, showing his strength and will. “He’s my cousin. I’m not leaving him.”
A half-smile tilted Thatcher’s mouth. “That’s noble of you.”
“He’s my family.”
“We’re a pack. I’m your family, too,” Thatcher declared, “and your alpha. Your loyalty is to me before all else.”
“Before fated mates, as well?” Callum couldn’t bite back the question.
Thatcher’s stare shifted to him. “You, you don’t belong to this pack, yet you snatched something from the cookie jar without permission.”
Callum’s chest expanded. “She’s not a treat. And she sure as hell isn’t an object, or a servant, or chattel, as your beta seems to think.”
“She belongs to me. She’s my daughter and you–”
“Norman!” Thatcher roared again, his patience for the man seeming low. “Callum, I want to know why you didn’t come to me when you discovered who Vivian was to you. Why didn’t you approach her father and ask for his permission before deflowering his daughter?”
“And give Norman the chance to pass her along to someone else?”
Thatcher sat back in his chair. “I want to know what your plans are now.”
“I’m taking Vivian back to Maine with me.”
“No, your–” Norman started, but Thatcher cut him off.
