I sit, because fighting him on the small things wastes energy I’ll need for the big ones. The porch step is cold through my jeans. Above us, the sky is clear, a sharp November darkness that makes the stars look close enough to touch. My father drinks whatever is in his flask, and I wait for the ambush.
“Arthur came to me after the bonfire,” he says. “Told me the woman you brought smelled like something he hadn’t encountered in decades. I asked Rebecca. She wouldn’t confirm or deny, which told me everything I needed to know, because Rebecca only goes silent when she’s protecting you.”
I don’t respond. There’s nothing to respond to yet. He’s laying groundwork.
“Then Tom mentioned you’d been spending time with the new vet. Regularly. Publicly. The wholevillage is talking about it, which means the whole pack is talking about it, which means I’m the last person in Mistwood to be told what’s happening in my own son’s life.” He turns the flask cap in his hands. “That’s a familiar feeling.”
The dig lands. He meant it to.
“You already know she’s my mate,” I say. “I told you at the main house. Her name is Phoebe Clarke. She’s a vet. Her heritage is activating, and she’s going through an emergence. You came here to talk about what happens next, so let’s talk about what happens next.”
“All right.” He sets the flask down. “What happens next?”
“Nothing changes. I’m helping her through it. She’s handling it well. When she’s ready to meet the pack, she’ll meet the pack. On her terms.”
“And until then?”
“Until then, it stays between us.”
My father is quiet for a moment. The measured stillness of an Alpha processing. “You said something at the main house. About watching me do this your entire life. About your mother.”
“I said what I meant.”
“I know you did. And I told you I knew what I’d done to her.” He looks at me, and in the porch light, his face is older than I’ve seen it. “But I don’t thinkyou’ve told me what you actually saw. Not the version you’ve been carrying around like a weapon. The real one.”
The night is very still. I could deflect. I could tell him we’ve covered this ground. But he’s right. At the main house, I threw an accusation. I didn’t tell him what it cost me.
“I was twelve,” I say. “She was tired all the time. Not the kind of tired you sleep off. The kind that lives in your bones. She used to tell me stories about her life before Mistwood, the flat in Edinburgh, the friends she’d left behind, and she told them like fairy tales. Like that woman was someone she’d read about in a book.” I stop, because the next part is the part I’ve never said out loud. “She smiled through all of it. Every pack function, every ceremony, every demand on her time and her energy. She smiled because she loved you too much to tell you it was killing her. And everyone around her called it duty and honour and the privilege of being the Alpha’s mate.”
My father stands slowly. He’s still taller than me by an inch, still broader through the shoulders, still carrying the physical authority of thirty years as Alpha. But the pain in his eyes isn’t performance.
“I told you at the main house that I failed her,” he says. “I meant it. I’ve meant it every day for sixteen years. But hearing what you saw…” His voice is steady, but the steadiness is costing him. “I didn’t know she told you those stories. About Edinburgh.”
“She told me a lot of things.”
“I wish she’d told me.”
The owl calls from the forest. Two low notes that hang in the air between us.
“Then you understand,” I say, “why I won’t let the same thing happen to Phoebe.”
“What I understand is that my son has been handling the most significant event in his life alone because he’s so afraid of becoming me that he can’t see straight.” He takes a step closer. “I’m not asking to take over. I’m not asking to manage her or position her or turn her into a resource for the pack. I’m asking to know. That’s all. As your father, not your Alpha. I’m asking you to let me know what’s happening in your life.”
I look at him. Chris Mistwood, Alpha of the Mistwood pack, standing on my porch asking me for something he’s never asked for before. Not obedience. Not compliance. Not the dutiful son finally taking his place.
He’s asking for a connection. Not Alpha to heir. Father to son.
I’ve got no fucking idea what to do with that.
“She’s emerging,” I say, and my voice sounds different than it did a minute ago.Quieter. Less defended. “Omega traits. Heightened senses, temperature regulation, and emotional attunement. She’s handling it well. She’s the most capable person I’ve ever met. Handling it with clinical notes, lists, a stubborn rationality that would put most wolves to shame.”
“She sounds formidable.”
“She is.”
“And the rogues?”
I look at him sharply. “What about them?”
