Damian’s jaw tightens. “We won’t let the demons touch her. That’s why we need to find this portal.”
Amos turns to Damian. “Sophie’s vision wasn’t symbolic. It was spatial. The portal exists. It’s anchored. And if we don’t find it, they’ll keep using it.”
“Which means,” Conan says slowly, “they don’t need mass breaches anymore.”
“Exactly,” Amos replies. “They’ll send smaller forces. Precision strikes. Targeted attacks. And I suspect that tonight’s incident was simply them spying, tracking the new witch who’s arrived in the valley.”
My wolf growls under my skin, and my father finally speaks. “Let’s put together this search party.”
All eyes turn to him.
“We don’t wait for another massacre,” he continues. “We don’t wait for another pack to weaken. We don’t wait for another alpha to bleed. We find the portal.”
Amos nods. “We’ve triangulated possible locations based on energy disturbances and Sophie’s vision.” He taps three points on the map.
“First hunt in two days,” Damian says, his tone final, unquestionable.
Conan’s gaze shifts to me then, his eyes sharp and assessing. “So…” he says slowly. “How’s the new mate situation going, Heinrich?”
The room stills, and the air tightens. That kind of question doesn’t exist in isolation—not in council space, not in front of elders, not during war planning.
It’s not curiosity. It’s doubt. It’s pressure. That’s what Conan does best: to hide how frightened he is. He did it with Damian when the fated mate ritual was first introduced to us a month ago. He’s been hard-headed since then and won’t stop questioning everything.
Before I can answer, Damian’s voice cuts through the chamber like a blade. “That’s not your concern, Conan.”
Conan stiffens. “I’m just asking because—”
“No,” Damian interrupts, eyes hard. “You’re asking because you’re measuring stability. Power. Loyalty. Readiness. You always do this, and it seems you’ve forgotten what I told you before.” Damian steps forward. “Heinrich’s mate is not a liability. She’s not a weakness. And she’s not a topic for council speculation. She’s one of the only two people in the valley who can actually help us. Stop being a dick about it.”
The room holds its breath.
“You want to question leadership?” Damian continues. “Question strategy. Question deployment. Question the steps toward finding the portal. But don’t turn fated mate bonds into political leverage.”
Bernard shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and Joel says nothing. My father’s expression remains carved from stone.
Conan exhales through his nose. “Noted.”
Damian turns to me. “Go home, Henry. Your place isn’t here tonight,” he adds quietly. “Not in this room. Not in this headspace.”
I nod once, because he’s right, and because my mind isn’t here.
Annika’s bare shoulder is still burned into my vision. Her eyes are still in my chest, where my inner wolf is restless. My instincts are split, and Damian knows this. Because war requires clarity, and I don’t have it right now.
I turn without another word, and the council chamber doesn’t follow. No one stops me. No one questions it. Because hierarchy isn’t just about rank, it’s about trust. And Damian just exercised his trust in me.
The night air hits my lungs hard as I step outside, and it’s cold and clean, and I breathe it in. But it does little to calm the fire under my skin. It doesn’t quiet my wolf. It doesn’t erase her scent from my senses, even if I’ve been away long enough. Her scent remains etched into my airways, and it doesn’t stop the pull. It just makes it worse, because all I can think about is that exposed shoulder of hers, and how much I’m holding myself back from going back home and ripping her clothes to—
I shift before I reach the tree line, bones cracking, muscles folding, my form collapsing and reforming into fur and sinew and instinct.
My wolf is fast, purpose-driven, and determined to act on the pull deep within my being, while my mind remains chastising me for even thinking it’s a good idea. I’m pulled between the two—my inner wolf and logic—and I barely clock that I’m not running towards the cabin.
I’m running east.
Toward the pull.
Toward the only scent in the valley that doesn’t feel like war.
Toward Annika.
