⊰ 124 ⊱ War Room Dawn
⊰ 124 ⊱ War Room Dawn
| Malachi |
Dawn breaks over the safe house as the rumble of approaching vehicles cuts through the morning silence. I’m already dressed and waiting by the window when Rook’s convoy pulls up—three black SUVs carrying the backup we desperately need.
Penelope stirs behind me in the bed, Elio making soft sounds as he wakes. The normalcy of it—my family starting another day—feels surreal against what’s coming.
“Is it time?” she asks quietly.
“Almost.” I kiss her forehead, then Elio’s. “I need to brief Rook.”
I make my way to the main room where Rook is already coordinating with Elijah and Jax. Behind him, eight wolves spread throughout the space, all walking with the lethal grace of seasoned fighters.
“Report,” Rook says without preamble as I join them.
Jax steps forward, Jackson’s recording device in his palm. “The emergency session is confirmed for ten this morning. All remaining contenders are required to attend for security briefings.”
“How many of us are walking into this trap?” I ask.
“Four contenders total, plus whatever allies they’re bringing.” Rook’s expression is stern. “Intel suggests the King’s using the session to declare martial law. Install Tarlac with emergency powers while eliminating anyone who might object.”
It dawns on me then. “It’s not just about the selection anymore. It’s a full coup.”
“Exactly.” Rook moves to the window, scanning the perimeter his people have already secured. “Which is why we’re ending this today. All of it.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bedroom door open quietly. Penelope emerges carrying Elio. He’s awake now and looking around with those alert eyes, so like mine. Penelope’s dressed simply—jeans and a soft sweater—but there’s something almost ethereal about her in the morning light filtering through the windows.
Rook’s gaze shifts to them, his expression softening slightly at the sight of his nephew. Then his focus sharpens as he turns to two of his fighters—a scarred female with silver-streaked hair and a younger male whose stillness screams lethal.
“Anika, Landon. You stay here. Guard them with your lives.”
“Understood, Alpha,” Anika replies, her gaze moving to Penelope and Elio.
I catch the way Jax shifts when Penelope enters the room, his body going rigid in a way that speaks of carefully controlled emotion. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look directly at her, but resentment is written in every line of his posture—the knowledge that he’s about to risk his life while another man’s family is what he’s protecting.
Despite everything, I can’t help but sympathize. I know what it’s like to want something you can’t have.
Focus.
Reality of what we’re about to attempt settles over the room. This isn’t just another political maneuver or careful strategy. This is war, and some of us won’t be coming back.
But I keep that realization locked away as I approach Penelope. She looks up at me with eyes that drew me in when we first met, holding our son against her chest like he’s the only real thing in a world gone mad.
“We should go soon,” I say, settling my hand on her shoulder. Not I should go. Not this might be goodbye. Just the simple reality of timing.
She nods, studying my face. “You’ll be careful?”
“Always am.” The lie comes easily, comfortable in its familiarity. I lean down to kiss Elio’s forehead, breathing in that perfect baby scent that somehow makes everything else worth fighting for.
When I kiss Penelope, it’s soft and brief. Nothing dramatic or desperate. Just the kind of kiss I’ve given her a hundred times before.
“I’ll see you soon,” I tell her, and she manages a small smile.
“You better.”
As we’re gathering our things to leave, I catch Penelope’s gaze drift to where Jax stands by the door. She doesn’t say anything, but there’s something in the way she looks at him—not longing, exactly, but acknowledgment. Recognition of what he’s about to do, maybe. Or just the complicated weight of whatever they shared on that island.
Whatever passes between them lasts only a second, but it hits me like a punch to the gut. Bond or no bond, rejection or no rejection, there will always be something between them that I can’t touch.
Is it always going to be like this?
With a deep breath, I push the feeling down hard. Now isn’t the time for jealousy or insecurity. I need my head in the game if any of us are going to survive what’s coming.
Within minutes, we’re moving. Rook’s people spread out in formation—some heading directly to the venue, others taking positions around the city. Jackson rides with us, the recording device now connected to a transmission system that will broadcast to every major pack simultaneously.
“Once this goes live, there’s no taking it back,” he says, his voice steady despite the magnitude of what we’re about to unleash.
“Good,” Elijah replies from the front passenger seat. “The world needs to see what these bastards have been doing.”
The Continental Palace looks the same as always—massive marble columns, golden facades that echo power and tradition. But today, I notice details that should have been warning signs: too many guards, security checkpoints that feel more like military positions, the way certain wolves move with the coordinated precision of soldiers rather than ceremonial protectors.
We’re walking into a trap, and everyone knows it.
The only way out is through.
The throne room has been reconfigured since last nigh’'s ballroom event. Gone is any pretense of celebration or formal ceremony. Rows of chairs face a raised platform where the Continental King waits, flanked by figures I now recognize as Silent Order operatives. The selection committee sits in a line like judges at a tribunal.
Only three other contenders have answered the summons, each accompanied by their most trusted advisors. The absence of the others speaks volumes—they’re either already dead or smart enough to stay away.
“Gentlemen,” the King begins as we take our seats, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to absolute obedience. “Thank you for responding to this emergency session. Recent intelligence has revealed a terrorist conspiracy that threatens the very foundation of our society.”
I catch Jax’s eye across the aisle. He gives an almost imperceptible nod—Rook’s people are in position around the building.
“Therefore,” the King continues, “I am invoking emergency powers to ensure the stability and security of all werewolf territories. Martial law will remain in effect until these threats are neutralized.”
The trap springs.
Doors that should lead to exits are now blocked by Silent Order operatives. The ceremonial guards reveal weapons that are anything but ceremonial. In seconds, we’ve gone from political gathering to prison.
“This is illegal,” one of the other contenders protests, rising from his seat. “You have no authority to—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. A silver dart takes him in the neck, and he collapses, convulsing briefly before going still. The message is clear: cooperation is no longer optional.
Fuck.
“As I was saying,” the King continues without missing a beat, “these emergency measures are necessary for everyone’s protection. Now, I’m sure you all have questions about these new protocols—”
“I have a question,” I say, rising slowly from my seat. Every eye in the room turns to me, and I feel the weight of the moment settling on my shoulders. “How long have you been planning this coup?”
A ripple of shock runs through the remaining contenders. The King’s expression doesn’t change, but something cold flickers in his eyes.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand your accusation, Mr. Reed.”
“Don’t you?” I take a step forward, feeling Jackson’s tension beside me as he prepares for what’s coming. “Because I think you understand perfectly. Just like you understood when you ordered the assassination of the Northern Tribe royalty. Just like you understood when you’ve been systematically eliminating anyone who threatened the Silent Order’s control.”
The silence in the room is deafening. The King’s facade finally begins to crack.
“You should have stayed missing,” he says quietly, all pretense dropping away. “It would have been so much cleaner.”
“Maybe,” I reply, then look directly at Jackson. “But then the truth might never have come out.”
Jackson activates the transmission.
“Tell them about the Silent Order,” I continue, my voice carrying clearly through the sudden tension. “Tell them about the assassinations, the rigged selections, the systematic elimination of anyone who threatened your power.”
The King’s mask slips completely. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”
“I know exactly what I’ve done.” Jackson’s voice cuts through the room as the recording begins to play through speakers positioned throughout the building—and simultaneously broadcasting to werewolf territories across the continent. “I’ve exposed the truth.”
The King's voice, recorded in confident arrogance, fills the throne room: “The elimination of remaining contenders will proceed as planned. Make it look like factional violence. By morning, Tarlac will be the only viable candidate…”
Chaos erupts.