Chapter 158 LURE HIM

Chapter 158 LURE HIM

The walk back to the packhouse took seventeen minutes.

Alex counted them. Not because he wanted to, but because the wolf counted everything when it was trying not to break. Seventeen minutes of gravel cutting into bare feet. Seventeen minutes of blood drying in rivulets down his ribs. Seventeen minutes of the sun too bright and the air too still and the mountain holding its breath.

He didn’t shift. Didn’t put on clothes.  
They should see him like this.  
Let them see what it looked like when you shot an Alpha and took his family and thought he’d stay down.

The first wolf he passed was a pup. Maybe nine. She was playing with a stick.  
She saw him. The stick dropped.  
"Alpha?" she whispered.  
Alex didn’t answer. He just kept walking.

By the time he reached the packhouse steps, there was a crowd.  
Not a big one. Twenty. Maybe.  
But they all had the same look. The one he’d seen on them at seventeen.

Fear.  
And underneath it, something worse.  
Relief that it wasn’t them.

Alex took the steps two at a time.  
The doors were open. Someone had propped them that way after the mess in the council room. Smart.

The main hall smelled like copper and wood splinters and old fear.  
It was full.

Elder Hoss by the kitchen door, arm in a sling, holding a mug he wasn’t drinking from.  
Elder Marek near the armory entrance, forehead wrapped in white that was already pink.  
Elder Coren in the middle of the floor, leaning on a cane like he’d forgotten how to stand without it.  
Elder Varro by the stairs, looking older than Alex had ever seen him.  
Kane in the corner, trying to fold himself into the wall.

And between them, all the other wolves.  
Watching.

Alex walked through them.  
His feet left wet prints on the wood.  
No one spoke.  
No one moved.

He pushed open the council room doors.

The room was still wrecked.  
The table split down the middle. Chairs overturned.  
His blood on the floor. Marek’s blood on the wall.  
And in Alex’s chair, like it belonged to him: Ivan’s jacket.  
Draped over the back. Casual. Like he’d just stepped out.

Alex stared at it for three seconds.  
Then he crossed the room and sat in his own chair.

The one at the head of the table.  
The one with his father’s claw marks in the armrest from the day he’d been crowned.

He put his feet up on the ruined table.

The wood creaked.

"Someone wash me," he said.

His voice didn’t echo. It cut.

For a moment, nothing.  
Then three she-wolves moved. Young. Terrified.  
They came with bowls of water and clean towels and the medical kit they kept for training accidents.  
They didn’t look at his face.  
They cleaned the blood off his chest first. The four claw marks.  
Then his shoulder. The bullet hole was already closing, skin knitting around black powder.  
Then his thigh.

All the while, Alex glared at the door.

When they were done, he stood.  
Naked. Wrapped in white bandages that were already spotting red.  
He didn’t care.

He moved to the east wall.  
To the tapestry.

It was old. Woven with silver thread. The Moon Goddess with her face tipped up, wolves at her feet. His father had hung it the day Alex turned twelve.

Alex tore it down.

The nails screeched out of the wood.  
He carried it to the table. Laid it out flat.  
Then he sat on the floor in front of it.  
Cross-legged.  
Back straight.

The elders watched him like he’d lost his mind.

Maybe he had.

"The Goddess doesn’t answer to men who hide," Alex said. He wasn’t looking at them. "She answers to wolves who bleed for their pack. Or who bleed their pack to save what’s theirs."

He looked up.

"Which are you?"

Silence.

"Good," Alex said. "Then sit."

They didn’t.  
So he stood and made them.

He walked to Hoss first. Took the mug out of his hand. Set it down.  
"Rule one," Alex said. His voice was quiet. That was worse than yelling. "For every hour my daughter is not in my arms, one of Ivan’s men dies. I have a list. I’ve had it since I was seventeen."

Hoss’s mouth opened. Closed.  
Alex moved on before he could speak.

To Marek.  
"Rule two. For every day my wife isn’t home, one of you loses something. A finger. A title. A life. We’ll take turns. Fair."

Marek’s face went white under the bandage.

To Coren.  
"Rule three. You lie to me again, I assume you know where they are. And I stop asking nicely."

Coren’s lips moved. Prayer. Or maybe just air.

Then Alex stopped in front of Varro.

The old man didn’t flinch.  
"And rule four," Alex said, softer now. "You’re the only one here I think might still have a soul. So you have to help me."

Varro’s eyes were wet. "How?"

Alex’s mouth curved. Not a smile.  
"The lipstick was wrong."

"What?"

"In the barn. The smudge on the window. Mia wears Crimson Moon. Always. That was Cherry Blood."  
He let that sit.  
"Ivan’s mistress wears Cherry Blood. The one he keeps in the city. The one he thinks I don’t know about."

He could see it click in Varro’s eyes.

"They were never in the barn," Alex said. "The barn was bait. The gas station was bait. The baby in the car seat was bait."  
He laughed then. Short. Ugly. "They want me running. Bleeding in ditches. Chasing ghosts."

He trudged to map on the wall. Tore it down. Spread it on the table over the Goddess tapestry.  
"So I’m not going to chase."

He pulled a knife from his boot. Drove it into the wood, right through the Caruso barn.

"They expect me here," he said. Then moved the knife to the gas station. "And here."

Then he lifted the knife and brought it down in the center of the map.  
Right on the packhouse.

"So we’re going to make them come here."

Varro was frowning now. Thinking. "How?"

Alex turned. Looked at all four of them.  
"By letting them think they’ve won."

He strode to the cabinet in the corner. The one they kept whiskey in for funerals and treaties.  
Pulled out a bottle. Took a long drink.  
It burned. Good.

"I'll bleed more," he said. "I'm sure as hell gonna look weak. And I will tell everyone the bullets were silver. That I’m dying."

Hoss made a noise. "You can’t…. the pack will….”

"The pack is already panicking," Alex snapped. "At least this way we control it."

He passed the bottle to Varro. The old man took it.  
"We spread the word," Alex continued. "Alpha’s fading. Won’t last the night. Council in chaos. Begging for last rites."

He looked at Marek. "You will cry about it. In the market. Where Ivan’s spies can hear you."

Marek nodded, once.

"You," to Hoss. "You will tell anyone who asks that I asked for a priest. For the rites."

Hoss nodded.

"You," to Coren. "You will pray. Loud. To the Goddess. Beg her to take me easy."

Coren nodded, tears in his eyes.

"And you," to Varro. You will sit with me. While I die."

Varro held his gaze. "And if he doesn’t come?"

Alex’s smile was sharp enough to cut.  
"Then in one hour, I start with Teeth. The man who shot me at the gas station. I know where his sister lives."

He let that hang in the air.

It didn’t take long for the rumor to spread.

Wolves talk. It’s what they do.  
By 2:30, the kitchens knew.  
By 2:32, the pups knew.  
By 2:35, there was a man on the ridge with binoculars who definitely wasn’t just hiking.

Alex allowed them to see him.  
Carried to his room on a stretcher.  
Pale. Sweating. Bandages soaked through with pig’s blood that smelled close enough to real.  
Varro walking beside him, holding his hand like he was already gone.

They put him in his bed.  
The big one. The one Mia used to curl up in when she had nightmares.  
Sheets pulled up to his chest.  
Face wax-pale.  
Breathing shallow.

Outside the door: four of his men. The ones who’d been with him several years ago. Armed.   His Bratva people.
There under the bed: two more.  
In the closet: three.  
On the roof: two with rifles.

The whole packhouse was a mouth, waiting to close.

Alone with Varro now.  
The old man sat in the chair by the bed.  
Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Finally, Varro said, "You were always going to do this."

Alex didn’t open his eyes. "Do what?"

"Burn it down to get them back."

Alex cracked one eye. "You taught me to."

Varro sighed. "I taught you to be Alpha. Not a monster."

Alex turned his head on the pillow. "Then maybe I’m both."

The room was quiet.  
Outside, someone was crying. Probably Marek. Doing his job well.

Alex looked at the ceiling.  
His heart was too steady. That was the problem.  
The wolf wasn’t scared. The wolf was hungry.

Come on, he thought. You always had to be the one to twist the knife. Come finish it.

His phone was on the nightstand.  
He’d left it there on purpose.

It buzzed.

Once.  
Twice.

Alex didn’t move.  
Let Varro pick it up.

Varro looked at the screen. "Unknown number."

"Answer it," Alex said. His voice was weak. On purpose.

Varro did. Put it on speaker.

A pause.  
Then: "Hello?"

Ivan.

Even through the speaker, he sounded pleased. Like a man who’d just won a bet.

"Alessandro?" Ivan said. "You there, nephew?"

Alex made a sound. Wet. Like blood in his throat.

Ivan laughed. "Oh. Oh shit. You sound bad."

No response from Alex.

"You did good though," Ivan went on. "Really. For an old man. I’m proud of you."

Still nothing.

"You know what’s funny?" Ivan said. "I almost feel bad. Almost. But then I remember you took what was mine first. So."

A pause.

"I’ll be there in twenty," Ivan said. "To say goodbye. To pay respects. Bring flowers and shit."

The call ended.

Varro set the phone down.

Alex opened both eyes.

The gold was back.

"Positions," he whispered.

Outside, the packhouse stopped breathing.



Twenty minutes.

Ivan was coming.  
And if the bait worked, he was bringing Mia with him.

Alex closed his eyes.  
Not to rest.  
To remember.

Mia’s laugh.  
Sara’s weight in his arms.  
The way Mia’s hair smelled after a shower.

He opened them.

"For them," he said to the room. To the men who were lying patiently under the bed. To the Goddess on the floor.

"For them," Varro echoed.

And they Waited.