Chapter 145 – Razor’s Edge
Kieran
The candle gutters low, painting the lodge walls with the kind of shadows that seem to lean in close, as if they’re watching me distrustfully.
As if they know I’m wrestling with my own conscience about the downfall of Blackthorn. Since the moment Eli’s voice cut through the air like a knife and left me gutted, I knew I’d run out of time. I can’t delay any longer.
“I already have everything I need in Blackthorn.”
The words repeat, merciless, every time I close my eyes.
It shouldn’t matter. I knew what the answer would be. I knew Eli’s loyalty to Ronan is deeper than blood, deeper than bond, deep enough to look a hall full of wolves in the eye and tell them in no uncertain terms that he belongs only to Ronan Vale.
But it does matter. It matters so much it’s tearing me in two.
My father, Alpha Alaric of Silvercrest, will not be patient. To him, patience is a weakness, a sign of a soft heart unfit to rule. He believes in coin and action. In sending mercenaries to solve problems rather than training his own men to hold a line. He’d call it efficiency. I call it short-sightedness.
What Silvercrest has can be taken from us. Blackthorn’s prowess is part of who they are. The only way to separate them from it, is by ending their lives.
And I know exactly what my father will do the moment he hears how the talks have gone.
He’ll send soldiers into these woods, not his own, but paid blades who owe him nothing but service in exchange for a purse of gold. He’ll give them one order. Drag Eli Vale to Silvercrest, kicking and screaming, if need be, and cut down anyone who stands in your way.
If I go back alone, that order will be given before the moon shifts its face.
If I warn Ronan or Eli, I know what will follow.
Blackthorn is not Silvercrest. They don’t throw coin at a problem until it goes away. They will rise with teeth bared and come for my pack. Every wolf eager to fight at their Alpha’s call. Eager to protect his mate.
And Ronan Vale would lay down his life for Eli without hesitation.
I rub a hand over my face, the skin tight from sleeplessness. Either way, blood runs. Either way, I will be the spark that lights the tinder.
I try to imagine talking to Ronan. Telling him the truth. I can see the way he would stand, shoulders squared, gold eyes burning, already calculating how many men he has to kill before Silvercrest breaks.
I can see Jace’s jaw set, Mara already reaching for steel, the entire Blackthorn pack bristling for war.
And I can see the aftermath.
Silvercrest bodies strewn about like refuse. Ronan roaring over them with his fangs dripping blood.
My mother’s voice rises from memory. Sweet and steady, the only softness I ever knew in our keep. Don’t trust your father’s bargains. He cares far more about amassing coins than tallying the bodies it takes to get him what he wants.
She died years ago, but the warning sticks. And here I am, about to walk the same road anyway.
I pace until my boots scuff the rug threadbare. I imagine Eli’s eyes dimmed, chained in my father’s hall, no laughter threatening to spill from his beautiful mouth, and nausea claws up my throat. I imagine Ronan’s corpse at his feet, and it feels worse than treason.
But I also see the faces of my people. Silvercrest wolves who have never lifted a blade in their lives, because their Alpha told them they don’t need to. Wolves who will be slaughtered if Blackthorn’s wrath turns east. Wolves who don’t deserve to die for my father’s greed or my own weakness.
That’s what finally tips the scale.
It feels like the coward’s choice, the loyal son’s choice, and I don’t consider myself to be either. I can’t allow my pack to be slaughtered though.
When I lie back, the mattress may as well be a bed of stones. I can’t stop seeing him. Eli, leaning against the porch rail with that lazy grin that promises mischief. Eli, tossing barbs at me like roses with thorns still attached. Eli, sprawled in Ronan’s chair like he’d been born to it, like he owned every inch of space he touched.
It shouldn’t matter. He never belonged to me, never would. But I want him anyway, and wanting him feels like carving my own chest open with bare hands.
I press my palms to my eyes, but it doesn’t help. Behind the dark is still the same torment. The thought of his light going out. Of Ronan’s body broken in the mud. Of my father standing over it all, smug, believing he’s secured a victory when all he’s done is scorch the earth.
Hatred burns in me, hot and bitter. Hatred for Alpha Alaric and his endless hunger. Hatred for myself, for not being strong enough to sever ties and challenge him.
If I warn them, I betray my pack. If I don’t, I betray Eli.
Every road I see leads to ruin eventually.
I imagine another world. One where Eli leaned into me during the feast instead of Ronan, where his smirk had promised me a secret rather than a rebuke. One where I could have taken his hand and led him out of that hall, not as a thief, but as a partner.
It’s a cruel fantasy. The bond he shares with Ronan isn’t some shallow thing that could be unpicked with trinkets or clever words. It runs to his marrow. To take him would be to break him, and I would rather cut out my own heart than dim that fire.
And yet I ache for it anyway. For him. For the impossible.
My fists clench and for a heartbeat I almost get up to go and tell Ronan everything. To kneel before him, beg him to believe me, to prepare for what’s coming. To put myself in his hands and let my father burn.
But then I see Silvercrest in my mind. If I trigger Ronan’s wrath, if I hand him a reason to march, it will be them who pay. Not the courtiers who sip wine and whisper about power. Ordinary wolves. My people.
And I can’t damn them. Not even for him.
The night stretches, cruel and endless. I turn the decision over and over like a blade in my hand, cutting myself with every edge. By dawn I’m hollow, raw, a man split between duty and desire, loyalty and love.
But there’s no world where I win. Only one where I choose the loss I can stomach.
So I choose my people.
When the first gray light of dawn creeps between the shutters, I rise. My guards, sharp-eyed and silent, are already waiting. They don’t ask questions when I tell them to pack.
My carriage is readied before the rest of the house stirs. Wheels creak over frozen earth, trunks loaded with a precision that speaks of long practice.
I pause at the threshold of the lodge. The wood smells of smoke and pine, of iron and old blood, of Blackthorn. A place that could have been an ally.
Ronan is already watching me, shoulders squared in that deceptively casual way that promises violence if I breathe wrong. For a heartbeat, I consider blurting it out. Instead, I force myself to smile. To incline my head. To speak words that taste like glass in my throat.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Alpha Vale. Blackthorn has Silvercrest’s continued gratitude and support.”
Every syllable cuts like razor wire and I swear I can taste blood.
Ronan’s eyes narrow, searching my face, but he doesn’t press. His wolf already knows something is off.
“That’s good to hear,” is all he says, those dark, mistrustful eyes following me. “I hope your journey home is swift.”
Eli offers me a small bow and a smile that holds a hint of apology. “Be safe, Kieran. It was an adventure getting to know you.”
I bow stiffly and walk away before my resolve fractures.
In the yard, the cold morning air stings my lungs. My guards are mounted, the carriage waiting. I climb inside without looking back, because if I do, I might undo everything.
The leather seat creaks under me. My guards sit across from me, silent as the dead, but their eyes flick to me once, sharp with questions they’ll never dare voice.
I close my own and imagine the future I’ve just sealed.
I want to believe there’s still a move left, some hidden path between loyalty and mercy. But the board is closed. Every piece already set.
So I sit in the carriage, hands clasped tight, and force myself to breathe.
One breath for Silvercrest. One breath for Blackthorn. One breath for Eli Vale, the boy who could have been everything, if I had been someone else.