Chapter 18 – The Redmaw Threat
Ronan
The office smells of smoke, old leather, and blood dried into the cracks of the wood.
Maps sprawl across the table, overlapping in layers of scars and borders. Knives pin the corners down. Each mark is a choice I’ve made. Each line a wound.
Blackthorn territory stretches wide, but beyond it lies Redmaw country. The shadow in the trees, always pushing, always testing. Looking for a way to take what’s ours.
Mara stands at my shoulder, braid swinging as she leans in. Her eyes are sharp as flint in the lamplight, catching every detail.
“The scouts have reported seeing three of them. Claw marks in the bark to mark their path. Fresh tracks in the snow.”
I drag my finger across the northern ridge. “Here?”
She nods. “Past the old watchtower. Bold little bastards.”
My jaw tightens. “They’re looking for weaknesses.”
Her nails click against the table edge, restless. “So what are you going to do about it?”
I straighten slowly, the lantern light throwing my shadow tall across the wall.
“What I always do. Decide whether sending a warning will be enough to keep them at bay, or if it’s time to scatter bodies in the snow.”
Her gaze flicks to mine. There’s no fear there. Mara’s never feared me. We used to be close once upon a time.
There’s something else in her eyes. Something old and accusatory. “You can’t bleed the pack dry, Ronan.”
“We bleed a little now,” I say evenly, “Or we bleed out later. Either way, there will be blood.”
She scoffs, shaking her head and stepping around to face me. “I know how you think. I know you’ve got the taste for it, same as him.”
The air between us sharpens and I work to contain my fury at the accusation. “Don’t go there,” I warn.
Her lips curve in a humorless smile.
“You don’t like hearing it, but it’s true. You’re your father’s son. Your first instinct is always to choose violence, because it’s all you know.”
I move before I think, one hand slamming against the map. She doesn’t flinch.
“I killed him,” I growl, voice low and rough, “Because that was the only way to keep this pack from disintegrating under the weight of his blood lust.”
“And I hated him,” she bites back, eyes bright with an old fury, “But I still wake up hearing the sound his neck made when you snapped it.”
Silence slams down between us. The lantern flickers. My wolf stirs, restless, prowling the edges of my skin. I pull back, forcing my breath steady, letting the shadow of violence bleed away.
“And you hate me for it,” I say quietly.
Her throat works. “No,” she says finally. “I hate that I can’t. But it still changed the way I see you.”
The words hang heavy, neither of us willing to break them.
Then she’s moving again, back to the table, hands gripping the map. “Send a message,” she murmurs. “Don’t let them believe you’ve gone soft.”
She turns on her heel and strides out, boots echoing down the hall until the sound disappears.
The door swings shut, leaving me in the heavy quiet. I rub a hand over my jaw, stare down at the inked borders.
My wolf claws at me from the inside, wanting the hunt, wanting blood on the snow. Demanding that I go out and hunt them down right now.
I pace the room, shadows stretching. I picture Redmaw scouts strung up as warnings, their heads rotting on pikes. I picture Eli’s wide eyes when he sees more of what I’m capable of.
He needs to know who I am. But at the same time I want him to come to me willingly. Submit to our bond because he needs it as much as I do.
Stealthy movement outside the door catches my attention.
I can hear the faint scrape of boot leather against wood. A quick and nervous heartbeat. His scent seeps under the threshold, sharp and bright against the smoke.
Eli.
He thinks he’s subtle, pressed up against the outer wall, but I hear him breathe. I feel him there, the bond tugging like a hook in my chest.
He shouldn’t be listening. I should throw the door open, drag him in, make him understand what this life costs.
Instead I let him stay. Let him listen.
I lean over the map, pitching my voice just loud enough to carry.
“If they cross again,” I murmur, knowing every word is sinking into him, “I’ll make an example of them. Tear their limbs from their bodies. Display their heads on spikes.”
There’s a hitch in his breath. A scrape as he shifts his weight, caught between running and listening harder.
My wolf hums in approval. It’s good that he knows. Let him feel the danger. Let him know exactly who holds him now.
I roll the map slowly, the sound of parchment rough against my palms, and slide my knife back into its sheath.
The lantern’s flame gutters as I move to the door, my hand pausing on the handle. For a moment I close my eyes, breathing him in, that scent that curls heat low in my gut.
I murmur under my breath, “Go ahead and bolt, little wolf. I'll track you through hell and haul you back on your knees.”