Chapter 97 A Better Way
"My big boy," Fennigan murmured, his voice rumbling against Caspian’s chest as he scooped the toddler up. Caspian immediately grabbed a handful of Fennigan’s shirt with sticky fingers, but Fennigan didn't blink.
Briar, still strapped in her chair, let out an indignant squawk. She puffed out her cheeks, looking thoroughly offended.
Fennigan chuckled, a genuine sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. He pointed a finger at Leela. "Hand her to me."
Leela smiled, unbuckling the straps. "Someone is jealous."
She lifted Briar and passed her into Fennigan’s other arm. He adjusted them easily, his massive strength making the two heavy toddlers look like feathers.
"My Princess," he whispered into Briar’s hair, kissing her soft curls. He looked at Caspian. "My Prince."
Then, he turned his gaze back to Leela. He leaned in, pressing a lingering, reverent kiss to her forehead. "My Queen."
He carried the twins to the head of the heavy pine table and sat down in the high-backed chair, settling a child on each knee. He looked like a king on his throne, surrounded not by gold, but by life.
Elana placed a large bowl of mashed potatoes in the center of the table, her eyes darting between her husband and her son. She could feel the static in the air—the leftover lightning from the study.
"So," Elana asked, keeping her voice casual as she looked at Damon and the Elders. "Did the scotch help? Have we managed to figure anything out?"
Elder Thorpe unfolded his napkin, his expression serious. He had misread the room; he thought the Alpha's silence meant contemplation, not refusal. He opened his mouth, ready to present the logic to the group.
"We have a plan," Thorpe began, his voice authoritative. "It is risky, but—"
"NO!"
The word exploded out of Fennigan like a gunshot. It wasn't just a refusal; it was a command, loud and guttural, shaking the silverware on the table.
The kitchen went dead silent.
Briar flinched violently, her lower lip trembling as her eyes filled with sudden tears at the scary noise.
Caspian, however, didn't cry. He looked at his father, his little eyebrows furrowing in confusion at the sudden volume. He reached up with his chubby, sticky hand and—SMACK.
He slapped Fennigan right on the cheek.
It wasn't a hard hit, just a toddler’s open-palm bap of reprimand, but the sound echoed in the quiet room.
Fennigan blinked, the red rage in his vision clearing instantly as he felt the sting of his son’s hand and saw the fear in his daughter’s eyes. He looked down at Caspian, who was glaring at him as if to say, 'Quiet down.'
Fennigan let out a shaky breath, the fight draining out of his shoulders. He rubbed Caspian’s back soothingly and kissed the top of Briar’s head to calm her down.
He looked up at his father and Elder Thorpe, his golden eyes burning with a cold, absolute finality.
"No," Fennigan said again to his father, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that only the adults could hear. "We are not doing that. Do not bring it up again."Leela stood frozen for a split second, the towel still in her hand, her eyes wide as she processed the slap. Then, a small, involuntary snort of laughter escaped her.
She walked over to the head of the table, reaching out to gently smooth the red mark blooming on Fennigan’s cheek.
"Well," Leela said, her voice dry and light, cutting through the suffocating tension. "I think the Council has spoken. No shouting at the dinner table, Alpha. That’s a direct order from the Prince."
Fennigan let out a long, ragged exhale, leaning his face briefly into her cool palm. He kissed the center of her hand, his eyes never leaving Elder Thorpe’s, issuing a silent warning: Drop it.
"He’s right," Fennigan muttered, turning his attention back to Caspian, who was still looking at him with a mixture of defiance and curiosity. "I’m sorry, buddy. Daddy was too loud. It won't happen again."
Caspian, satisfied with the apology, immediately lost interest in pack politics and pointed at the bowl of mashed potatoes. "Tat-o."
"Yes, tato," Fennigan agreed, his voice gentle again, though his jaw remained tight.
Leela didn't sit down immediately. She stood behind Fennigan’s chair, her hands resting on his tense shoulders, her thumbs digging into the knots of muscle there. She looked across the table at the Elders, her gaze sharp and intelligent. She wasn't an idiot; she knew that Fennigan didn't explode like that over a disagreement about perimeter patrols or budget cuts.
"So," Leela said, her tone pleasant but laced with steel. "We aren't doing what, exactly? What was the plan that earned a veto loud enough to scare the baby?"
Elder Thorpe opened his mouth, but Fennigan’s hand shot up, stopping him cold.
"A reckless plan," Fennigan answered for him, his voice leaving no room for argument. "One that involved risks I am not willing to take. Not with this family. Not with the world the way it is."
He reached up, covering Leela's hand on his shoulder with his own, squeezing it possessively.
"We are looking for leverage against Vane," Fennigan said, looking up at her. "But we aren't going to become him to get it. We aren't trading lives for laws."
Leela held his gaze for a long moment. She saw the fear behind the gold, the protective terror that she hadn't seen since the twins were born. She knew he was censoring the truth—protecting her from the details—but she also trusted his judgment. If he said it was a bad plan, it was a bad plan.
"Okay," Leela said softly. She squeezed his shoulder once more before moving to her own seat. "Then we find another way. A better way."
Elana, sensing the precarious balance of the room, seized the opportunity. She grabbed the serving spoon like a scepter.
"Exactly. A better way," Elana declared, scooping a massive mound of buttery potatoes onto Jax’s plate. "And we will find it on a full stomach. Because nobody saves the world with low blood sugar. Thorpe, eat. Horne, pass the salt."
The command was absolute. The Elders, chastised and outmaneuvered by both the Alpha and the toddler, picked up their forks.
The dinner continued, but the air had changed. The laughter was a little more subdued, the conversations a little more forced. The clinking of silverware against china seemed louder than usual.
But at the head of the table, Fennigan held Briar on one knee and Caspian on the other, feeding them bits of steak and potato. He didn't eat much himself. He just kept his arms around them, a physical barricade between his children and the conversation that had happened in the study, determined that the darkness of Whisper Wind would never, ever touch them again.