Chapter 186
Chapter 186
Rhea
The weight of that settled over me, and I had to put down the tea because my hands started shaking. "I don't know if I'm ready for that."
"You don't have to be ready," Kael said, gentler than I'd ever heard him. "You just have to be willing to try. And you don't have to do it alone." His hand found mine. "We're with you. Always."
Through the bond, I felt their absolute certainty, their support, and something tight in my chest finally loosened. Maybe I didn't have all the answers. Maybe I was still figuring out who I was. But I had them, and people who believed in me, and maybe that was enough to start.
A sharp knock interrupted us, and Alex's voice came through the door: "Rhea? We need to talk."
Kael's expression darkened, but he got up and opened the door to Alex, Caspian, and—surprisingly—Finn, all looking serious. Alex looked me over, checking for injuries the way he'd been doing my whole life, before his shoulders relaxed slightly.
"Father called," he said without preamble. "The Council vote went through. Ironfang has seventy-two hours to apologize and start paying, or they face a total trade embargo." He paused. "Tyrant's been recalled home. His father is... not happy."
Good. Let the bastard face consequences for once.
But Alex wasn't done. "There's more." He pulled out his phone, showing an official-looking document. "The Council's investigating how Thorne got your medical records to sell to Tyrant. They're talking about charging him posthumously, using it to set precedent for privacy laws."
My stomach churned at the reminder of Thorne, how he'd died screaming because he thought he could profit from my pain. I should have felt vindicated, maybe. Instead, I just felt tired and sad and ready for this to be over.
After they left, the apartment fell into a different kind of quiet, heavier somehow. I watched Kael move to the window, his posture rigid in that way that meant he was fighting something he didn't want to share. Through the bond, I felt the edges of his turmoil—anger, resignation, a weariness that had nothing to do with being physically tired.
"What is it?" I asked softly.
He didn't turn around. "Nothing. Just processing."
It was a lie, and we both knew it, but I let it sit there because sometimes Kael needed time to find words for what he was feeling. Jax caught my eye and shrugged, equally unsure, and we settled into uneasy silence broken only by distant campus sounds.
An hour later, Kael finally moved, pulling on his coat with deliberate care. "I need to check something at my office. Be back soon."
Another lie, but I didn't call him on it. He kissed my forehead, quick and almost automatic, before walking out with the kind of purposeful energy that meant he was running from something.
Through the bond, I felt him leave the building, felt the distance growing, and wondered what storm was building behind those walls he kept so carefully constructed.
---
Kael
The walk to my office felt longer than it should have, every step heavy with the dread that had been building in my gut since I woke up.
Something was wrong—not with Rhea, not with the bond, but with the careful balance I'd been maintaining between my duty to Zenith, my obligations to my family, and my absolute need to protect my mate.
The Striker family didn't do warm and fuzzy. We didn't do comfort or reassurance or any of the soft things normal families seemed to manage. We did expectations and consequences, duty and honor, success and the brutal price of failure. I'd learned that young, had it beaten into me through years of training that left no room for weakness.
So when I opened my office door and saw the letter on my desk—heavy cream paper sealed with the Striker crest in dark red wax—I wasn't surprised. Just... tired. So fucking tired of being the dutiful son, the perfect soldier, the weapon my father had spent twenty-four years shaping.
I picked up the letter, feeling its weight, the expensive paper that screamed old money and older expectations. The seal cracked under my thumb, and I unfolded the single sheet with movements that felt mechanical, disconnected from the growing anger in my chest.
The message was brief. Of course it was. My father never wasted words.
Return home immediately. Do not make me wait.
—Father
No greeting. No acknowledgment of the siege I'd just survived, the students I'd protected, the mate I'd nearly lost. No "are you hurt" or "glad you're alive" or any of the thousand small things a parent might say to a child who'd been through hell. Just an order, cold and absolute, the kind he'd give any subordinate who'd stepped out of line.
I stared at those words until they blurred, something hot and sharp building behind my ribs. My fingers tightened on the paper, slow and deliberate, until I heard the first whisper of it tearing. The sound was satisfying in a way I couldn't explain, a tiny rebellion against the chokehold my family had on my life since before I could walk.
Do not make me wait.
Like I was a dog being called to heel. Like the past eleven days—the siege, the casualties, holding Rhea's dying body and feeling our bond fraying—like none of that mattered compared to his convenience.
The paper crumpled further in my fist, edges cutting into my palm, and I welcomed the sting because it was real, something I could control when everything else felt like it was spinning away. Through the bond, I felt Rhea's distant concern, a gentle questioning warmth that I instinctively shut down because I couldn't—wouldn't—let her see this weakness, this pathetic need for my father's approval I should have outgrown years ago.
My wolf snarled in my head, wanting to tear the letter apart, burn it and send the ashes back. But I was too well-trained for that, too conditioned to obedience even as every instinct screamed to stay here, protect what was mine, tell my father exactly where he could shove his summons.
My gloves creaked as my hands clenched, and I forced myself to breathe, to think tactically instead of emotionally. Going home meant leaving Rhea when she was still recovering, still processing Tyrant's attack. It meant abandoning my post at Zenith when there was so much left to do. It meant walking back into the Striker compound and facing whatever judgment my father had decided I'd earned for choosing my mate over family politics.
But not going meant open defiance. It meant cutting ties already strained to breaking, burning bridges I might still need if things went sideways with the Council or Ironfang. It meant proving every accusation my father had ever thrown at me—that I was too emotional, too weak, too compromised by sentiment to be a true Striker.
The paper tore completely in my grip, ripping down the middle with a sound too loud in the quiet office. I looked down at the ruined letter, at my father's words now split and crumpled, and felt something cold settle in my chest.
He wanted me home? Fine. I'd go. I'd face whatever he'd cooked up, endure whatever lecture or punishment he thought appropriate. I'd play the dutiful son one more time, because that's what Strikers did—we endured, we served, we sacrificed everything personal for duty and honor.
But this would be the last time. The absolute last time I let my father's expectations dictate my choices, let his disappointment carve away pieces of who I was trying to become.
Because I had Rhea now. I had a mate who saw past the perfect soldier act to the man underneath, who'd chosen me despite—or maybe because of—all my rough edges and controlled violence. I had a bond that sang in my blood, a connection more fundamental than any family tie or military obligation. And I'd be damned if I let my father's manipulation tear that away.
I smoothed out the torn letter as best I could, memorizing those cold, dismissive words. Then I pulled out my phone and typed a brief response, professional and empty of the emotion churning in my gut:
Acknowledged. Will arrive tomorrow morning.