“Water access. They’re demanding shared rights with the human district, even though the well system was funded entirely by pack infrastructure.”
We were seated in the heart of my office, a stack of zoning applications and territorial agreements between us. The proposed complex on the northeast ridge was supposed to house alpha families, provide emergency care to pack members, and host a permanent tactical training center. But progress had slowed to a crawl thanks to bureaucratic wrangling.
“Let me guess,” I said, flipping through the paperwork. “The human mayor thinks it’s a goodwill gesture.”
I rubbed a thumb against the corner of the map, tracing the disputed boundary line. We’d had to halt surveying twice already due to unclear jurisdiction and outdated border definitions. Even with pack scouts verifying the land, human claims kept surfacing with century-old deeds and vague boundary descriptions. The red tape was endless and strategically designed to frustrate us.
“More like leverage,” Ren muttered. “They want a border inspection clause too. As if we’re letting human enforcers sniff around our holdings.”
He leaned back slightly, tapping a pen against the table in a steady rhythm that betrayed his impatience. I could see the calculation behind his eyes, scenarios playing out where we conceded too much or not enough. Every move here wasn’t just political. It was territorial.
I let the folder drop. “They’re baiting for concessions. We concede patrol rights and next they’ll want representation on our internal security board.”
“We could counter with medical assistance,” Ren suggested. “Offer to station one of our healers at their clinic. It’d boost their care standards, and we retain autonomy.”
It wasn’t a bad idea. We had surplus omega medics requesting field experience, and offering aid gave us the moral high ground. If we played it right, we’d win both political favor and practical advantage without yielding authority.
I nodded slowly. “It might work. They’re understaffed. A well-placed omega medic could buy us more goodwill than another council meeting.”
Ren’s brow lifted in appreciation. “You think Dr. Mira would volunteer?”
“She’s been pushing for off-territory rotations. I’ll ask her.”
My attention shifted as I jotted a quick reminder in the margin of the planning document. The conversation had finally started to feel productive, like we might gain ground after weeks of stalemates.
Before he could reply, a knock at the door interrupted us. One of the perimeter guards stepped in, posture straight and tone clipped.
“Lycan King, sir. We have a situation.”
I looked up, brows knitting. “What kind of situation?”
The guard hesitated, eyes flicking to Ren before continuing. “Security Chief Carlton says there’s a rogue alpha requesting audience. Claims it’s urgent.”
Ren leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Rogues don’t usually knock first.”
I rose from my chair, the unease coiling in my gut sharpening with every word. The room suddenly felt smaller, the shift in atmosphere palpable. Routine negotiations and policy debates could wait.
“No,” I agreed, already standing. “They don’t. If one’s asking to see me, it means either he’s desperate, or he’s holding something valuable. Where is Carlton?”
“Bringing him up now, sir.”
The guard stepped aside just as Carlton entered, his expression taut with controlled suspicion. Behind him followed a rough-looking man whose beard and scent made it clear he hadn’t seen civilization, or a bar of soap, in weeks.
The rogue’s eyes darted across the room, already calculating exits and threat levels. He carried himself like someone used to running, used to hunger and fear. The stink of desperation came off him in waves.
Carlton gave me a nod. “Sorry to interrupt. He says it’s about an omega. Claims he saw one matching your watchlist.”
Ren straightened immediately, his earlier amusement vanishing. My mind went blank for a heartbeat before slamming into overdrive. I gave the rogue my full attention.
***
The rogue alpha standing in my office looked like he’d been living rough. Clothes that hadn’t seen a washing machine in weeks hung off his frame, beard grown wild and matted, carrying the particular smell of someone existing on society’s edges. He called himself Ramiel, though rogues rarely used real names. Carlton had found him through the network of informants we’d activated across three states, promising cash for information about a specific omega.
“I saw her a few nights ago,” Ramiel said, eyes darting between the assembled authority figures like he expected violence at any moment. His shoulders hunched forward, the submissive posture of a rogue in an Lycan King’s presence. “Pregnant omega, running alone through the woods outside Millbrook. She matches the description you gave. Her wolf was chestnut and had green eyes. There was also a scar running down its neck.”
My hands clenched involuntarily at the mention of the scar I’d put there. But the word before that stopped my heart entirely. Pregnant. The rogue had said pregnant.
“You’re certain it was her?” My voice came out steady through sheer force of will.
