“We’ve completed a full forensic re-examination,” he announced without preamble. “Blood trace, scent layering, security timestamps. All confirm Alpha Damon’s account.”
He placed the pad on the central table and tapped it, displaying three overlapping heat maps and claw pattern analysis. Murmurs rippled outward.
Carlton turned toward me, nodding slightly, then added: “We also have a private statement from Rhea Thornback. She confirms that Laziel entered her room unannounced, attempted to assert dominance, and that she called out mentally for her mate. The timeline aligns with Damon’s arrival and the start of the attack.”
The effect was immediate.
Yates leaned back, jaw tight with reluctant understanding. Morell exhaled slowly, shaking his head. Even Hampton, still nursing his bruised ego from earlier, looked momentarily silenced.
“So the Omega’s distress triggered an unbound alpha response,” Yates muttered. “You didn’t kill your brother as a rival. You reacted to a mating threat.”
“That doesn’t absolve me,” I said, voice even. “But it does explain the loss of control. I don’t seek forgiveness. I seek acknowledgement of the truth.”
Morell was the first to nod. “You acted on instinct, not malice. It was a failure, but not betrayal. A punishment may still be warranted… but not condemnation.”
“Then what?” Hampton growled. “A slap on the wrist? A council-issued apology?”
“No,” Carlton said quietly. “But if we punish an alpha for responding to a direct threat to his mate, we set a precedent that endangers every bonded pair in this pack.”
That landed harder than anything I could’ve said. The council was full of mated alphas, fathers, bonded guards. The implications hit home.
I waited, letting the silence churn as they weighed duty against instinct, politics against bonds.
“Very well,” Yates said finally. “We accept your confession. The consequences can be debated. But no further deception. No more lies.”
“No more lies,” I repeated.
Only then did the tension shift, less absolution than grim détente. But it was a start.
***
The council chamber reeked of cigars and barely contained hostility, the same toxic combination that had flavored every meeting since my confession two weeks ago. I sat at the head of the ancient oak table, maintaining the appearance of control while my kingdom fractured along invisible fault lines. Half the council admired what they called courageous honesty. The other half whispered about instability, about an Lycan King who couldn’t control his own blood rage.
“The Northern Alliance has formally withdrawn from the trade agreement,” Hampton announced with barely concealed satisfaction. He’d been the most vocal about my “weakness” since that morning in the great hall. “They cite concerns about dealing with a self-confessed kinslayer.”
“Let them withdraw,” I kept my voice level despite the financial implications. “We won’t build alliances on lies anymore.”
“Noble words,” Yates interjected, his thin face pinched with disapproval. “But nobility doesn’t fill pack coffers. We’ve lost three major contracts this week alone. At this rate, we’ll be bankrupt before the pups are born.”
The casual mention of my children sent a protective growl through my chest that I barely suppressed. Everyone knew about the twins now, pack gossip had spread that news within daysof my confession. Some saw it as hope for the future. Others whispered about cursed bloodlines and omega manipulation.
“The pack’s stability matters more than profit,” I countered, though the words tasted hollow. Stability was exactly what we didn’t have.
“Stability?” Hampton laughed, the sound sharp as breaking glass. “Three alphas have already declared their intention to challenge your rule. The eastern territories are in open discussion about secession. This isn’t stability, it’s dissolution.”
“Because I told the truth?” I asked, voice low.
“No,” Morell said. “Because they don’t know what you’ll do next. Kings who confess to fratricide don’t often return to their thrones. And you didn’t just return. You kept your crown and brought the omega with you.”
Yates nodded reluctantly. “We need a stabilizing gesture. Not to punish you, this isn’t about justice anymore. It’s about narrative control.”
“What kind of gesture?” I asked, wary of what they’d suggest.
“A royal edict reaffirming command. Reassert your authority, not just over the council, but over yourself. Let the pack see that you are capable of ruling with structure, not passion,” Morell said.
I considered them both. They weren’t wrong. The pack didn’t need more apologies. It needed leadership. Vision.
The litany of disasters continued for another hour. Lost alliances, withdrawn support, challenges both formal and informal. My father had built this kingdom over forty years of careful negotiation. I was watching it crumble in weeks, all because I’d chosen truth over comfortable lies.
