Chapter 98: Busy
Chapter 98
Cameron
My eye twitches. It’s like I’m back in the boardroom—except I’m not. I’m in my tent, on a folding chair, surrounded by wolves all talking over each other, each insisting their crisis is more urgent than the next.
Late light filters through the plastic windows, turning the canvas walls a dull amber. Simone sits at my right, ever the professional, typing quietly on her laptop. I’m absurdly grateful for her because this is getting overwhelming fast.
"Enough."
My voice carries. The noise dies.
"It’s been two hours and we have no progress," I say. Faces lower. Eyes slide away.
"It was my mistake calling this without groundwork. But it’s also clear none of you came with it either."
Silence tightens.
"I don’t care who owns the task—what we need is a full breakdown of this pack. How many families? How many children? How many adults available for labor? How many elders who need support?" I sweep the table. "Right now we’re guessing. I don’t lead on guesses."
A few throats clear. Someone mutters an apology.
"There’s talk of more farmland. There’s talk of infrastructure. We don’t even have a map." I bite back another twitch.
"We cannot plan a future with fog for a blueprint."
Madam Elira lifts her chin, fingers white on her shawl. Before she can speak, I nod to her.
"Madam Elira, I respect your wish to preserve culture. Truly. But I’m not invalidating history by saying this: some practices have to be put down for now. Female wolves are a valid source of labor. We need every hand that can work." Her mouth thins, but she doesn’t argue.
"Mrs. Greer," I continue, turning to the schoolmistress, "I need a census and a first-pass map. Recruit smart pups, fast walkers, anyone who can write and measure. Mark every dwelling, every well, every field, every broken thing we trip over. One week for a draft."
"Yes, Alpha," Mrs. Greer says, already jotting names.
"Elder Vane," I say, meeting the hard, tired eyes across from me, "you’re with me. We speak to Savage Claw."
He grunts. "Understood."
"For the rest of you," I add, letting my gaze pass over each face, "the next time we meet, you bring structured information—not stories. I want numbers, options, and a recommended path forward. If you don’t have a recommendation, you haven’t thought hard enough."
There’s a shuffle of chairs, a ripple of "Understood," a few stiff bows. The tent begins to empty.
Two council members—Alric’s quiet loyalists—slip out without having said a single word. I clock that. I’m not threatened by silence; I’m threatened by what silence hides. I hope they don’t do something stupid.
"Counting on you, Simone," I say as I stand. She doesn’t miss a beat, just gives a single sharp nod, already typing notes faster than I can think.
Now onto the next task of business. The vampires.
The air outside the tent is cooler, the canvas flap falling shut behind me. The camp feels quieter now that the council has dispersed—wolves moving in small clusters, heads bent, whispers carrying. But the tension hasn’t gone anywhere.
Elder Vane is waiting. His posture is stiff, his weathered hands clasped behind his back as if he’s bracing himself. His eyes meet mine—serious, but with something under it. Resentment? Resignation? I can’t tell yet.
"Let’s walk," I say.
He inclines his head. We set off down the path that cuts between the cabins, boots crunching on dirt and gravel. The sun is slipping lower, washing the broken houses in gold that does nothing to soften the ruin.
We arrive at where the Savage Claw members are camped, and the stench hits me first. Sweat, rotting food, stale alcohol, and something fouler underneath it all—the copper tang of blood. My nose scrunches in disgust before I can stop myself.
Their "camp" is little more than a cluster of overturned crates, torn canvas, and half-broken barrels. Wolves sprawl around in varying states of dress, some sharpening blades, others gnawing on bones like carrion. This is supposed to be the force keeping White Stone safe?
One of the mercenaries notices us. He’s slouched against a crate, greasy hair falling in his face. A cruel smile curls across his lips as he kicks the dirt lazily with his boot. "Well, well. If it isn’t the new pup Alpha."
Laughter rumbles through the others like distant thunder. A few lift their heads; their eyes glint yellow in the dying light. They’re used to men with money and knives. They’re used to being feared.
Father-in-law always said one language wolves understand is violence.
I don’t waste words. I take two steps forward, close the distance, and grab that insolent wolf by the back of his head. He doesn’t have time to register the movement. I slam his face straight into the packed earth; the crack of bone is a private punctuation that shuts the camp down.
The man twitches, then goes still, fingers clawing at dirt as if to pull himself back into dignity.
Fear flitters across the faces of the others; good. I let the silence do the rest.
"I don’t know, nor do I give a fuck, about whatever dynamic you had with Alric," I say, my voice low, flat.
"I am the pack alpha now. You will treat me with respect. The next time someone runs their mouth, it won’t end with a few broken bones."
The mercenary’s hand scrabbles uselessly at my wrist. He spits blood and cusses, but the sound that fills the camp now is not laughter — it’s the slow, nervous rustle of men realizing the rules changed while they were busy counting coin.
"Now, bring me your new leader," I repeat, my voice low enough that the words feel like a blade in the late afternoon light.
"Alpha," the lounging brute says in tone that is obviously disrespectful, voice tight as a wire, trying to keep a bravado that collapses around the edges.
"You’re making a mistake—"
"Shut up."
