Chapter 62: Chapter 62
"I’m suggesting we should review our Alpha Council guidelines to ensure that all our leaders are making decisions based on pack welfare rather than personal relationships," Harold said. "I’d like to propose a formal leadership review in three months. Just to ensure Shadow Ridge is on sound footing."
The room got cold.
"That’s not a thing," Marcus said quietly from where he stood near the door. Connor’s jaw clenched beside him.
"Actually, it is," one of the older Alphas said. "It’s an old protocol. Hasn’t been invoked in about fifty years."
"Which is exactly why we should reconsider it," another Alpha added. "If Shadow Ridge is unstable, it affects all our territories."
Christian’s hand on my knee tightened into a fist.
The meeting dissolved into a bunch of political posturing after that. Harold didn’t push harder—he didn’t need to. He’d planted his seeds, gotten his concerns on record, and positioned himself as the reasonable elder statesman worried about the pack’s future.
As we left, Marcus caught Christian’s arm. "He’s been meeting with the other Alphas privately. Montana, Idaho, and Wyoming. They’re all traditional, all vocal about the old ways."
Connor appeared with a file folder before Christian could respond. "Intelligence confirms it. Harold’s been in contact with at least six other Alphas for the past two months. They’re coordinated."
"How coordinated?" I asked.
Connor’s expression was grim. "Voting block coordinated."
The car ride back to Shadow Ridge was silent.
Christian drove while I watched the forest blur past the window. His hands were wrapped so tight around the steering wheel that his knuckles were white. I could feel his anger through our bond—hot and sharp and directed entirely inward.
When we got home, he went straight to his office. I followed, closing the door behind us.
"He’s been planning this for months," Christian said, pulling out files and spreading them across his desk. "The meetings, the contact with other Alphas, the questions about my judgment. It’s all orchestrated."
"He’s your father," I said carefully. "But he’s not wrong about wanting to review leadership. He just framed it like you’re failing when you’re not."
"That’s what he does." Christian ran both hands through his hair, and suddenly I could see it—really see it. The weight of this. The exhaustion. "He creates doubt. Makes you question yourself. Tells you you’re not good enough while also saying he’s proud of you. It’s..." He stopped, his jaw working like he was physically swallowing the words.
I sat on the edge of his desk. "Tell me."
"It’s psychological warfare," he said finally. "He did it when I was a kid. Constantly. Nothing was good enough. Everything was a lesson in disappointment. But he’d frame it as care. Like he was only criticizing me because he loved me and wanted me to be better."
I watched him pace. Watched the wolf prowl beneath his skin.
"By the time I was old enough to realize it was manipulation, I’d already internalized the message," Christian continued. "I’m not good enough. I need to prove myself. And there’s always another person who should have power over me because I can’t be trusted to make my own decisions."
"That’s not true."
"I know." He stopped, turning to face me. "Intellectually, I know. But he’s my father. And he’s still..." Christian gestured at nothing. "It still works. Even now, knowing what he’s doing, I feel that old doubt creeping in."
The vulnerability in his voice broke something in my chest.
"He’s wrong," I said. "About all of it. About your judgment, about your leadership, about you."
"Logically, I know. But three months from now, there’s a review. If he can convince enough Alphas that I’m unstable, unfit to lead..." Christian trailed off, but I could complete the sentence. The Alpha Council could force him to step down. Could put Harold back in control. Could undo everything we’d built.
We stayed up late, spreading out reports and intelligence. Connor stopped by around midnight with more files—correspondence between Harold and the other Alphas, strategic talking points they were using, and potential vulnerabilities in Christian’s leadership they’d identified.
It was a masterclass in political maneuvering. Harold had been patient and thorough and devastatingly effective.
Around 2 AM, Christian finally went to bed. I followed him to our suite, watching him lie down like he was exhausted but unable to sleep. His wolf was restless, pacing under the surface.
I pulled him close, my fingers finding the mating mark on his neck. He’d fallen asleep like that—vulnerable and hurt and desperate for reassurance.
I stayed awake, my mind working through everything. Harold’s strategy, the other Alphas, and the three-month timeline.
Somewhere around 3 AM, it hit me. A piece of information Connor had mentioned casually, one I’d filed away without thinking about it.
Harold’s bank statements showed regular transfers to an offshore account.
Large transfers.
The kind of transfers you made when you were paying someone for something. Or someone was paying you.
What was Harold up to?
