Briar’s POV
I cut Asher off before he can finish making his offer.
"No," I tell him, already reaching for my leather jacket draped over the chair. "I’m doing this solo."
Asher’s expression hardens instantly. He pushes back from the kitchen counter, crossing his arms in that slow, deliberate way that ans he’s trying not to lose his temper. Years of working with taught him that bulldozing through my decisions only makes dig in deeper.
"You have no idea who sent that ssage," he points out, his voice carefully controlled. "No pack signature. No traceable location. That’s not being careful, Briar. That’s asking for trouble."
"I know exactly what this is," I shoot back, pulling my boots on with sharp, efficient movents. The familiar pressure of the laces grounds , makes everything feel more solid. "It’s a challenge."
"What kind of challenge?" His brow furrows, that crease appearing between his eyebrows that shows up whenever he’s trying to work through my logic.
"The kind that tests whether I can still get results without throwing my weight around."
"That doesn’t make sense," Asher says, voice flat and unconvinced.
"It’s the only thing that does make sense."
He lets out a breath, slow and asured, the way he does when he knows I’m winning this argunt but he’s not ready to give up yet. "Fine. Let stay in the area at least. Sa county. Sa tifra. Close enough to respond if things go sideways."
"Absolutely not," I say, and this ti my tone softens just a fraction. Not because I’m being kind, but because I need him to understand. "If he catches wind of backup, he’ll bolt before I can get a word out of him. He didn’t call for Briar the pack enforcer. He called for just Briar."
"And that’s what scares the hell out of ."
I stop what I’m doing and look him straight in the eye. "That’s exactly why it has to be this way."
Asher stares back at for several heartbeats. I can see all the things he wants to say written across his face. Risk assessnts. Backup plans. The quiet worry he never speaks out loud because he knows I’ll brush it off automatically. Finally, he gives one sharp, reluctant nod.
"You call the second you leave that eting," he says. "And again when you’re finished."
"Done."
He doesn’t look satisfied with that arrangent, but he moves out of my way.
That’s what trust looks like. Not the sa thing as approval. Both of us understand the difference.
The town screams human from every angle.
Buildings cluster together like they’re gossiping, all cramped and cozy. Streets wind in narrow ribbons that carry the mixed scents of car exhaust and fresh bread. A bakery on the corner pushes out warm air thick with the sll of sugar and rising dough. The hardware store has a window display that looks like it hasn’t been touched since the nineties.
No territorial markers anywhere. No subtle pack claims. Nothing with enough edge to draw blood.
I leave my car a full block away and cover the distance on foot, keeping my movents casual and unremarkable. No checking sight lines. No Alpha posturing. Just another woman in a jacket walking through a place that doesn’t know what lurks under her skin and doesn’t care to find out.
The café sits tucked between a flower shop and an empty storefront with newspapers taped over the windows. A small bell chis when I push through the door, bright and almost startling after the muted sounds of the street.
Coffee burns in the air, mixing with the sharp sll of industrial cleaner.
Scratched tables sit at odd angles. Mismatched chairs that have seen better decades. A counter worn smooth by countless elbows and coffee cups. Regular people populate the space, discussing shift schedules and sleepless toddlers and weather that refuses to cooperate. The kind of conversations that don’t end in bloodshed or broken alliances.
I buy coffee and choose a seat with clear sightlines to the entrance without being obvious about it.
My contact shows up exactly five minutes behind schedule.
The atmosphere shifts before he even appears. Sothing pulls tight in the air, like a guitar string wound too far. When the door swings open, he freezes in the doorway long enough for the bell to ring a second ti. His gaze sweeps the room thodically, cataloging every face, every exit, every piece of reflective surface. The mont he spots , I watch relief and terror crash into each other across his features.
He’s barely out of his teens. Twenty-two at most. His shoulders curve inward like he’s spent years trying to make himself invisible. Both hands stay buried in his jacket pockets like he doesn’t trust them not to give him away. When he stops at my table, his pulse pounds so loud I can track it from three feet away. Nothing threatening about him. Nothing predatory.
Just pure, raw fear.
He doesn’t sit imdiately. Another scan of the room, this ti slower but no less desperate. When he finally collapses into the chair across from , it’s like his knees simply gave up.
"You actually ca," he whispers, voice barely holding together.
"I said I would."
He nods quickly, throat working as he swallows. His hands erge from his pockets shaking, and he presses them flat against the table surface like that might steady them. It doesn’t help.
"My Alpha has no idea I reached out," he says.
"I figured as much."
"If they found out I was here, they’d end ."
I don’t react. No softening my expression, no leaning forward with comfort. No interruptions. I simply wait.
Sotis silence is the greatest kindness you can offer.
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