Marcus’s POV
Elena shows up without a single warning.
No phone call. No text. No courtesy heads-up that might have given a chance to brace myself or at least pretend I was ready for this conversation. I catch the sound of her heavy boots hitting the wooden porch before her scent even reaches , that unmistakable presence that makes the air itself seem to shift and tighten. So people command attention just by existing. Elena has always been that kind of force. Before she even steps foot inside, the entire cabin seems to rearrange itself around her arrival.
I pull the door open before her knuckles can et the wood.
She looks different than she did during our last encounter. Not fragile or diminished. If anything, she appears more dangerous now. Like the passing months stripped away every unnecessary softness and left behind nothing but sharp, unforgiving angles. Her hair shows more silver now, yanked back in a severe style that screams function over form. But those eyes remain exactly the sa.
Still calculating. Still asuring everything in her line of sight as either an asset or an obstacle.
"You look like hell," she states, brushing past without waiting for an invitation.
"Always a pleasure, Elena," I respond, shutting the door firmly behind her.
She stops just inside the main room, conducting what I recognize as a tactical assessnt. Simple furniture. Empty surfaces. No personal touches whatsoever. No family photos or pack morabilia tucked into corners or etched into the wooden beams. I know precisely what she’s cataloguing. A space that could belong to anyone. A place built for quick exits and clean breaks.
"You been eating properly," she asks, though it sounds more like inventory than genuine concern.
"Yes."
"Perfect. Because I’m hungry as hell."
That’s Elena’s version of asking for a al. No dancing around the request. No social niceties. Just raw expectation delivered with characteristic directness. I turn toward the kitchen area and survey my limited options. Nothing fancy or impressive. So rice in a beat-up container. Vegetables that need to be used before they turn. A piece of at thawing in the sink because I forgot about it earlier and refused to stress over the oversight.
I fall into the familiar rhythm of al preparation. Blade in hand. Heat under the pan. Water set to boil. My movents are automatic even as part of my attention stays locked on her position behind . The way she settles into that chair like she owns it. Her controlled breathing patterns. The subtle physical tells that reveal she’s monitoring every detail while pretending casual indifference.
She claims that seat at my small dining table like she belongs there.
I cook terribly.
Not so badly that it’s inedible. Just carelessly. Hurried. The rice gets overdone until it sticks together in clumps instead of staying light and separate. Everything else ends up under-seasoned and bland. I’m aware of each mistake as I make it and continue anyway. There’s sothing almost rebellious in that deliberate imperfection. Elena acts like she doesn’t notice the subpar results. She eats with the chanical efficiency of soone who learned long ago that als are about survival first and enjoynt second.
She chews with steady, asured precision, treating each bite like a necessary task rather than a source of pleasure.
We spend several minutes in the kind of quiet punctuated only by practical sounds. tal scraping against ceramic. A chair leg adjusting position. The ancient refrigerator’s motor kicking in with a low hum. It feels surreal. Almost normal. Like we’re playing house in a life that never actually belonged to either of us.
A glimpse of sothing we never chose to build.
"You should have brought backup," she ntions finally, her tone deceptively casual.
"Didn’t need any."
She lets out a short laugh that holds no humor. "That’s not how necessity works, Marcus."
I don’t take the bait. Instead, I finish clearing my plate and move to the sink to rinse it clean. The hot water creates steam that fogs the small window above the basin. Elena continues her surveillance, waiting for to reveal sothing I have no intention of sharing. So weakness or admission she can use later.
"The council’s coming apart again," she announces.
My hands pause in the soapy water. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough to acknowledge that her words carry weight without letting them pull under.
"Again," I echo.
"That’s right," she confirms. "Behind closed doors. Very carefully managed. Everyone keeps smiling while they prepare for war."
I dry my hands and turn to face her directly. "What exactly do they want?"
Her expression hardens before she delivers the answer, like she already knows how much damage these words will cause. "So of them are pushing for your official coronation."
The statent lands wrong in my chest. Not devastating. Not surprising. Just fundantally misplaced. Like soone trying to force a crown onto a head that was never ant to wear one.
"Absolutely not," I say without hesitation.
Elena arches one eyebrow. "You didn’t even ask for details."
"Don’t need them," I reply firmly. "The answer doesn’t change."
"They believe it would bring stability," she continues, steamrolling over my objection the way she always has. "One clear leader. A figurehead. Soone the packs already respect and follow."
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