LOGINKNOX
Our eyes met, and the desire that I had convinced myself for the past five years that it wasn't there any more, suddenly surged in. Her mouth hung open, tears on the brim of rolling down her eyes.
She tried closing the door, but I was faster and used my powers to rush in before she was able to, shutting the door behind it. It let out a loud thud.
I stepped towards her, each step getting heavier with each stroke. It was just a little distance separating us, but it felt like we were unable to escape this wavering desire.
I almost reached her. Almost touched her. Almost did the things that I had been desperately holding back for the past five fucking years.
When her voice suddenly erupted.
“No!” She yelled, her voice echoing through the halls. “Don't cross that line. Don't you dare cross that fucking line.”
Her voice had so much anger. Hurt and despair.
Her face held such cold disdain, that ripped my heart up each time I looked into her eyes. We said nothing, just let the silence fill in the empty space, empty words. Wires we wished we could say to one another.
I walked towards her again, but her voice came in louder. “I told you to take a fucking step back, Knox. Don't you even try to dare me right now,” she threatened, her voice low but filled with anger.
I could tell that she was holding back from being loud. Like, she was scared of something.
But she turned me on. She had always been humble and simple, with none of this shown in her character, but this side of her fascinated me. I knew I brought out this side. All the pain and hurt I had caused her.
She broke the silence. “What are you doing here?” She asked, folding her arms together, pushing her breasts up.
I cursed under my breath. “I came back for you,” I responded, unable to stop the smirk formed on my lips.
She huffed. “You're five years too late, Mister. I would appreciate it if you hop on your bike and get the hell out here, back to where you came from. Where someone else would be willing to buy those lies of yours.”
Her voice was harsh, but I took no offense in it. I was letting her spill all of her anger and I didn't want her to hold back. I deserved it. All of it and more. And I had seen it coming.
I shook my head desperately. “You're coming back with me, Riley,” I stated, closing the distance between us.
She tried pulling her arms away from mine, but my grip tightened around her. No matter how hard she tried, she wasn't going to escape me. We've wasted five years, but I wasn't going to let any more time get wasted ever again.
She struggled, trying to get out of my grip. “Let go of me, you lunatic. This is abuse. Don't touch me, traitor!”
Her words were sharp and angry. But that didn't hold me back. I kept pushing her backwards, until her back hit the cold hard wall. Our faces were inches away from each other, and lips almost touching.
Our lips were so close I could already taste her, vanilla and paint and that little bit of anger that always drove me crazy. Her back was pressed hard against the wall, my hands pinning her wrists up by her shoulders, and she was breathing fast, chest going up and down like she just ran a mile.
I was about to say something stupid like “I never stopped loving you” when she jerked her head to the side to yell at me again.
And that’s when I saw it. The mark.
My bite mark on her neck was glowing soft silver, like moonlight trapped under her skin. It was faint, yeah, but it was there. Bright and alive and pulsing like it had been waiting for me the whole damn time. It was never supposed to do that. The second I rejected her it should’ve turned black and vanished. That’s how it works. Everybody knows that.
But it didn’t.
It never broke.
My knees actually went weak. Like full-on almost dropped me to the floor right there in her hallway. My grip on her wrists loosened and I had to catch myself on the wall so I didn’t fall like a complete idiot.
All the air left my lungs in one go. Five years. Five years I thought I’d killed the bond. Five years I told myself she was free and happy and better off. Five years of drinking and fighting and hating myself… and the bond was still here. She’d been carrying my mark this whole time. Feeling me. Hurting because of me.
I couldn’t even talk. My throat closed up.
Riley felt me freeze and she turned her head back real slow. Her eyes were huge and wet and angry. She saw me staring at the mark and her face just… crumpled for a second. Then she shoved at my chest hard.
“Get off me,” she hissed, voice cracking.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. I was still staring at that glow like it was the only light I’d seen in years.
Then the door at the end of the hall banged open so loud it made us both jump.
“Mama!! Big dog outside smells like Daddy!!” a tiny boy voice yelled, super excited.
“He’s all wet and he’s staring!” a little girl squealed, both of them running straight to the big window in the living room.
Riley went stiff in my arms. Her face went white. I let go of her like I’d been burned and turned around slow.
Two kids. Maybe four years old. One with messy black hair like mine, one with red curls like hers. Both of them pressed their little faces to the glass, noses squished, eyes glowing that silver-gold color that only happens with Alpha blood.
My blood.
They were staring right at me like they’d been waiting their whole lives.
“Mama he’s really big!!” the boy said, waving.
The girl blew me a kiss. “Hi, are you our daddy?”
My heart stopped. Like actually stopped beating for a second.
Riley made this choked sound behind me and tried to run past, but I caught her waist on instinct. “Riley… are those—”
“Don’t,” she whispered, voice shaking so bad. “Don’t you dare.”
But I couldn’t stop staring. My legs felt like jelly. My kids. My actual kids. Calling me Daddy without even knowing my name. I knew right then I wasn’t leaving this building without them.
Ever.
The second dispute of the afternoon involved a territorial disagreement between two packs whose history went back further than anyone in the room except, apparently, two elderly representatives who sat near the back, occasionally exchanging glances that suggested they remembered the original injury firsthand. I noted that detail almost automatically, the way I noted small human textures in every room, even as everything beneath the noting had started to feel less stable than it should.I tried to read the room the way I always did — distinct signatures, each state attributable to its source, the careful sorting that had been instinctive for as long as I could remember being able to do this at all.What I got instead was something closer to weather than to individual readings. A general pressure, directional but not specific, the way you can tell a storm is moving in without being able to say exactly which cloud carries the most rain.I sat with this for a moment, trying to apply more
The first morning session lasted three hours, and by the end of it I knew, with a clarity I could no longer rename, that something was wrong.Not wrong in the room. Wrong in me.The session itself was structured the way Sable had described — a series of shorter presentations from regional representatives, broader in scope than the individual disputes I usually handled, less about reading two specific parties and more about taking the temperature of an entire room's accumulated grievance. I was meant to offer, at intervals, a general assessment: where the tension was concentrated, where there was room for movement, where there wasn't.I had done versions of this before, at smaller scale. The skill itself wasn't unfamiliar. What was unfamiliar was the sensation underneath the skill — a kind of effortful straining that hadn't been there in any prior session, even the difficult ones, even the eight-hour ruling session the week before.I recognized the sensation, eventually, for what it wa
The assembly had been on the calendar since before I arrived for the season, a fixed point everyone referenced the way you'd reference a known storm on a long-range forecast: distant enough not to worry about yet, certain enough to eventually arrive.It was, Sable explained in the briefing the week before, the largest gathering the council convened — representatives from every pack within the regional jurisdiction, support staff, council members both full and advisory, gathered for two days to address the cumulative backlog of cross-pack tension that smaller sessions hadn't fully resolved. Forty-some people, by Sable's count, moving through the space across the two days, though never all at once.I had never been in a room that size. My largest prior session had been fifteen, the monthly full council meeting, and even that had required techniques I'd developed specifically to manage it. Sable walked through the agenda with her usual thoroughness — the morning sessions, the afternoon d
I knew the warning signs. I'd known them for years, the way you know the early symptoms of an illness you've had before. Tight behind the eyes. A specific flattening in how clearly I could distinguish one person's state from another's. A growing reluctance to enter rooms, not from fear exactly, but from a body-level resistance that I'd learned, over a decade, meant something specific: too much, accumulating, unaddressed.If a person I was mediating for had described these symptoms to me, I would have named them immediately and without hesitation. I would have said: this is what depletion looks like. You need rest, real rest, not just time off the calendar. You need to stop and take stock before this becomes something harder to recover from.I would have been right to say that, and I would have said it with the clear, uncomplicated confidence of someone reading a pattern they understood completely.I did not say it to myself.What I did instead, over the following days, was rename each
Hunter called on a Wednesday, which was, as it had been the first time, the sign that something had moved him to call outside the usual rhythm. I was sitting at the table with case files open in front of me, the dense calendar visible on the wall past the lamp, when the phone rang, and I noticed, picking it up, a small flicker of something that wasn't quite dread but lived in the same neighborhood as dread."You've missed two Sundays," he said, by way of greeting.I hadn't realized. The weeks had compressed into each other in a way that made individual days hard to distinguish — session, session, case review, sleep that didn't feel like enough sleep, repeat. I genuinely had not noticed the gap until he named it, and the not-noticing itself felt like a small, separate piece of evidence I hadn't asked for."I'm sorry," I said. "It's been a lot.""That's what I'm calling about." A pause, careful in a way that wasn't like him — Hunter was usually direct from the first sentence, not buildin
Yolanda asked to see me the day after the ruling session, which I assumed, walking to her office, was a continuation of the corridor praise — a more formal version of well done, perhaps some discussion of what came next for the resolved case.It was not that.Her office was smaller than Rhen's, tucked at the end of a corridor that saw less foot traffic, and the modesty of it had always struck me as deliberate — a person who could have claimed more space and chose not to, the same instinct I'd noticed in the council's choice of building all the way back in my first visit. The chair across from her desk was simple, unupholstered, the kind of seat that didn't invite you to settle in for longer than the conversation required."There's a proposal," she said, once I'd sat down, "for an expanded position. Not just additional cases — a structural addition to your seat. A standing role on the assembly steering committee, which would mean involvement in shaping the larger summit sessions, not ju
KNOXI'd had the helmets made three days in advance.Getting the lettering right was the hard part. Riley's style is specific — she learned calligraphy somewhere along the line, uses it for the custom job plaques in the shop, has a way of writing people's names like each letter belongs to them spec
RILEYI made the list at two in the morning.Not because I couldn't sleep — I could've slept, probably, if I'd tried — but because making lists is what I do when the world stops making sense and I need to put things somewhere outside of my own head. I've been doing it since I was twelve. Grocery li
KNOXThe penthouse smelled like fresh paint and nobody.I'd bought the building at two in the morning through Grayson's cousin's real estate contact, paid forty percent over asking price in cash, and moved exactly nothing into the top floor except a burner phone charger and myself. No furniture. No
RILEYThe whole apartment turned into a zoo in like two seconds flat. Damien was yelling about lawyers and trespassing and calling it assault, while waving his phone around like he was gonna call the cops right there. Guests were whispering and filming and some lady actually started live-streaming.







