I sat in the study, listening to the silence of the empty house. Antonio and Nick were right outside the window, on the patio, but even their muted whispers didn’t disturb the hush. Clayton and Elena had only been gone a few hours, but the house had already settled into hibernation, waiting for their return.

Every now and then, I’d catch echoes of a voice raised in anger, joy, frustration, laughter—always raised. Every footstep was a pound or a stomp, as they barreled through doorways, sprawled across sofas and carpets, their presence so loud I could hear it in the walls when they were gone.

Gone.

Temporarily, I tell myself. I should think of it as a respite—a few days to rest and plan before their return invasion. God, let there be a return—

There will be. This was for the best, and they’d return from Toronto safe and together, and this threat would be annihilated, our dead vindicated, and every corner of the house will boom with those shouts and footsteps until I retreat to my studio, and wonder why I didn’t enjoy the peace while it lasted.

I hate the silence.

I loved it once, during those barren, blessedly short years between my grandfather’s death and Clayton’s arrival. Silence then truly did mean peace, that my father was gone again and I could relax. But then Clayton came, and Elena . . . and it was never quiet again.

I turned from the window and, for a second, time stuttered and I was standing here, in this same pose, eleven years ago. Elena was on the couch, smiling the first genuine smile I’d seen from the nervous, confused young woman who’d appeared on my doorstep with Clay the day before.

She’s sitting there, smiling at something across the room. I turn, and see a giant golden wolf slinking into the room. For a moment, it doesn’t register—Clay here, as a wolf, in this setting, the pieces don’t connect and it takes a moment to realize it is him. By then, it’s too late. His teeth sink into her hand, and one thought fills my brain: this is my fault.

I know it wasn’t my fault—not entirely, though I do share some of the blame, as we all do. But as I see him bite her, I feel the gut-punch of guilt for not seeing this coming, for not having understood months ago what was happening in his life.

I hadn’t seen the truth because I’d been too busy worrying about what his change in mood portended. I’d seen him drifting away, and it had terrified me, specters of a silent, ghost-filled house rising. I’d told myself that I was happy for him, hating the selfish pit of grief in my gut every time I thought of him leaving.

I turned from the window.

"Jer?"

For a moment, I stood frozen, caught between times. Then Antonio called again from outside the window. I knew what he wanted. To do what we were supposed to be doing now that Clay and Elena were gone—plotting a way to end this threat. Yet I wasn’t ready. Not ready to get down to business, and not ready to face him.

I’d suggested sending Nick to Toronto with them. Antonio refused. We needed him here. So I hadn’t pushed. I should have pushed. My family, my "children," were gone, tucked out of harm’s way . . . and his son remained.

He’d refused my suggestion—that was the logical thing, and Antonio put logic first, emotion second. He hadn’t always been like that. A self-taught life lesson, and a harsh one. Given the chance to send Nick away from this, his heart would have leapt with eagerness. But his brain had said no—we need the extra fighter. I should have pushed. Insisted.

"I’ll be out in a moment," I said, not moving closer to the window, speaking where I couldn’t see them. "I’ll just switch the laundry over and bring out some lunch."

He started to answer, probably to say the laundry could wait—which it could—and even lunch could be postponed, under the circumstances, but I was already out of the room.

I headed down to the basement. As I passed the cage, soft crying followed me, slowing my steps. I turned, but of course there was no one inside. Just ghosts. The crying stopped, muffled by a snuffle, hands swiping away tears, throat unclogging in a cough.

"Jer—Jeremy." My name came awkwardly from her lips, as if she’d prefer not to use it, to call me something more formal, keep that distance between us: captor and captive. "Can I come out please?"

I walked faster. I hadn’t walked away back then. I’d stayed and tried to reason with her, knowing how ludicrous that was—insisting on applying the dictates of reason to what must have been, for her, sheer madness. She’d come to meet her fiancé's family, and now found herself locked in a basement cage, changing into a wolf every few nights, her lover banished, the keys to her dungeon held by a stranger who insisted she be reasonable, of all things. I could not begin to imagine what those few months must have been like for her. But I’d get a taste of it soon enough.

I made it as far as the laundry room before the next ghost called out to me, still from that damnable cage.

"Jer? Jer, please. Let me go with you. I’ll find her. I’ll make it up to her. She’ll understand. Just let me talk to her."

That time I had turned away. I had to. Bolted up the stairs two at a time, hearing Clayton’s pleas turn to shouts then screams as he begged me to let him help me find Elena. Upstairs, I’d packed a bag and left. Left before I turned around, marched down those stairs and screamed back at him, vented all my frustration and rage and helplessness on him.

My throat had itched to say the words—to shout them—to make as much noise as he did for once. Why had he opened that cage door and let her out? Did he think me a monster, locking her up? I’d had no choice. He’d left me no choice.

He’d bitten this girl and I was the one who had to listen to her sob, rage, scream until she had no voice left and, worse of all, cry quietly in the corner, calling his name when she thought no one was listening. I had to restrain her during her Changes, fight her, bear her bites and scratches, but none of them more painful than that look of utter terror on her face as she watched her body change forms.

Still, that wasn’t why she was in the cage. I could deal with the rages and the fits. But she wasn’t weak or foolish enough to listen to this stranger, to simply lie down and let the madness envelop her. She fought not just me, but this life and every time she thought I wasn’t watching, she tried to escape.

That’s why I locked her up: because I knew if she made it away from this place, she’d find true hell. Bitten werewolves rarely survived. Clay had, but only because he was a child—a bright, resourceful and, most importantly, accepting child. He’d accepted what he was and dealt with it. Elena could not accept. Who could blame her? Turned into something that, in her world, existed only in nightmares and horror films. And made that way, not by a stranger or an enemy, but by the man she’d entrusted her life and future to.

While I’d been out, Clay had snuck back, hoping to explain—as if such a thing could ever be explained—hoping to make amends, and he’d opened the door that kept her safe. The moment it opened, she’d attacked, knocking him out, locking him in and running. Now she was about to discover that this nightmare wasn’t one you woke up from, nor one you could leave behind by simply fleeing the madhouse.

I’d never considered taking Clayton with me to find Elena. Just as I hadn’t considered forcing him to stay and help mend what he’d broken. After the bite, I’d been so furious, I’d inflicted the worst punishment I could imagine on him: banishment. Later, when Antonio suggested I let him come back, so he could truly see the damage he’d wrought, I refused. By then, any thoughts of punishing him had passed, and I cared only about healing Elena. Having him around would only remind her of his betrayal.

So when he begged to come with me, I’d refused.

It took a few days to find Elena. She’d returned to Toronto. As for how she made the trek with no money—I hadn’t wanted to think about that. Once I arrived in the city, tracking her down had been more a matter of patience than skill. I’d tried to do it the "logical" way—returned to her school, found her apartment, even located a couple of friends, but she’d visited none of them.

After a few days of tail-chasing, the answer came to me, as I knew it would. I was eating dinner, having skipped lunch, so hungry that, for the first time since she’d escaped, I’d been too intent on something else to worry. Then, as I sat there, I knew where she was. Just knew, as if picking up a beacon.

Holding onto that beacon wasn’t easy—it wavered and faded, and seemed to slip away a few times. I tried too hard, as I always do. The strange connection I have to my Pack is a fragile, difficult thing, rarely coming when I need it, and always threatening to leave before I’m done with it. It was like being given a complex piece of equipment with no manual—I fumbled and experimented and, sometimes, it worked.

Eventually, I found Elena.

When I did, I wished I’d brought Clay along. He should have seen her there, cowering in the shadows, driven half-mad by her Changes, and the horror of what she’d done under their influence, starving and brain-fevered. Then he would have truly seen what he had done.

In that moment, I wanted him there. But later, I’m not sure I could have made that choice. Would it have forced him to understand? Or would it have broken him?

I pulled myself from my memories, switched the laundry and headed back upstairs, hurrying past the cage, now as silent as the rest of the house.

Empty.

Had I been right to send them away? I could have used their help. Yet how much help would Clay be, knowing Elena was a target? And how much help was she, still burning to avenge Logan? Passion can enflame a warrior to greatness, but if the flames burn too hot, they consume common sense. Plus, there were greater things to consider.

Choice can be an impossible thing. A leader must be decisive. Yet how can anyone with foresight, hindsight and the ability to link the two ever truly be decisive? You see the mistakes of the past, and the possible outcomes of your decision on the future, and no choice can ever be absolutely right.

Even decisions that seem blatantly obvious can have ramifications you never imagined.

As a young man—and even before that—I saw problems with the Pack, particularly in the way they treated non-Pack werewolves, down to the derogatory term they used for them: mutts. To a modern, Westernized human, our class system and rules would seem abhorrent. Yet even I realized we could never live by human standards of equality. A class system is hardwired in our brains. We are truly half wolf, and we understand wolf ways best—living in a hierarchical society based on power, territory and survival of the fittest.

To undermine that would be suicide—any Alpha who tried a more democratic way would be overthrown. If the Pack didn’t do it, the outside werewolves—the supposed benefactors of those reforms—would. They’d sense weakness and seize power. That was just our way.

Yet reform was necessary—not just for humanitarian reasons, but for practical ones. It made sense to stop indiscriminately killing non-Pack werewolves and target only those who posed a threat. It made sense to open a dialogue with them, not directly, but through a delegate who’d speak on the Alpha’s behalf. It made sense to treat them—if not as equals—at least as fellow beings worthy of our notice and even our protection.

But had those simple, obviously sensible changes been interpreted as weakness? Were my choices responsible for the situation we now found ourselves in? Would these werewolves have risen up against the Pack if Dominic was still Alpha? Perhaps not, but I would not let that change my decisions—I was resolute on that point.

What I had to do instead was prove that, despite the changes, there was no weakness. I had to slap down this threat with all the force and finality Dominic would have used. And if that failed? A good leader always has a backup plan, and in sending away Clayton and Elena, I’d launched mine.

I walked into the kitchen, and found Antonio and Nick making sandwiches.

"Five minutes, and we’ll be eating," Antonio said.

Nick glanced at the microwave clock. "Their plane should have landed by now."

"Elena will call," I said.

I wiped a trail of mustard Antonio had splattered. He made a face, telling me he would have gotten it, but I just kept cleaning. It gave me something to do.

"You sent them to Elena’s apartment, right?" Nick asked. "Where she was living with that guy."

I nodded. "Perhaps not the wisest—"

"No, it’s good." A small laugh. "I wouldn’t want to be there, but maybe it’ll help. Give Elena a chance to see her choices better. And show Clay she’s really thinking of moving on—not just screwing around to piss him off. He has to shape up."

All three of us nodded, though I’m sure we were all thinking the same thing, that Clay might not be able to "shape up," at least not in any way significant enough to overcome what he’d done.

"They’ll work it out," Nick said as his father handed him a tray of sandwiches. "Just watch. Imagine how much mileage I’ll get out of this one—reminding them of the time I helped put down the mutt revolt, risking my life to save theirs, while they were holed up in Canada having a honeymoon."

Antonio waved him from the kitchen. I watched him leave. When the door closed, I turned to Antonio.

"He should go after them. If Elena’s a target, she needs protect—"

"That’s why Clay’s with her." He took the dishrag from my hand and pitched it into the sink. "If you really thought there was a risk of them following Elena, you wouldn’t have sent her away."

"It’s a possibility—"

"So is a plane crash. Or a nuclear attack. They won’t follow her, Jer. Sending her away was a precaution and a strategy. When Daniel and his gang realize Clay and Elena are missing, they’ll smell an ambush. While they’re watching their backs, we strike from the front."

I nodded.

"Good plan, right?" he said. "Of course it is. It’s yours. Remember that. Now let’s get outside and put some meat on our bones while we flesh out this skeleton of a plan."

As I took a pitcher of water from the fridge, I noticed something on the floor. One of Elena’s hair bands. I reached down and picked it up.

Antonio shook his head. "I don’t even want to ask why that’s there. Let’s just hope they wiped off the counter afterward."

I turned the band over in my hand. Long hairs still clung to it, as if it had been yanked out and tossed aside.

"They’re coming back, Jer."

"I know they are."

He walked over, took the band and met my gaze. "And we’re going to be here when they do."

I looked into his eyes. He knew. Of course he did. Yes, I’d had good reasons to send Elena and Clay away. Very good reasons, and I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t. But there was one added advantage that had made me quick to decide when the question arose.

An Alpha must put the well-being of the Pack first. At all times. At all costs. Each individual member within that Pack must be protected, but an Alpha’s priority is the Pack itself, as an entity, as a construct. If no members of the Pack remain, the Pack ceases to exist. I cannot allow that. Ever.

"They’re coming back," Antonio said again. "And we’ll be here to see it. That’s the plan."

I gave a small smile. "It’s a good plan."

"Of course it is." He slapped my back. "Now get outside and make it work."