Meredith.
For a long moment, no one moved. The air in the conference room had gone heavy again, thick with unspoken fear and clashing pride.
Brackham's fingers drummed softly against the polished surface of the table.
"I see," he said finally, looking up at Draven with that faint political smile that never reached his eyes. "You will help us… but on your own terms."
Draven inclined his head slightly. "Exactly."
Brackham leaned back, his chair creaking under the motion. "And what do you want in return, Alpha? Surely this kind of mercy doesn't come free."
The edges of Draven's mouth curved faintly, but there was no warmth in them. "You are right. It doesn't."
He paused, letting the silence gather like smoke before finishing—slowly and deliberately,
"When I'm ready for what I want, I will let you know my request."
That earned a flicker of unease across Brackham's features. Then he laughed—short, dry, and fake.
"This sounds dangerous, Alpha. Very dangerous."
