Meg's POV
The border doesn't announce itself.
It remembers you.
The car engine hums low as the tires cross from neutral ground into wolf territory. Nothing visible changes—same road, same trees—but my chest tightens until the air feels carved out of iron. My wolf stirs, cautious, curious, not afraid.
"Stay with me," I murmur, reaching across to steady Henry's hand. His fingers are small but certain.
He doesn't look scared. He rarely does. That calm—too measured for a child—is something I both admire and regret giving him. Fear, at least, would be human.
The landscape starts to shift. The forest grows deliberate. Every tree stands evenly spaced, every path too clean to be wild. The air smells faintly of pine and power, a scent that never quite leaves Alpha land.
Martins Smith's land.
The Alpha's Den.
I haven't been here in six years. My body still knows it—the faint hum of pack energy underfoot, the iron-thread taste of authority in the back of my throat. The pulse of territory magic syncing to mine even though I swore it never would again.
Henry leans forward, eyes scanning the horizon. "He's close," he says quietly.
My grip on the wheel tightens. "What makes you think that?"
He takes a slow breath before answering, voice light but certain. "Everything's quiet on
purpose."
I don't answer. He's right. Wolves fall silent only when something stronger is listening.
The road curves. The Den appears like a mirage of glass and steel between the hills—modern, vast, perfectly symmetrical. To humans, it's a corporate headquarters. To us, it's the heart of a kingdom.
I park near the entrance. The moment I open the door, the air changes again. Thicker. Weighted.
The kind of silence that listens back.
Pack wolves stand flanking the doors in clean suits, eyes following every movement without hostility, only recognition.
Aldden blood. Rare. Returned.
I straighten my shoulders and walk forward, Henry's hand secure in mine.
Inside, the Den hums like a machine built to mimic order. Every step, every breath, every heartbeat is accounted for. Wolves move through the corridors in suits and polished shoes, faces calm, eyes alert. The old wildness hasn't left; it's just been disciplined into obedience.
Then the air shifts again, and I know before I see him.
Martins.
He stands at the far end of the atrium, head bent slightly toward the council elders. Power rolls off him like heat, steady and controlled, a gravity that centers the room.
He looks older. Stronger. The kind of composed that costs something. Silver threads his dark hair now, but nothing about him feels diminished.
My pulse betrays me anyway.
He turns before anyone can announce us. The bond flares, sharp and immediate, slamming through six years of silence. For a heartbeat, it's just the two of us—no pack, no elders, no walls.
"Meg," he says.
My name, spoken softly, but it hits like a confession.
I draw myself upright. "Alpha Smith."
The room reacts to the name—elders shifting, wolves glancing up, instinct prickling in the air. Henry stiffens beside me but doesn't hide behind me. He stands tall, watching everything.
Martins' gaze flicks downward, drawn by something he doesn't yet understand.
Then he sees Henry.
He stops breathing.
For one fractured second, everything in him falters—Alpha authority, Supreme restraint, all of it stripped bare. The bond vibrates between us, raw and undeniable.
Henry watches him calmly, his silver-flecked eyes steady.
Martins' voice lowers, roughened. "What's your name?"
I tighten my grip on my son's hand. "That won't be necessary."
"Meg—"
"This meeting," I interrupt, "is about Aldden, not personal history."
He falls silent, eyes dark with questions he doesn't dare ask yet.
The elders seize the moment. One of them,a woman whose gaze still carries the weight of old law—speaks crisply. "By bloodright, this council stands. The heiress has answered the call."
I incline my head, the gesture practiced but detached. "Let's proceed."
The next hour is all calculation. Financial reports. Market collapse. Power vacuums. My stepbrother's name passed around like a disease. The elders argue over ownership while pretending not to stare at me. I answer each question with precision, not warmth.
I've learned that truth doesn't need apology to carry weight.
Martins barely speaks. But I can feel him watching, the bond pulsing with every unspoken word. When the meeting finally ends, the elders leave in a tangle of murmurs and distrust.
Martins waits until the last door shuts before speaking. "Come with me."
His voice is low, the command carefully wrapped in courtesy.
I nod once. "Fine."
We walk through the quiet hall, Henry between us, the bond vibrating like an unstruck chord.
The private office door seals behind us with a quiet click. The sound lands heavy.
Martins turns to face me. The mask slips.
"You disappeared," he says.
"I survived."
His jaw flexes. "You shut me out."
"I protected my child."
The word lands like a strike. For a moment he doesn't move. Then he looks at Henry again. Really looks.
"How old are you?"
Henry's voice is calm. "Old enough to know when someone's pretending not to see the truth."
A small, almost human silence follows.
Then power floods the room, instinct answering instinct. Martins steps back, hand braced on the desk as if the floor shifted beneath him. The bond roars awake.
"Meg," he whispers. "Tell me I'm wrong."
I meet his eyes. "You've been searching for an heir."
His throat works, but no sound comes.
"You just didn't know," I finish, "that he already found you."
Henry's gaze flashes silver before dimming again.
Martins goes still. The Supreme Alpha, unbalanced for the first time in years.
Outside the office walls, I can feel it—the restless stir of wolves pretending not to eavesdrop.
Word will spread fast.
The Alpha's lost heir. The Moon-Touched child returned. The prophecy reborn.
Henry shifts closer to me, his small fingers curling around mine. I can feel his pulse steady against my skin, calm but aware.
Martins looks from him to me, and for a moment all the titles fall away. It's just us again—two people who once built something fragile out of impossible trust.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks finally, voice raw around the edges.
"Because the moment I did, he'd stop being my son and start being your legacy."
He flinches, almost imperceptibly. "You think I'd take him from you?"
"I think Aldden would," I say. "And you'd convince yourself it was for his protection."
His silence is answer enough.
The air between us hums, not quite anger, not quite forgiveness.
Henry watches us both, solemn as an old soul. "You're both talking like I'm not here," he says.
Martins blinks, startled, then crouches down to Henry's eye level. "You're right. I shouldn't."
Henry studies him. "Mama says people show who they are by what they do when no one's watching."
"And what do you see when you look at me?" Martins asks quietly.
Henry doesn't hesitate. "Someone who's trying very hard not to break things he cares about."
For a heartbeat, no one breathes. Then Martins nods, once, slow. "Then I'll try harder."
He stands, the weight of his title settling back over him like armor. "This changes everything, Meg."
"Yes," I say softly. "It does."
He looks toward the door, jaw tight. "The elders will want proof."
"They'll have to earn it."
The faintest smile touches his mouth, humorless but real. "That sounds like you."
When we step out into the corridor, the hall beyond is no longer silent. Power hums. Whispers curl like smoke. The news has already spread.
Henry squeezes my hand, grounding me.
For six years, I ran to keep him safe. For six years, I believed distance meant protection. But now, watching Martins stand at the head of his empire while the wolves around him stir, I see the truth.
We're not stepping back into politics.
We're walking into a storm.
And Aldden—the empire built on blood and silence—has just remembered who its true heirs are.