Episode 4

Chapter 4: Departure

Ronan Ashford took the front steps two at a time and was halfway to the car when Gwendolyn intercepted him.

She planted herself between him and the SUV's rear door, a covered basket in one hand and a look that could curdle milk. Five-foot-three, gray-streaked hair pinned in a tight bun, and absolutely no fear of the most powerful Alpha in the northern territories.

"You were going to leave without eating."

"I ate," Ronan said.

"Coffee is not food." She shoved the basket into his chest. He caught it out of reflex. "There's sourdough, smoked ham, two boiled eggs, and the oat bars you pretend you don't like but eat when no one's looking."

Brennan rounded the corner with a duffel over each shoulder, Harper a step behind him carrying a leather satchel and a tablet. They both saw Gwen blocking the Alpha and made no move to intervene. They knew better.

"Gwen, we're on a schedule," Ronan said.

"You're on a schedule to drive six hours to a pack you don't like, to collect a bride you didn't choose. You can spare ninety seconds for breakfast." She adjusted the basket's cloth cover. "The ham is from the Peralta farm. You'll regret it if you don't eat it fresh."

Ronan exhaled through his nose. He opened the rear door, set the basket on the seat, and looked at her.

"Thank you."

Gwen's expression softened by exactly one degree. She reached up and straightened the collar of his jacket — a gesture so maternal it made Brennan look away.

"You call me when you arrive," she said. "And you eat a real dinner. Not whatever political excuse for a meal they serve you."

"I will."

"You won't. But I'll ask anyway." She stepped back, then stopped. "Oh. One more thing. Portia Vane sent word she's arriving in three days."

Ronan's hand froze on the car door.

"Portia," he repeated.

"Mm-hm. The Ironjaw princess. Tall girl. Loud." Gwen's eyebrows rose about a quarter inch — a devastating amount, by her standards. "She stayed one night, if I recall. About four months ago."

Harper made a noise that might have been a cough.

"One night," Gwen continued, inspecting an invisible speck on her sleeve, "during which I had to replace a headboard. Because of scratches. Deep ones." She looked up. "She was not quiet, Alpha. The third-floor staff asked me if someone was injured."

Brennan developed a sudden interest in the gravel.

"And yet," Gwen said, "you had her escorted to the gate before sunrise. Didn't say goodbye. Didn't say anything at all, from what the night guard told me." She paused. "She now tells people she's going to be your Luna."

Ronan's jaw tightened. He searched for the memory and found only fragments — a blurred face, perfume that was too sweet, nails digging into his shoulders. He'd felt nothing during it and less after. He couldn't remember the color of her eyes.

"She's not welcome at the packhouse," he said.

"Shall I tell her that, or would you like to?"

"Tell her. If she shows up anyway, Brennan handles it."

Brennan looked up. "Me?"

"You're my Beta. Handle it."

"She once threw a champagne glass at a waiter for bringing the wrong vintage," Brennan said.

"Then duck."

Ronan climbed into the back seat. Brennan loaded the duffels into the trunk and slid into the driver's seat. Harper took the passenger side, already pulling up files on her tablet.

The Ironhowl packhouse shrank in the rearview mirror as they pulled down the long gravel drive. Three stories of dark stone and timber, set against a wall of pine forest. Home, though Ronan had never been comfortable with the word.

"Route's programmed," Harper said. "Six hours if traffic cooperates. I've flagged two rest stops in neutral territory."

"Skip them," Ronan said.

"You'll want to stretch your legs."

"I'll want to get there."

Brennan glanced at him in the mirror. "You seem eager for a man heading to his own arranged marriage."

"I'm eager to get it done."

Brennan and Harper exchanged a look — the silent, full-sentence kind that mated pairs traded. Ronan saw it and said nothing.

Harper scrolled through her tablet. "Bloodthorn Pack. Alpha Victor Hargrave, sixty-two. Runs the territory like a military outpost. Reputation for discipline, loyalty enforcement, and zero tolerance for dissent. His Luna, Odessa, handles internal affairs. Respected but not well-liked."

"The bride?" Brennan asked.

"Ingrid Hargrave. Twenty-four. Educated in Europe — Geneva, mostly. Languages, diplomacy, pack governance. Returned six months ago." Harper swiped to a photograph. "Beautiful. Polished. Looks like she was assembled in a lab for exactly this purpose."

Ronan didn't ask to see the photo.

The car merged onto the highway. Trees blurred past, dense and green. Brennan turned on the radio, found static, turned it off.

"You know," Brennan said, "most Alphas at least pretend to be interested in their future mate."

"Most Alphas are performing," Ronan said. "I'm not."

Harper twisted in her seat. "Ronan. This is a political alliance. The bare minimum is showing up and not looking like you'd rather be anywhere else."

"I'll manage."

"Will you?" Harper's tone sharpened. She wasn't afraid of him either — a Beta trait, or maybe just a Harper trait. "Because right now you look like you're heading to a funeral."

Ronan turned to the window. The forest thickened as they climbed into the mountain pass. He watched the shadows between the trees.

His mother had loved this road. She'd driven it once a year to visit a friend in the valley — always came back with flour on her hands and a new recipe. The kitchen on the third floor of the packhouse had been hers. Copper pots, dried herbs hanging from ceiling hooks, a wooden table scored with knife marks. After she died, Ronan had locked the door. No one went in. Gwen dusted the hallway outside it, but she never asked for the key.

He shut the thought down. Folded it tight and put it away.

"What's our approach when we arrive?" Brennan asked.

"Formal. Brief. We meet Victor, we meet the bride, we handle the contract terms." Ronan's voice was flat. "I want the ceremony scheduled within three days of arrival."

"Three days?" Harper looked up from her tablet. "That's fast, even by alliance standards."

"The longer we stay, the more political theater we sit through. Get in, get it done, get out."

Brennan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "And if Portia actually shows up at the packhouse while we're gone?"

"Gwen will handle it."

"You said I should handle it."

"Gwen will handle it better."

Brennan couldn't argue with that.

The highway narrowed to two lanes. The mountains pressed in on either side, dark rock faces streaked with water. A sign flashed past: Bloodthorn territory, 180 miles.

Ronan closed his eyes. Not to sleep — he never slept in moving vehicles. Just to stop looking at a road that reminded him of someone who wasn't coming back.

In three hours, he'd be in Victor Hargrave's territory. In three days, Portia Vane would be standing in his foyer, claiming a place she'd never been offered.