Episode 5

Chapter 5: The Bloodthorn Pack

[ RONAN ]

Bloodthorn's packhouse looked like a rich man's idea of a castle. Stone walls, ivy climbing up one side like it had been told exactly where to grow, a wrought-iron gate polished enough to catch sunlight. Where Ironhowl was wild — forest and rock and things that bit — Bloodthorn was groomed. Trimmed. Arranged.

Ronan hated it immediately.

Alpha Victor Hargrave was waiting on the front steps. Big man. Barrel-chested, gray at the temples, the kind of build that said he'd been dangerous once and hadn't entirely stopped. His handshake was a negotiation, his smile was a performance, and his scent had something sour under the iron and leather. Like fruit left too long in a closed room.

They sized each other up in about three seconds. That's how it works between Alphas — you shake hands, you measure, and then you both pretend you weren't doing it.

"Alpha Ashford. Welcome to Bloodthorn."

"Alpha Hargrave."

Done. Moving on.

Luna Odessa was polished and cold and said exactly the right things in exactly the right tone. Ronan forgot her words before she finished saying them.

Then Ingrid.

She was wearing deep green that made her eyes look like something worth staring at, which was the kind of detail that didn't happen by accident. Blonde hair pinned smooth. Good posture. Pretty face with a smile that had been coached within an inch of its life — warm but not eager, interested but not desperate. She'd clearly practiced this in a mirror.

"Alpha Ashford. I've looked forward to meeting you."

Ronan looked at her. Pretty. His wolf looked at her too.

'She smells like metal and perfume. Next.'

"Miss Hargrave," he said.

That was it. Two words. Ingrid's smile stayed in place, but the warmth behind it cooled about ten degrees.

Giselle — the Beta's daughter — hovered near Ingrid like a decorative shadow. The kind of girl who started rumors at breakfast and denied them by lunch.

They went inside. The packhouse was impressive if you liked that sort of thing. White stone floors, high ceilings, red banners, warriors at every turn pretending to be decorative when they were obviously surveillance.

But here's the thing Ronan actually noticed: the Omegas.

They carried trays without making a sound. Eyes on the floor. Thin — not fit-thin, not slim-thin. Hungry-thin. The kind of thin that happened when food came last and punishment came first. In Ironhowl, Omegas were loud, occasionally pushy, and regularly insubordinate when Gwen decided rank could wait until bread came out of the oven. Here, they moved like sound would cost them skin.

"We value discipline," Victor said, because he'd caught Ronan looking.

"So do prisons."

Harper made a sound behind him that she disguised as a cough. Victor laughed — short, clipped, not amused.

Lunch was in a sunroom. Crystal glasses, fancy bread, flowers on the table. Ingrid sat across from Ronan and asked smart questions about Ironhowl's trade routes. She knew pack politics. She didn't giggle or simper. She was everything she'd been designed to be.

Ronan felt nothing. His wolf slept through her voice like it slept through budget reports.

"I hope your rooms are comfortable," she said.

"They are rooms."

Meanwhile, Harper was doing what Harper did best: making Giselle feel important. She leaned in, complimented the packhouse, asked about warrior rotations with wide-eyed interest, and Giselle — flattered and not half as clever as she thought she was — talked.

After lunch, Victor gave them a tour. Ronan counted guards. Harper cataloged exits. Brennan watched everything. Standard drill.

In the corridor near the dining hall, an Omega boy dropped a serving spoon. The metal rang against stone once. The kid went white. His hands shook picking it up. His knuckles were split — old red under new red, too regular for kitchen accidents.

Nobody reacted. Not Odessa, not Victor, not the guards. The boy might as well have been furniture that made a noise.

Ronan filed that away.

Later, at the guest wing, Brennan waited for the nearest guard to pass before leaning in.

"So? Anything?"

Ronan knew what he was asking. "No bond. No attraction. No nothing."

"Cool. So we're still going with the find-a-reason-to-decline plan."

"Obviously."

Harper appeared, pulling her hair up. "Okay, quick rundown. Giselle talks when she's flattered, which is always. Ingrid has been back less than a week. And daddy dearest is pushing this marriage way harder than the girl is."

"Interesting," Brennan said. "Why?"

"That's what I'm finding out. Tea with Giselle tomorrow. She'll give me everything. The girl cannot resist an audience."

"Good. What about the security?"

"Twelve guards between the gate and the front door," Harper said. "That's insane for a pack that isn't at war. Oh, and Ronan? The servants are terrified. Like, jump-at-shadows terrified."

"I noticed."

"So either Victor's paranoid, or something in this packhouse is worth hiding." She grinned. "Personally, I'm hoping for both. More fun that way."

Brennan shook his head. "Find something we can use. A scandal, a debt, anything that gives the Elders a reason to reject the match without us taking the blame."

"On it." Harper gave a mock salute and disappeared down the hall.

Ronan went into his suite alone. It was big, dark-furnished, and smelled like someone else's laundry detergent, which his wolf hated. He walked to the window.

The courtyard was busy — servants moving between buildings with baskets and buckets. Thin. All of them thin. His wolf stirred, restless, but Ronan couldn't tell why. Something in the air here felt off. Not dangerous, exactly. Just wrong in a way he couldn't name yet.

He turned from the window. Five days. Get in, find a reason to politely decline, get out. Bloodthorn's problems were not his problems.

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