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RAY

T he sky ahead softens, streaked with hues of orange and crimson slicing through the navy veil of night. Dawn. A real one. Peaceful. Honest.

I rest my head against the window, watching the mountains take shape in the growing light. We did it. Jack Donahue and Ivan Peterson are gone—dead in those marble-floored bathrooms. They won’t haunt our people again. They won’t haunt me either.

Raul is his usual loud self, gesturing too much as he recounts everything for the third time. Sam, ever the strategist, stays reserved, repeating the core facts like we weren’t even there. What matters is not only that we did it, but we did it without the wolves.

Letting our wolves handle Jack and Ivan might’ve been faster—easier—but it also would’ve been a bloodbath. The kind of spectacle that draws exactly the attention we’ve spent years avoiding.

They wouldn’t have paused to consider consequences. They’d have torn those men to pieces in front of God and everyone, leaving the mess right there on the hotel floor. No question—the guests upstairs would’ve heard the screams. Maybe seen claws. Fangs. Bodies ripped open.

And then what? Rumors. Videos. Panic. More labs. More soldiers. And eventually, they’d find Dawson. Find us.

There’d be no safety. No witch strong enough to wipe every video, to pull back a reveal already flooding the internet.

There would have been no lucky break. There is no way it wouldn’t have ended with the military rounding us up like infected animals.

We didn’t just protect ourselves tonight. We protected all of Dawson.

I see it in my brothers’ eyes too—the quiet satisfaction. We’re drained, but the cab feels lighter, like a knot inside us finally gave way. That feeling shatters the moment we near home.

“What the hell?” Raul mutters, leaning forward.

A massive figure paces in front of Raul’s cabin—bare-chested, muscles carved with tension. He’s not alone. A smaller form stands beside him, cloaked in black. Familiar. Female. My pulse stutters.

Raul slams the truck to a stop and is out before I can speak, striding toward the pair.

“Should I even bother saying good morning?” Raul calls to the scout—Mark Gibbs, one of our sharpest. He’s pacing like a caged animal, eyes darting to the horizon. “Because something tells me it’s not.”

“We’ve got trouble,” Gibbs replies, face grim. “They’re back, Raul. Mercer’s pack. And they’re not hiding anymore.”

The words hit like ice water dumped down my spine.

“We ran into them near Lake Paxton last night,” Gibbs says. “We almost had the drop on them—but Dexter spotted us and pulled them back.”

Raul scoffs. “Let me guess. The bastard wants peace now?”

“He wouldn’t say. He screamed at his pack, but when I pressed him, all he said was he wants ‘a sit-down with Raul Crawford.’”

My blood is boiling and I can’t stop the growl that breaks free of my throat.

“A sit-down?” I bark a bitter laugh. “Unbelievable. That fucker sent his people after Stacy and Erica in New York? He sacrificed one of his own to make it look like Sam had died and now he wants to talk?”

“He’s got some balls,” Sam growls beside me, fists clenched. “What does he think we are? Idiots? Forgiving? Letting him live near us would be like handing him a second chance to finish what he started.”

Raul holds up a hand. “Look, I know you’re both pissed. I am too. Believe me, I’d love to rip his throat out.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “There’s a ‘but’ coming.”

“There is,” Raul admits, glancing toward the land like it might answer him. “They’re shifters. Like us. Not vampires. Not witches. There might even be family ties somewhere down the line. It’s not simple.”

“It is simple,” I snap. “They tried to destroy us. I don’t care what blood runs through their veins—evil’s still evil.”

Sam nods, voice hard. “We already spared them once. We give them another shot, they’ll take it as weakness. And that’s on us.”

Raul’s quiet for a beat, then turns to Gibbs. “Gather everyone at Joe’s. Two hours.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. A vote? You’re letting them decide what happens to traitors?” I ask, staring at him in disbelief.

“No,” Raul bites out. “I do want our pack to have a say. You think war’s the hard part? It’s not. You let the animal out, and it does the job. The real battle comes after—when the blood’s dried and you’re left with the choices you made. The ones that never stop echoing.”

His words strike a place I keep buried—a place full of ghosts I never asked for. And he’s right. That’s what kills me. Every fight we’ve survived leaves a mark. Some nights, I see the faces. Some deserved what they got. Some… I’m not so sure.

But Mercer’s pack? I was sure. Until now.

We’ll put it to the pack. Let them decide if mercy still has a place in us.