A Father's Judgment

Graeven stormed out of the dim interior of the bar, his chest heaving as his eyes locked onto two men bickering loudly near the entrance. The cool, crisp night air of Silverlake hit his face, but it did nothing to cool the roaring heat in his blood. His lungs desperately sought clean air, but the moment he drew a breath, his senses flared with sudden, violent intensity.

The distinct, sweet scent of Kaelith—that intoxicating blend of citrus and warm, rich cream—clung to the smaller guard, Torin. He had been close enough to her for her unique, divine scent to rub off on his clothes. The realization ignited Graeven's possessive, primal rage, turning his vision a dangerous shade of red. His Lycan demanded blood. No one touched what was his.

With a low, guttural snarl that rattled the loose gravel on the pavement, Graeven lunged forward.

Torin barely had time to blink before Graeven's massive hand shot out, wrapping like an iron vice around his collar. With effortless, terrifying strength, Graeven hoisted the young guard up and slammed him hard against the rough brick wall. The impact knocked the wind out of Torin, leaving his heels dangling inches above the concrete.

Gofreth, a larger Lycan warrior standing nearby, gasped and stepped forward, pulling at Graeven’s forearm. "Hey! What the hell are you doing?"

Graeven didn't even look at Gofreth. His focus was entirely locked on Torin, whose eyes were wide with sheer, unadulterated terror. The scent of Kaelith on the kid's jacket was a mockery, an intolerable violation of the mate bond.

"Touch her again," Graeven hissed, his voice dropping into a lethal, low register that vibrated with alpha-level dominance, "and I will end you. Do you understand me? She is mine."

Torin’s eyes dilated as the realization washed over him. He wasn't just dealing with an angry customer; he was dealing with a dominant Lycan whose mate had been touched. The young shifter gulped, his throat bobbing frantically, and nodded in rapid, submissive recognition. He bared his neck slightly, acknowledging Graeven’s absolute claim.

Satisfied by the submission, Graeven released his grip. Torin slid down the brick wall, coughing and rubbing his neck, looking thoroughly chastised.

Graeven then headed toward the waiting fleet of black SUVs idling in the shadows. As he approached, Gofreth muttering under his breath behind him made him flinch. "I told you that rogue woman was nothing but trouble."

The insult felt like a physical blow to Graeven’s chest. He wondered how often people had thrown that dirty label at his sweet, innocent fated-mate. He reached up to his neck, yanking violently at the constricting collar of his dress shirt until the top two buttons popped off, clattering onto the asphalt. He needed to breathe. He needed to get away before he tore this entire alley apart.

Malachi held open the back door to the second SUV. Graeven climbed into the back seat where Silas was already lounging. The Alpha's son had a smug, mocking grin on his face, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Graeven didn't say a single word.

The moment he settled onto the leather, Graeven pivoted and drove his fist straight into Silas’s smug mouth.

The crack of knuckles meeting bone echoed in the enclosed space of the SUV. The sheer force of the blow sent Silas flying sideways, his head colliding violently with the thick, reinforced glass of the side window. A sharp, web-like crack blossomed across the glass. Silas shrieked in pain, collapsing onto the seat. He cupped his face, blood instantly pouring from his broken, crooked nose.

"Not so tough without an audience, are you?" Graeven hissed, leaning over him with his fist raised to strike him again.

Silas shrunk back against the door, his eyes wide with genuine panic. He held up a blood-slicked hand, whimpering as he tried to shield himself. Graeven let out a cold, humorless chuckle. He sat back in his seat, his adrenaline still pumping hot. He grabbed his suit jacket, ripping it off his broad shoulders with a sharp tug, and threw it carelessly into the far back cargo space. He hated the restrictive fabric. He hated everything that kept him from shifting and running back to the kitchen.

From the front passenger seat, Alpha Valen barely glanced up from his glowing phone screen. He looked into the rearview mirror, his expression cool, detached, and entirely unfazed by the violence that had just occurred in his back seat.

"Problem?" Valen asked, his voice calm but carrying the unmistakable weight of command.

"Silas simply needed a quick lesson in manners, that's all," Graeven grumbled, leaning his head back against the headrest.

He stared out the window as the cars began to pull away from the bar, leaving his fated-mate behind.

Valen hummed, a low sound of mild annoyance. "Where were you?"

"Meeting someone."

"Who?" Valen pressed.

Before Graeven could answer, Silas spit blood onto the floor mat, choking out a vulgar insult. "A cheap rogue slut," Silas grunted, his voice dripping with venomous spite.

The words had barely left Silas’s mouth before Graeven pivoted again. This time, he didn't aim for the face. He buried his second, heavy fist deep into the younger man's stomach.

The breath rushed out of Silas in a violent, wet choke. He folded in half, his face turning pale as he gasped for air, completely incapacitated by the blow.

Annoyed by the loud disruption in his vehicle, Valen let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh. He reached up, massaging his temples. "Silas, if you can't keep your mouth shut, then get into another car."

"Happily," Silas mumbled, clutching his stomach as he fumbled for the door handle.

The SUV ground to a halt at a stop sign. Silas practically tumbled out of the door, scrambling into the night. He paused on the asphalt, casting one final, bloody, hateful glare at Graeven before slamming the door. Graeven merely growled in response, a low, territorial warning that promised more pain if Silas ever spoke her name again.

The door clicked shut, the locks engaged, and the SUV drove off into the heavy silence of the mountain roads.

"Care to explain what's gotten into you today?" Valen asked, still looking down at his phone.

Graeven sighed, his fingers wrapping around the cuffs of his shirt as he tugged at them. He hated suits. They felt like a cage. He caught Valen's cold gaze in the rearview mirror. "Nothing."

Up in the front seat, Malachi let out a loud, mocking guffaw, shaking his head. "Nothing? Right. You broke our tight formation, disappeared for twenty minutes, and you think we didn't notice you manhandling that little pup?"

"We have a good relationship with Paxton," Valen grumbled, his thumbs typing rapidly. "Best not to rock the boat by beating up his security."

"He touched something he shouldn't have. I had to put him in his place," Graeven explained, his voice tightening.

Malachi laughed, turning around in his seat to grin at Graeven. "Have you declared yourself the father figure of Silverlake?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Graeven asked.

"You roughed up the security guard, and then you punched my son," Valen pointed out, his voice dropping into a dangerous, demanding tone. "Spill it."

Graeven took a deep, steadying breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs. He looked directly at the rearview mirror, locking eyes with his Alpha.

"I met my fated-mate."

The words hung heavily in the air.

Shock rippled through the vehicle. Both Malachi and Valen froze. For a fraction of a second, absolute shock shattered their carefully composed masks. They stared at each other, stunned silence filling the cabin, before they quickly schooled their features back into cold, neutral expressions.

"In Silverlake?" Malachi was the first to speak, his brow furrowing. "Hm, who would have thought you'd be mated to a wolf?"

"She's a rogue?" Valen asked, immediately focusing on Silas's claim that the girl was a rogue.

Graeven stared out the window as they drove, his mind drifting to the warm, intoxicating memory of her. He could still hear the faint, sweet melody of her singing to herself in that quiet kitchen. He remembered the soft, delicate texture of her skin under his hands, and the incredible, overwhelming heat of her body.

He recalled how she had backed up against him, her rounded ass pressing flush against his thick, aching hard-on. Even now, just thinking about the heavy, perfect press of her body made his dick tighten and grow thick against his trousers. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to ease the sudden, demanding ache in his groin. He hoped her sweet, citrusy cream scent had clung to his jacket, but then he grimaced, remembering how carelessly he had tossed it into the back cargo space.

"Not quite," Graeven finally answered, clearing his throat to mask his physical arousal.

"She's not a rogue?" Valen asked, turning his head slightly.

"She's not a wolf. She's half-Lycan," Graeven clarified.

Silence descended upon the car.

"She was apparently abandoned as a baby," Graeven continued, his voice tight with a mixture of anger and protective instinct. "She knows absolutely nothing about her history or her pack. But she carries the distinct, unmistakable scent of alpha blood."

Malachi’s eyebrows shot up. "Fated-mate bond infidelity," he guessed.

"Probably," Graeven muttered. It was the oldest story in the book. An Alpha, bound by duty to one female, siring a secret child with another, only to abandon the offspring to protect his reputation.

"What about her rogue status?" Valen asked like a broken record, finally losing interest in his phone in favor of the current conversation. "Why is she unregistered?"

"She wouldn't say."

Malachi let out a sudden, booming laugh, shaking his head. "Couldn't get her to talk?" he joked.

Graeven's lips twitched into a smirk despite his frustration. He thought of her breathless gasps, the way her fingers had clung to him, and the raw, undeniable pull of their bond. "There were more important aspects of the bond that needed tending to."

Both men in the front seat laughed, the tension in the car easing slightly.

Valen’s tone turned serious as he shifted the conversation to pack politics, reminding Graeven of the strict laws. "I’ll need to meet her before we can accept her into the pack."

"I know the laws," Graeven said in frustration. He hated the idea of Valen, or anyone else, putting Kaelith through an interrogation. She was fragile, hidden, and terrified of the very world they lived in.

"Good. Given the current climate, I suggest you figure out why she turned rogue," Valen said sternly. "It wouldn't hurt to track down her parentage either. Better safe than sorry."

"Right. I’ll need a week off to gather information and get her settled at my place," Graeven said, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Valen looked up, meeting Graeven's gaze in the rearview mirror. Beside him, Malachi snickered quietly. Graeven knew it was a massive long shot. Alpha Valen was not a man who handed out vacation days, especially to those in his close circle. They worked when he worked, which meant they essentially never got a break.

"Fine," Valen agreed.

Malachi instantly spit out the drink he had just chugged, coughing violently as he stared at the Alpha in absolute disbelief. Graeven smirked, a small feeling of victory warming his chest.

"You’ve never taken time off since working with me," Valen continued, turning his attention back to his phone and typing more furiously than before. "I suppose you’re due. But not a full week. Four days... after tomorrow. We have business to tend to first."

A low, bitter growl rumbled in Graeven’s throat, his brief sense of victory vanishing instantly.

Four days. And he couldn't even start until tomorrow night.

He had been a fated-mate for barely a single day, and he was already forced to break his very first promise to her. *I’ll be back tonight,* he had told her. He had sealed it with a kiss. Now, he wouldn't be able to return to Silverlake until tomorrow at the earliest, perhaps even later.

He glared out the window at the passing, dark silhouettes of the pine trees, cursing himself silently. Why the fuck hadn't he thought to get her phone number before he walked out of that kitchen? He had been so consumed by the physical rush of their bond, so overwhelmed by her scent and her touch, that he had completely failed to secure a basic line of contact.

"Hey, Boss? Speaking of time off..." Malachi asked, his voice dripping with hope as he looked at Valen.

"No."

"Damn."

Graeven ignored their banter, his chest aching with a heavy, restless dread. He stared into the darkness, wondering how Kaelith would react when the night came and went, and he was nowhere to be found. He had promised to return, and his absence would look like a betrayal. He could only hope she would still be waiting for him when he finally made it back.