Chapter 85
Simone
"Simone, I need to have a conversation with my father-in-law."
I freeze mid-step, staring at Caron like he’s lost his damn mind. The words hang in the air between us, sharp and ridiculous.
I blink. "I’m sorry, isn’t your father-in-law, you know... dead?"
"Thank you for the astute observation," Caron says dryly, rubbing a hand across his jaw. He doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t even look embarrassed.
"But my mate tells there’s a spell, or ritual, or sothing, that can do that."
Mate. He used the word without hesitation. I catch it, the subtle slip. He doesn’t notice it, but Caron Anderson—Mr. Billion-Dollar Empire, Mr. Boardroom-Confidence, Mr. Logic and Reason—is becoming more wolf every day.
I set down the stack of files I’ve been organizing, narrowing my eyes.
"Oh. Right. Call your dead father-in-law for a chat. Totally normal day at the office."
Caron gives the look. That one—eyebrows raised, mouth pressed flat—that says, figure it out, Simone.
And damn it, I will.
With a long sigh, I reach into my oversized tote. I’ve been keeping Nana’s book of recipes, instructions, and half-terrifying spells tucked in there. A one-track-all guide, if you will. When I have downti, I flip through it, half to learn, half to remind myself what lines I won’t cross.
So of this stuff... it’s questionable. Spells that ss with free will, charms that bend emotions. Love potions. Honestly, what the hell kind of wolf even needs a love potion? That’s one step away from kidnapping in my book.
I flip past pressed flowers, ink-blotted pages, odd scribbles I can’t even begin to decipher, until my finger pauses.
Found it.
"There," I say, tapping the faded page. "It says here you can talk to him in your dreams. But it’s not instant. It’s possible, but you’ll need so things." I trail off as my eyes scan the ingredient list. My mouth twists.
"And by so things, I an things that aren’t exactly in the company break room."
Caron doesn’t say anything. He just fixes with that CEO-stare that once closed million-dollar deals but now is being used to bully into witchcraft.
I exhale through my nose, resigned. "Fine. I’ll figure it out."
Of course I will. That’s apparently my new role—witch, researcher, problem-solver of impossible situations.
***
Caron
"Well, if it isn’t my son-in-law—"
"Cut the shit, Eamon," I snap.
He stands before , familiar and infuriatingly calm. His farmiliar figure doesn’t flicker, doesn’t shift like a half-ford illusion. It’s solid. Real.
"Guess you’re not happy to see ?" he says, tilting his head, that sa damn smirk Lenora has when she’s testing . "Why was I called though?"
"You know why," I bite out.
"Ah." That’s it. Just ah. Like that explains everything.
"Are you insane? You didn’t teach a damn thing about being a pack leader!" My voice rises, echoing strangely in the dream space.
"Oh, but I did."
My hands clench. My jaw tightens. "Really? Jog my mory, then. Because I must’ve missed the Chapter on ’How Not to Let an Entire Pack Collapse Under You.’"
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t bristle. He just walks forward with maddening calm and presses his hand against my chest. Heat pulses there, sharp and insistent, like his touch burns through my skin into sothing deeper.
"I did," he says quietly. "Rember."
"What the hell does that an?" I demand.
"Trust who you are, Caron. Trust him."
"What?" I rasp, because my chest feels too tight, like sothing is clawing its way out.
Eamon’s gaze flicks past , and slowly, against every instinct, I turn to follow it.
And there it is.
The black wolf. Towering, gleaming eyes like glowing blue coals, fur bristling, its presence pressing down on like gravity doubled. The sheer weight of it steals my breath. I know, instantly, without question, that it’s .
The part of I’ve been ignoring. The part I keep shoving aside in favor of board etings, clean lines of logic, and the human life I built from nothing.
"That’s you," Eamon says softly. "The part of you that already knows what to do. And seriously, rember."
Before I can ask, before I can demand answers, he shoves by the chest. The world tilts, cracks, shatters.
*
I wake up gasping. The sheets are damp with sweat, tangled around my legs. My heart hamrs against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Beside , Lenora stirs. Her gray eyes blink open, drowsy and concerned. "Caron?" Her voice is soft, raspy with sleep.
I lean down and press a kiss against her temple. "Go back to sleep."
She frowns, about to protest, but I slip out of bed before she can push. I need air. I need space.
The dream lingers, heavy in my chest. His words, that wolf, the way it looked at like it knew better than I knew myself.
I walk into the bathroom, flick on the light, and splash cold water over my face. It shocks my nerves into sothing like clarity—and knocks loose a mory.
I’m on my back in the dirt, breath burning, ribs aching where Eamon pounded the lesson in with his fists.
"I’m sorry," I grunt, tasting iron.
"You apologize too easily, Caron. Don’t." He stands over , unbothered, the shadow of a grin cutting across his face. "Alpha wolves do not apologize."
"Well, I—"
"Rember who you are. You own the room. You own the world. Don’t dilute your words. Make your apologies an sothing by never saying them."
"And if I’m wrong?" I shoot back, angry enough to sit up.
"Especially if you’re wrong," he says, unblinking. "You do not start with sorry. You try to fix it. If you can’t fix it, then you apologize."
"What an absolutely shitty philosophy," I mutter.
He shrugs, maddeningly patient. "I don’t make the rules."
The mirror fogs under my breath. I blink, and the bathroom is back: the tile, the hush, the steady drip from the tap.
That asshole.
He wasn’t tossing out random macho nonsense. He was grooming .
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