Chapter Twenty
Silas
Three months ago
“Chief. There’s been an … incident.”
I turn, brow quirked. “One of the newborns?” It’s not uncommon for ‘incidents’ in the first couple weeks after birth. We help the mothers adjust as best we can, but without a traditional pack, their instincts can get scrambled.
My assistant, Friedan, struggles to hold my gaze. “Yes. And her mother.”
“Leave the nest ID and I’ll see to them shortly.”
“I–I’m afraid there’s not much to see.” Friedan swallows. “The sires checked in this morning. It was … they were …”
I know then what he’s trying to tell me. At least, my stomach does, as it sinks all the way down to my toes.
“They were what?” I demand.
Friedan’s expression is pained. “I don’t know how it happened. The sires were supposed to check in every morning—that’s part of the contract. We made sure of it.”
“I’m well aware of the sires’ contracts,” I growl. “Tell me what happened .”
My assistant suddenly seems so small. It’s one of the reasons I hired him—for an alpha, he’s relatively unassuming. Helps put the nervous omegas at ease.
But not this omega. Or her pup.
“Who were her sires?” I ask, my voice low.
“As far as we can tell, the cause of d—” he stops, looking sick. “It was neglect.”
Rage surges through my blood. “You say that as though no-one was responsible.”
“Well … no-one touched her, or the pup.”
“Yes.” I stand. “Which is precisely what killed them. Isn’t that what you’re saying?”
New mothers, and their pups, need a pack. That’s what makes life in the barracks so delicate, and why we insist the sires check in every morning—to scent them, nourish them, make sure they have everything they need.
Any sire who fails those duties has to be unimaginably cruel. Or, worse, murderous .
“I need names and ranks,” I snarl. “I’ll see them exiled for this.”
Friedan nods, though I catch the flicker of doubt in his eyes.
Like already, he knows it’s not going to be that simple.
***
“Come now, Silas. It’s time to get back on the horse.”
I knew, when my commanding officer called me into his study, I wouldn’t appreciate anything he had to say. And yet … here I am. Here I’ve stayed , after months of disgust and disappointment.
My faith is the only thing that’s kept me going. Faith that those monsters who called themselves sentinels would be punished for their crimes.
“Silas,” my commander says, firmer now. “What did you expect? Sires are always less attentive with their omega pups.”
Two people are dead . We’re supposed to be protecting these omegas. Whatever the mother’s condition, and whatever her pup’s designation, we are responsible. And what do those murderers get for their attentiveness ?
A mere slap on the wrist and a month’s suspension.
“I have an assignment for you,” the commander announces. “Off-site. Thought it’d give you a chance to clear your head.”
Once upon a time, I admired this alpha’s cut-throat direction. Told myself it’s what made him a strong leader. But now I see him for what he is.
A goddamn coward.
If word gets out, how many families do you think will entrust us with their omegas? We need sentinels—strong, hot-blooded alphas bred to fight—which means we need mothers. That’s the bottom line.
These days, that line is looking more like a steep ledge and a long fall.
“New mother.” The commander slaps down a file. “She was meant to join the west barracks two months ago, but she disappeared. Family’s beside themselves—insist she’s been kidnapped. They think it’s got something to do with Northside.”
A bit of a stretch. Why would an enemy village go to such obscure lengths just to provoke us? Surely there are simpler ways to undermine Southside’s council.
I scowl. “They get a ransom letter?”
“They did not.”
I rub my forehead. “Have her sires been assigned?”
“Not as yet.”
“Then she’s not our problem.”
The commander bristles. “Perhaps I should’ve mentioned—her family is Pack Shire.”
“Never heard of them.”
A bad lie. Even low-ranking sentinels know of the illustrious Pack Shire. Their head alpha, Byron, is a key player on the council. He also happens to be one of the sentinels’ primary benefactors.
“Well,” the commander goes on, annoyed, “trust me when I say, she is a very valuable asset. In more ways than one.”
I try not to sigh. “So you want me to find her.”
“Who better for the job?”
“Commander.” I fold my arms. “If there’s no ransom letter, she hasn’t been kidnapped.” I hold his gaze. “She’s a runaway.”
“You try telling that to Byron Shire. Though, unless you want to be out of a job, I suggest you do it after you’ve caught her.”
The moment my hand takes her file, I know the conversation is over. Whether this mission is as important as he says it is, or if he just wants me out of his hair, I’m not sure. Nor am I sure I care.
The air is thin and crisp as I walk back to my quarters. Every step feels a little lighter, like I’m sloughing off parts of myself—hard-fought, deeply embodied principles—with every step. Everything I am, or thought I was, just falls away, replaced by one fundamental truth:
I refuse to serve among murderers.
A line of sentinels march past me, nodding in deference. I nod back, hardly seeing them.
Yes, Silas . Play the part. Take my orders, and give them, as if I’ve come to accept my place in all this. And then, as soon as I see my opening—
“Chief!” a familiar voice calls.
Friedan jogs across the training grounds. I say nothing, letting him catch his breath.
“Your meeting with the commander,” he pants, “how’d it go?”
Suddenly remembering the file in my hands, I glance down. “I have a new assignment.”
Friedan peers over the page. “Is that Pack Shire’s omega? The one who’s missing?”
“How do you know about that?”
“I–I thought everyone knew. The search parties are still making their rounds.”
I rifle through the omega’s records. For all her listed qualifiers—regular heats, five-foot-five, docile—I struggle to pick out a name. Finally, on the very last page, I find a copy of her birth certificate.
“Willow,” I murmur.
“That’s right,” Friedan nods. “Willow Shire.”
I close the file. “I’ll leave first thing tomorrow.” The sooner the better.
“Of course. Do you need back-up?”
As things stand, I’ll have at least a couple days before anyone suspects foul play. Another day after that before the commander sends someone to come find me, assuming he sends anyone at all. My desertion may be one embarrassment too many. Certainly harder to cover up.
“No,” I say at last, suppressing a smirk. “I’ll handle this one on my own.”