Once Betrayed, Twice Shy

An ambush

CASPIAN

The drive to the meeting site stretches longer than it should, though I couldn’t tell you a single landmark we’ve passed in the last twenty minutes. My mind keeps circling back to Serapha, to the way her breath had hitched when I’d stepped in close enough to feel it against my own skin, to the small, unconscious movement of her tongue across her lips that had nearly undone every ounce of restraint I’ve spent centuries building.

I shouldn’t have gotten that close. I know that.

And yet some reckless, hungry part of me had wanted exactly that closeness, had craved it with an intensity that frightened me more than anything Serapha ever did to me in her previous life.

“—road ahead splits in a mile,” Soren says from the front seat, and I realize belatedly that he’s been talking for a while now, his words only now registering as actual language instead of background noise.

“What?” I ask.

Soren glances at me in the rearview mirror, brow furrowing slightly.

“You alright, Alpha?”

Before I can answer, Marcus lets out a short laugh from beside me, shaking his head.

“He’s fine. Just distracted by a certain pretty human he’s got locked up back home.”

“Watch it,” I grit out, though the warning carries less heat than it should, mostly because he isn’t wrong, and we both know it.

Marcus only grins wider, entirely unbothered by my glare, the way he’s always been unbothered by anything I throw at him after centuries of friendship that’s weathered far worse than my current foul mood.

I turn my attention back toward the window instead of dignifying him with a response, grateful, if I’m honest with myself, for the distraction this meeting provides.

It puts distance between us, gives me space to actually think, to quiet the wolf that’s been clawing at the inside of my chest since the moment her tongue darted across her lips and every rational thought I possessed scattered like smoke.

He wants her.

Desperately.

With a hunger that borders on madness, gnawing at my control with a persistence I haven’t felt in longer than I care to admit.

I shake my head sharply, as though the motion alone could dislodge the thought, and force my focus onto the road ahead, onto the actual reason we’re driving toward the edge of nowhere instead of back at the palace where every instinct in me currently wants to be.

“What’s the game plan?” I ask Marcus, my voice steadier now, more like the Alpha my men expect than the distracted mess I’ve apparently been for the better part of an hour.

“We maintain a strong front,” Marcus says, all business now, the easy teasing from a moment ago set aside. “We need their route for our supply lines, and we need the weapons shipment secured before the month is out. Play it firm, but not aggressive. We want cooperation, not a war.”

I nod, absorbing the strategy, though something about the entire arrangement has felt off since the request first came through.

“It’s strange,” I say slowly, “that they’re only agreeing to meet now, after months of stonewalling every attempt we made to reach out.”

“Maybe they finally realized who they’re dealing with,” Soren offers from the front.

Maybe.

Though something about the timing gnaws at the edges of my attention, refusing to fully settle.

Still, I’m not overly concerned. Few people in this region have the courage to say no to me outright, and fewer still would dare attempt anything foolish with three of us walking directly into their territory.

The cabin, when we finally arrive, sits isolated at the end of a long, overgrown dirt road, surrounded by dense trees that block out most of the fading afternoon light.

It’s a squat, weathered structure, the kind of place chosen specifically for its remoteness, and something about the isolation of it prickles uncomfortably at the back of my neck.

“You’re sure this is the right address?” I ask Marcus as we climb out of the vehicle.

“Positive,” he says, though even he glances around the property with a note of unease he doesn’t bother hiding.

Two men wait near the entrance, built like the kind of muscle hired specifically for intimidation rather than any real strategic purpose, and they lead us inside without a word, gesturing toward a large table at the center of the main room.

The rogue leader sits at the head of it, a lean, sharp-eyed man with an easy, unbothered smile that immediately sets my instincts on edge.

“Alpha Caspian,” he says, spreading his hands in a gesture of welcome that feels entirely too rehearsed. “Thank you for coming all this way. Please, sit.”

We do, though I keep my posture loose and ready, every sense sharpened despite the deceptively casual atmosphere he’s clearly trying to project.

The negotiation drags on longer than it has any right to, back-and-forth demands and counteroffers circling the same ground without ever actually landing anywhere productive.

Every time we approach something resembling an agreement, he shifts the terms slightly, introduces a new complication, drags the conversation back to territory we’ve already covered twice before.

Something feels wrong.

I can’t pinpoint exactly what, but the sensation sits heavy in my gut, the same instinct that’s kept me alive through centuries of far more dangerous conversations than this one.

“Let’s discuss the actual shipment routes,” I say, cutting through another circular tangent. “We’ve spent an hour dancing around specifics.”

“Patience, Alpha,” the rogue leader says, still smiling, still infuriatingly relaxed. “These things take time.”

“We don’t have time to waste,” I say, my voice hardening. “If you’re not prepared to actually negotiate in good faith, then I’d like to understand why you requested this meeting at all.”

The question lands heavier than I intend, and something flickers across his expression—brief, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable once I catch it.

Not concern.

Satisfaction.

The realization arrives a beat too late, cold and absolute, settling into my chest like a stone dropped into still water.

This was never a negotiation.

They never intended to give us anything at all.

Every circular argument, every stalled demand, every wasted minute sitting at this table has been deliberate, calculated, designed for exactly one purpose—to keep the three of us occupied, distracted, and entirely unaware of whatever’s actually happening while we sit here believing we’re making progress toward peace.

We’ve been stalled.

And somewhere, right now, while I’ve been sitting here arguing over shipment routes that were never real, something far more dangerous has been unfolding entirely without our knowledge. And I have no idea what it is.