Bramwell's POV
She chose the meeting place.
That was the first thing I understood when her reply arrived — a single line, no greeting, no closing: The old mill. Two days. Come alone.
The old mill was a shrewd choice. It had been decommissioned eight years ago, when the pack's eastern logging operations moved further into the territory. It sat at a neutral point — technically outside Ironbridge's patrol jurisdiction, close enough to the confluence settlements that she had exit routes I didn't know.
She was telling me, without stating it: I have the advantage here. I know you understand that. Meet me on those terms or not at all.
I came alone, as instructed.
The mill was full of dust and the particular silences of abandoned spaces — the kind that accumulate when no one has needed a pla
