The Alpha Under The Mistletoe

7: Damage Under My Seal

Aaron's POV.

“Enough.”

The word left me sharp and full, not loud but final. It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t anger. It was command.

Everything stopped.

Not slowly. Not reluctantly. Instantly.

The men froze where they were. Hands dropped. Shoulders squared. Eyes shifted to me without thinking. Muscle memory. Training. Years of obedience snapping into place before thought could catch up.

Maeve saw it.

I watched her notice. The way her jaw tightened. The way her fingers curled harder around nothing because she had already thrown everything she could grab. The way her eyes cut through me like this was proof of every ugly thing she believed.

Good.

If she was going to hate me, she deserved the truth of it.

I stepped forward once. Not toward her. Between her and them.

“Stand down,” I said.

Rowan reacted first. His hand lifted, sharp and precise. “All units...down.”

They moved back. Away from her. Away from the house. Away from the cattle pens they’d already marked in their heads. The sound of boots shifted. Space opened.

Maeve laughed.

It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t soft. It was sharp enough to scrape skin.

“Oh, now,” she said. “Now you remember how to speak.”

I didn’t answer her.

I was too busy seeing everything.

The broken chair on the floor. A leg snapped clean. The table gouged where a blade had hit and stayed. Blood on the tiles that wasn’t from an animal. Her knives scattered like someone had kicked her teeth loose and left them where they fell. The hook bent at the fence outside. The cattle packed tight, restless, eyes rolling.

This hadn’t been a visit.

This had been an eviction dressed up as order.

And it carried my name.

My chest tightened, not from anger, not yet. From something colder.

Maeve stood like she was braced for another hit. Feet planted. Shoulders back. Chin lifted too high. One sleeve torn, skin scraped underneath. Her hands shook, but they never dropped.

Hands that knew work. Not pretty hands. Scarred across the knuckles. Old cuts healed wrong. Nails short and cracked. Hands that had built this place one day at a time.

I almost felt something like pity.

Almost.

Then I saw her eyes.

Clear. Furious. Unbowed.

She didn’t need it.

She wasn’t broken. She wasn’t asking. She wasn’t waiting for me to save her.

That realization landed harder than anything she’d thrown.

“You done with the show?” she asked. “Or should I clap now that your dogs learned how to sit?”

Rowan stiffened.

I lifted a hand without looking at him.

“Don’t,” I said.

He stopped.

I looked at Maeve again. Really looked.

The blood smell wasn’t fear. It was work. It was meat and effort and hours on her feet. Her hair was tied back rough like she’d done it without a mirror. There was dirt under her boots because this place wasn’t a backdrop. It was her life.

Nothing about her fit the world I came from.

Not the women raised under pack rules. Not Lila, soft-eyed and worried, always surrounded by people ready to step in.

Maeve stood alone because she always had.

“List it,” she said suddenly.

“What?”

“Since you’re here pretending to listen,” she snapped. “List it.”

I didn’t move.

She pointed around the room, sharp and fast. “That chair? Built it myself. That table? Paid for it piece by piece. Those knives? Custom. Cost more than you’d think. The cattle outside? That’s three winters of work. Three. You know how many times someone tried to take this land from me?”

I kept my mouth shut.

She stepped closer. Not to me. To the mess.

“They broke my fence. Spooked my stock. Tore through my house like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.” Her laugh cracked again. “All before breakfast.”

I nodded once.

“I want answers,” I said, turning my head slightly. “Now.”

Rowan stepped forward. His face was tight.

“Alpha...”

“Now,” I repeated.

He pulled out a device. Brought up orders. Logs. Timestamps.

“These came through the night before you woke,” he said. “Authorization looked clean. Your seal. Your code.”

I cut my eyes to him. “Looked.”

His jaw worked. “We’re checking everything. There’s interference. Routing through an internal channel that shouldn’t...”

“Someone forged it,” I said.

Silence.

Maeve laughed again, louder this time. “There it is. The excuse.”

I turned to her. “It’s not an excuse.”

She stepped closer to me now. Close enough that I could see the red in her eyes, the vein at her temple. “It always is. Power messes up, then hides behind paperwork and apologies.”

I didn’t touch her.

I blocked a step from one of the men who moved without thinking. Took the hit when his shoulder bumped mine. It was nothing. It mattered.

Maeve saw that too.

Her grip tightened on nothing.

“You think I planned this?” I asked her.

She met my eyes. “I think your name opened the door.”

Fair.

Rowan cleared his throat. “Alpha, there’s more.”

“Say it.”

“There’s a voice order. Embedded. It confirms the directive.”

Maeve’s eyes snapped to him. “Play it.”

Rowan hesitated.

I nodded.

The audio played. My voice. Or close enough. Same cadence. Same phrasing. But something was wrong. Too clean. Too sharp.

Maeve heard it.

I saw it in her face. The crack. Small. Fast. Like a hairline fracture that refused to spread.

She didn’t soften.

She hardened.

“Good trick,” she said. “Means nothing.”

I respected that.

“Everyone out,” I said.

Rowan looked at me. “Alpha...”

“Out. Now.”

He signaled. The men hesitated, then moved. One by one they filed out. No argument. No delay.

Soon it was just us.

And the mess.

And the cattle noise outside.

I exhaled slowly. Not relief. Control.

“I didn’t send them,” I said.

She snorted. “You already said that.”

“I won’t say it again.”

She waited.

“I’ll fix this,” I continued. “Every board. Every fence. Every animal. You’ll be paid back. I’ll see to it myself.”

“Money doesn’t rebuild trust,” she fired back.

“I know.”

She stepped back, ran a hand through her hair, then laughed again, ugly and tired. “You don’t get to clean up your mess and call it mercy.”

I nodded. “I’m not calling it mercy.”

“Good.”

Silence stretched. Not empty. Charged.

“You already chose your people,” she said. “Don’t pretend this is about me.”

I didn’t argue.

I took that hit and stayed standing.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Not loud. Not careful. Just true.

Her eyes widened a fraction. Not because she believed me. Because she hadn’t expected it.

“Sorry doesn’t give me my morning back,” she said. “Or the years it took to build this.”

“I know.”

I meant it.

She stared at me like she was trying to decide whether to throw something else or walk away.

“Get out,” she said finally.

I didn’t move.

Her eyes sharpened. “I said get out. Take your apologies. Take your power. Take your name. And don’t bring it back here.”

I stayed where I was.

Not defiance. Not control.

Refusal.

Because leaving felt like another lie.