The Vote
1699 Words
They don’t let me stay in the medic wing.
Not because Damon tells me to leave—he doesn’t. He stands between me and everyone else like a wall with teeth.
They push me out with their eyes.
Fear. Suspicion. Relief that I’m not lying on the cot bleeding silver.
When the medic finally barks that she needs space, Damon escorts me into the corridor like I’m both patient and prisoner. His hand is on my elbow, not quite touching, but close enough that my skin feels the heat.
“That wasn’t your fault,” he says, too low for anyone nearby to hear.
I laugh once. “Tell that to your elders.”
His jaw tightens. “I will.”
The promise should comfort me.
It doesn’t.
Because I’ve heard promises in this pack before. They sound nice right up until someone decides fear is more useful than truth.
We don’t make it far before a messenger intercepts us—young, out of breath, eyes wide as if he’s running from a nightmare.
“Alpha,” he gasps, bowing his head. “Council is convening. Now. The elders demand—”
“I know what they demand,” Damon cuts in. “Tell them I’m coming.”
The messenger’s gaze flicks to me, then away. “They… also asked for her.”
Damon’s aura spikes. “No.”
It’s not a debate. It’s a command.
The messenger swallows and backs away like he’s afraid Damon might bite him too.
“You’re not going,” Damon says to me, already turning down the hall.
“Yes, I am,” I say.
He stops so fast his shoulder nearly clips mine. His eyes snap to my face, sharp enough to draw blood.
“Evelyn.”
“If they’re going to decide my fate, I’m going to be in the room,” I say, voice steady through sheer spite. “I’m done being discussed like cargo.”
His nostrils flare. “It’s not safe.”
“Neither is breathing in your house,” I shoot back. “Yet you keep ordering me to do it.”
For a second, I think he’s going to drag me away by force.
Then he exhales once, slow and tight, and his gaze flicks to my wrist.
The mark is quiet right now. No glow. No pulse. As if it’s holding its breath too.
“You don’t speak,” he says finally. “Unless I tell you.”
“I don’t agree to that,” I say.
His mouth hardens. “It’s not negotiable.”
“Fine.” I lift my chin. “Then I’ll speak with my face.”
He looks like he hates me for making him smile—just barely, just for a heartbeat.
Then he turns and strides toward the council chamber.
The council room is circular, like the pack designed it to make everyone feel trapped. The elders sit in a curved line behind a heavy table. Garrick stands at the center like a judge. Elder Rowan is there too, his eyes flicking to my wrist and then to Damon’s face, as if reading something neither of us can.
As we enter, voices cut off.
Every gaze pins to me.
I keep my back straight. Keep my hands still. Keep my breathing slow. If Damon’s rules are a cage, I’ll at least rattle the bars quietly.
“Alpha‑to‑be Damon Hart,” Garrick says, voice formal. “Thank you for joining us.”
Damon doesn’t bow his head. “You called.”
One elder leans forward, fingers steepled. “We have injuries. A confirmed hunter incursion. Silver weapons. And a direct verbal taunt containing the word Silverblood.”
Another elder adds, “This is no longer a rumor. It is a beacon.”
My stomach knots.
“The hunters escalated because they’re organized,” Damon says. “Not because Evelyn sat at my table.”
“Your table is not the issue,” Garrick says. “Your judgment is.”
Damon’s aura tightens, the air thickening. “Choose your words carefully.”
Garrick’s eyes glitter. “Or what? You will reject your father as you rejected your bride?”
The insult lands like a knife.
Damon doesn’t flinch. “I rejected a lie. Don’t confuse the two.”
The elders murmur, discomfort rippling. Elder Rowan’s gaze drops for a moment, like the memory stings him too.
“Enough,” the thin, grey‑bearded elder says. “We convened for a decision. A solution.”
“Your solution,” I say before I can stop myself.
Damon’s head snaps toward me.
The room freezes.
I keep my mouth shut after that. I agreed to nothing. But silence costs me less than he thinks.
The grey‑bearded elder continues, eyes fixed on Damon, not on me—like I’m not worth addressing directly.
“Evelyn Hart is the variable,” he says. “Remove the variable, reduce the threat.”
“You mean exile,” Damon says.
“Or trade,” another elder says. “Offer the hunters something they want to stop this bleeding.”
My throat goes dry. “You can’t negotiate with people who shoot silver at children.”
Garrick’s mouth twists. “No one said we would give her to the hunters directly.”
Elder Rowan speaks, voice low. “The old treaties mention… offerings. Silverblood blood used to be bargained, bound, contained.”
The word makes my wolf press against my ribs, bristling. I clamp down on the feeling, on the urge to bare my teeth.
Damon’s gaze flicks to Rowan. “You of all people shouldn’t suggest that.”
Rowan’s eyes harden. “I’m suggesting survival.”
“Survival at her expense,” I whisper.
Damon’s hand lifts slightly, a warning. I swallow the rest.
Garrick steps forward. “We have three proposals.”
He lifts a finger. “One: Evelyn is confined to the pack house permanently under guard. No public appearances. No patrols. No contact outside approved circles.”
My stomach twists. A life as furniture.
“Two: Evelyn is relocated to a neutral holding property—an old safehouse outside city limits. Ward it. Hide it. Remove her from the center.”
Hide the curse.
“Three,” Garrick says, and his gaze lands on me for the first time like I’m a piece of meat on a cutting board. “We perform a cleansing rite.”
The room goes still.
Elder Rowan’s fingers curl on the table edge. “That is not a cleansing,” he says.
Garrick doesn’t blink. “The rite is old. Dangerous. But effective.”
“It’s sacrifice,” Rowan says, voice rough.
My heart drops.
Sacrifice.
I can’t breathe for a second. The walls seem to tilt. My wristmark warms, a faint pulse like a warning drum.
The elders argue over the proposals as if I’m not standing there listening to my own death being discussed. Words fly: risk, pattern, omen, treaty, bloodline, cost.
Damon stands silent through it, shoulders rigid, eyes flint‑hard.
When the noise finally dips, he speaks.
“No,” he says.
Just that. No speech. No debate. No justification.
Garrick’s eyes narrow. “You do not get to veto the council.”
“I do,” Damon says, voice calm in a way that scares me more than anger. “Because I’m the one who will bleed with this pack when the hunters come again.”
“You will bleed regardless,” the grey‑bearded elder snaps. “And you will bleed more if you keep her here.”
Damon’s gaze slides toward me, then back to the elder. “If you touch her,” he says, “you will answer to me.”
The room crackles.
Garrick steps closer, voice low. “You’re choosing her over your pack.”
Damon doesn’t look away. “I’m choosing my pack over its fear.”
“Your pack is afraid because they are intelligent,” Garrick says. “Fear keeps wolves alive.”
Damon’s mouth curls, humorless. “Fear keeps wolves obedient.”
I can’t tell who is more dangerous in that moment—my Alpha‑to‑be, or his father.
Elder Rowan’s gaze moves between them. “Damon,” he says quietly, almost pleading. “You cannot fight the entire council.”
Damon’s eyes go colder. “Watch me.”
Garrick’s expression darkens. “Then we vote.”
Vote.
My stomach turns. I can’t stop imagining a row of hands lifting, deciding whether I live in a cage, a safehouse, or a grave.
Elder Rowan speaks again. “There is a fourth option.”
All eyes swing to him.
Rowan’s throat works. “We investigate. We find how the hunters knew the word. We determine whether there is an informant. We confirm the nature of the mark. We do not—” His voice breaks, then steels. “We do not sacrifice a pack member out of panic.”
Garrick’s lip curls. “Investigation takes time. Time gets warriors killed.”
“And sacrifice gets us damned,” Rowan snaps.
The room erupts again.
I stand there, hands clenched, listening to my name become a battleground.
Then Damon does something I don’t expect.
He steps forward and places his hand on my wrist.
The contact is brief, controlled. His fingers close around the mark through my sleeve.
Heat flashes up my arm. The mark pulses in answer, bright and alive.
Gasps ripple around the room.
Damon’s voice is low, but it carries.
“This bond is my responsibility,” he says. “If the hunters are here for her, they come through me first.”
He lifts his head, gaze sweeping the elders like a threat given teeth.
“And she stays,” he says. “In my house. Under my protection. Until I find the truth.”
Silence slams down.
Garrick stares at him like he’s seeing a stranger.
And I stand frozen, wrist burning, because I can’t tell which terrifies me more: the council’s vote, or the way my body answered Damon’s claim like it has been waiting for it all along.
- Writer
