Chapter 18 – Risking Everything
1511 Words
Three days after the fire, Rian gets himself arrested.
It’s not entirely his fault. That’s what I tell myself as I sit in the back of a city bus, watching the gray blur of downtown slide by, my phone clenched so tight my knuckles ache.
Jax’s voice still rings in my ear from ten minutes ago.
“Got a ping from a human friend in patrol,” he’d said. “Teen boy, dark hair, wolf scent all over him, picked up outside a strip of bars. Name he gave was Rian Holt.”
The words after that had blurred into a rush of acronyms and locations. Juvenile holding. Department notified. “He shoved a guy who was shoving a girl.” “Nobody’s dead.” “Yet.”
Now the bus lurches to a stop in front of the precinct, a squat brick building with too-clean glass doors and a flag flapping in the chill wind. The sign to the right reads DISTRICT 7 POLICE. The smaller plaque beneath it, easy to miss if you’re not looking, says: In partnership with the Department of Supernatural Risk Management.
Partnership. Right.
Theo is already on the sidewalk, pacing, his messenger bag bouncing against his hip. He whirls when he sees me.
“Okay,” he says, “before you yell at me, I tried to get inside, but apparently ‘guy with blog’ is not on their approved visitor list.”
“I’m not yelling,” I say. “Yet.”
His eyes flick over my face. “You’re pale. Again. This is becoming a theme.”
“Smoke inhalation,” I say. “And impending homicide. Come on.”
Inside, the air smells like old coffee, copier toner, and stale stress. A receptionist behind thick glass takes one look at us and pastes on the bored expression of someone who’s been trained not to care.
“Can I help you?” she asks, not sounding like she means it.
“Sylvi Ashridge,” I say. “I’m a caseworker with Keane House. One of my kids was brought in tonight. Rian Holt.”
Her nails clack over the keyboard. “He’s in holding,” she says after a beat. “Assault charge pending. He and the other party are being evaluated.”
“Other party?” Theo asks.
“Human male, mid‑twenties,” she says. “Minor injuries. Says your kid attacked him unprovoked.”
“Of course he does,” I mutter. “Can I see Rian?”
“Family only.”
“I’m his advocate,” I say. “I have power of—”
“Ms. Ashridge.”
The new voice slides in from the side, smooth as oiled glass.
Daniel Hart stands by the hallway door, a folder in one hand, the ever‑present tablet in the other. His tie is loosened just enough to suggest he’s working late. His smile is intact.
“Long time no see,” he says.
My stomach drops. “Hart.”
Theo mutters something anatomically inventive under his breath.
The receptionist practically straightens to attention. “Director Hart.”
Of course. He’s not just “outreach.” He’s their golden boy.
“What a coincidence,” I say. “We were just talking about you.”
“So I hear,” he says, gaze flicking to Theo. “Your latest piece has generated quite a stir.”
“We aim to please,” Theo says tightly.
Hart refocuses on me. “Rian Holt is not just any juvenile,” he says. “He’s flagged in our system after his last incident. You remember that one, I assume.”
Last incident. The alley. My scar aches.
“He defended himself against three grown men with a bat,” I say. “Forgive me if I don’t clutch my pearls.”
“Self‑defense is one narrative,” Hart says. “Another is escalating aggression in an at‑risk wolf teenager. Tonight’s events do not improve that picture.”
My patience frays. “What happened, exactly?”
He opens the folder. “Eyewitness statements say Rian shoved a human male hard enough to crack a windshield. The man alleges unprovoked assault. Rian claims the man grabbed a young woman and wouldn’t let go.”
“And the woman?” I demand. “What does she say?”
Hart’s expression doesn’t change. “She left the scene before police arrived.”
Convenient.
“Rian didn’t hurt her?” I press.
“Not physically,” he says. “You can understand why the Department is… concerned. First he’s involved in a violent altercation in an alley. Now this.”
“You mean you’re thrilled,” Theo says. “He fits your ‘unstable teen wolf’ profile perfectly.”
Hart ignores him. “Because of his prior flag, the Department has requested he be transferred from standard juvenile holding to the Regional Youth Adjustment Facility for evaluation.”
The words hit like a punch.
“No,” I say flatly. “Absolutely not. He has a pack. He has support. You are not hauling him off to your lab‑adjacent summer camp.”
“This isn’t a punishment,” Hart says. “It’s an assessment. A chance to intervene before something worse happens.”
“Something worse than being locked in a facility that treats him like a bomb?” I snap. “Hard to imagine.”
The receptionist looks uncomfortable. Good.
“I’m his advocate,” I say. “Legally. You can’t move him without pack consent and guardian sign‑off. That’s Corin Locke and his beta. You want him? You go through them. Not around.”
Hart’s gaze hardens. “Alpha Locke has already been notified,” he says. “He hasn’t arrived yet. In the meantime, the transfer order—”
“Isn’t valid without a signature,” another voice says.
The hairs on my arms stand up before I even turn.
Corin strides through the doors with Varro at his shoulder, both of them carrying the storm inside. Patrol gear, not suits. No attempt to look less dangerous.
Every head at the front desk swivels. The air goes thin.
“Director Hart,” Corin says. “How thoughtful of you to coordinate with us before deciding to abduct one of my wolves.”
“Alpha Locke,” Hart replies, pleasant. “We’re simply following protocol for high‑risk juveniles.”
Varro steps in close enough that Hart has to tilt his head back a fraction to meet his eyes. “Funny,” he says. “Our copy of the protocol doesn’t include ‘kidnapping under fluorescent lights.’”
“Rian is displaying a pattern of instability,” Hart says. “Our facility is better equipped—”
“No,” Corin says.
It’s not loud. But it lands.
Hart’s smile thins. “This isn’t optional, I’m afraid.”
“It is,” Corin says, “until a judge tells me otherwise. And even then, you’ll find I’m very good at appeals.”
Their gazes lock, power and paper colliding.
The receptionist’s phone rings. She jumps, snatches it up.
“Yes? … Yes, sir, he’s here.”
She holds the receiver out, wide‑eyed. “Director Hart. It’s Severin Vale.”
Hart takes the phone, expression unreadable.
“Director,” Severin’s voice crackles faintly through the little speaker, just loud enough for those closest to catch. “Is the alpha being… cooperative?”
Hart’s eyes flick to us. “We’re in the middle of clarifying procedures,” he says. “There’s some… resistance to transfer.”
“Of course there is,” Severin says. “He knows what happens if that boy stays in his custody and hurts someone else. Remind him of that. Then proceed. We need a clear example that the system works.”
My skin crawls. Example.
Corin’s eyes, silver‑ringed, meet mine.
We both know what happens if Rian disappears into that facility. Maybe he comes out quieter. Maybe he doesn’t come out at all. Either way, they get their story: dangerous wolves, necessary interventions.
Hart lowers the phone a fraction. “You see?” he says, almost gentle. “If we don’t act now, the next time might be worse. For everyone.”
The word hangs there: everyone.
Pack. Kids. Humans in the wrong alley at the wrong time.
I feel the bond thrum between me and Corin, thick with fear and fury and something else: the memory of a night when he chose a path that broke us to save me.
He’s standing on the edge of another impossible choice.
Severin’s voice purrs through the receiver. “Well, Director? Can I trust you to show the city we know how to handle our wolves?”
Hart raises the phone, every eye in the lobby on him.
And for a heartbeat, in the stale, humming air of the precinct, it feels like we’re all back in that ritual room—humans with clipboards deciding who we get to be.
- Writer
