Fated to the Wrong Alpha

Chapter 20 – Cracks in the Mask

We don’t take the ledger back in one piece.

We split it.

Riya tucks a stack of pages into a waterproof tube in her bag. Dael hides another set under the false bottom of a weapons case. Lyssa stuffs copies of the worst entries into a ridiculous glittery clutch no one would ever think to search.

Corren and I each carry a notebook pressed close to our skin, under clothes and wards and the thin veneer of control.

“If the Council grabs any one of you,” Liora says, “they don’t get the whole story.”

“You’re very cheerful about the idea of us getting grabbed,” Lyssa notes.

Liora’s mouth twists. “I’m a realist. You’re walking back into a den full of people whose careers are built on pretending this ledger doesn’t exist.”

“Speaking of,” Dael says, “how much do they know about you?”

“Enough to kill me if they find me,” she says lightly. “But I’m very good at not being found. Unlike some people who like elevators.”

My mark flares at the word. The bond between Corren and me hums, a low, constant current.

“You’re sure you won’t come with us?” I ask.

Liora’s gaze flicks toward the cracked ceiling, the ghost sigils on the stones. “This place needs a keeper,” she says. “Someone to make sure no one else tries to resurrect his worst ideas. And you don’t need another outsider the Council can point at and shriek ‘corruption.’”

“You’re not—” I start.

“I am,” she cuts in. “Part of the problem. Part of the solution. Both. Just like him. Just like you, if you’re not careful.”

Riya steps closer. “If you ever need—”

“I know how to find you,” Liora says. “You’re very loud, magically speaking.” Her gaze softens, just a little. “Try not to die. It would make all this very boring.”

We leave her at the temple threshold, a lone figure framed by broken stone and old, stubborn magic. The third thread in our bond tugs once as we descend the steps, less like a hook now, more like a reminder.

You’re not done.

The drive back is quiet. No jokes from Lyssa. No commentary from Dael. Just the dull thrum of the engine and the weight of paper and ink and choices pressing against my ribs.

By the time the city lights bloom ahead of us, my wolf is pacing hard enough to make my skin itch.

Corren’s fingers drum once on the steering wheel. “We walk in like nothing’s changed,” he says. “We let them show us how much they already suspect.”

“Lie first, tell the truth later?” Lyssa asks.

“Something like that,” he says.

The Lyall house is lit up when we pull into the underground garage. Too lit. Too many cars. Too many scents in the air—our own, Voss, external.

“Council delegation,” Dael mutters as we step out. “They move fast when their secrets are at risk.”

“Or when they smell an opportunity,” I say.

We barely make it to the main hall before the first wave hits.

“Aeryn.” Maelor’s voice, tight with something halfway between relief and fury. He crosses the floor in three strides, eyes scanning me for injuries the brief call from Riya apparently didn’t soothe. “Where have you been?”

“Field assessment,” I say. “Joint patrol.”

“Off scheduled routes,” Taren adds from behind him. Not accusatory. Just…noting.

Orrik Dae stands by the hearth, flanked by two Council aides with stiff shoulders and immaculate smiles. His eyes flick from my face to Corren’s, then lower, as if he can see the ledger through our clothes.

“Alpha Lyall,” he says. “Aeryn. We were just discussing the unfortunate incident in your elevator. And the…concerns it raises.”

“Only just now?” Lyssa mutters under her breath.

Maelor’s gaze narrows. He knows me well enough to see the new stiffness in my spine, the set of my jaw.

“What did you find?” he asks carefully.

I think of the ledger. Of his name in it. Order: Alpha Voss (Maelor).

“Trees,” I say. “Old circles. Signs that someone’s been using them. Nothing conclusive.”

Jarek’s eyes meet mine across the room. He sees the lie. He doesn’t call it out.

Orrik steeples his fingers. “Be that as it may, the Council is…uneasy. There is talk of suspending the engagement until we can be sure further attacks will not endanger both packs.”

The bond between Corren and me flares, instinctive protest rising from our wolves.

“Convenient,” Dael says. “Try to cut their bond, fail, then pretend you’re worried about their safety.”

Orrik’s jaw ticks. “Beta Renwick, I suggest you refrain from implying the Council would sanction such barbarism.”

“I don’t have to imply it,” Dael says. “I’ve seen your paperwork.”

My heart stutters. For a second I think of the notebook under my shirt, heavy with names and diagrams and sins.

“Enough,” Maelor snaps, eyes flicking warily toward Orrik. “We’re on the same side here.”

“Are we?” I ask.

The room stills.

I step forward, the words coming out steadier than I feel. “Because from where I’m standing, someone used Council-grade ritual structures to attack us. Someone who had access to their specialist. Someone who knew exactly how our bond had been tampered with.”

“Aeryn,” Maelor warns.

“No,” I say, louder. “We keep pretending this is about border raids and bad luck in elevators. It’s not. It’s about a system that decided certain bonds were acceptable losses as long as the treaties looked good on paper.”

Orrik’s eyes harden. “You tread dangerously close to accusing institutions that keep our world from tearing itself apart, young lady.”

“Your institutions are the reason our bond is a multi-node ‘political nexus’ instead of what it was supposed to be,” I fire back. “And the reason Elira Vaughn vanished into a circle beneath your feet.”

A murmur ripples through the gathered wolves. Maelor goes pale. Taren closes his eyes briefly, as if in prayer.

Corren steps up beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. The contact is small. The statement is not.

“We’re done pretending we don’t know the name of the man you hired to make that happen,” he says, voice low, carrying. “Or that he did it alone.”

Orrik’s polite mask fractures, just for a heartbeat. “You don’t understand the forces you’re toying with,” he says. “Expose too much, push too hard, and you don’t just topple bad actors. You unravel the entire fabric that keeps packs from ripping each other apart.”

“Maybe,” I say quietly, “the fabric needed to unravel.”

Silence.

It’s not acceptance. It’s not victory. It’s shock. Fear. Calculations shifting behind too many eyes.

They think we’re bluffing. That we’re making emotional accusations with nothing to back them.

The notebook against my skin says otherwise. So does the one under Corren’s shirt, the copies in Lyssa’s clutch, the pages in Dael’s case, the tube hidden in Riya’s bag.

The first crack has been made, right down the middle of the old mask.

Now we see how far it spreads.