Josiah
I had faced war. I had faced men with steel in their hands and hatred in their eyes. I had faced the endless responsibility of leading a pack fractured by my father’s sins. None of it felt as heavy as the weight pressing into my chest as I climbed the steps to Niagra’s study.
The oak door was shut, as it always was. He liked his boundaries thick and well-oiled, his power seated behind mahogany desks and books he never read. I pushed the door open without knocking. For once, I would not play the respectful Alpha to the man who had been my father’s shadow and my own anchor.
Niagra looked up from his chair, his broad hands folded across a ledger. His face was hard, impassive, though a flicker of irritation crossed it when he saw me.
“Alpha,” he said, his voice smooth as old oil. “
