POV: Ronan Montague
The guitar strings bit into Ronan's fingertips as he picked out another melancholy chord progression in the dusty music room of the Montague family estate. The sound echoed hollow in the space that used to be his mother's art studio, before his father converted it into storage for old pack records and forgotten dreams.
Em to C to G to D. Simple. Clean. Nothing like the chaos in his head.
"Ronan."
His father's voice cut through the melody like a blade. Ronan didn't stop playing, didn't look up from the worn acoustic that had belonged to his mother before she died. Six years of silence, and Alpha Marcus still couldn't say his son's name without disappointment weighing down every syllable.
"We need to talk."
Now Ronan stopped. The last note hung in the air between them like an accusation.
Alpha Marcus Montague filled the doorway, his presence sucking the warmth from the room. Everything about him was sharp edges and calculated control—from his steel-gray hair to the way he stood with military precision. He used to smile, Ronan thought. Before the Capulet ambush. Before Mom's funeral. Before grief calcified into something harder and colder than stone.
"Pack council meeting in ten minutes," Marcus said. "You're expected to attend."
Ronan set the guitar aside carefully, muscle memory from years of his mother's gentle corrections. Music is fragile, baby. Treat it with respect, and it'll give you everything.
"What's the meeting about?"
"Territory disputes. The Capulets are pushing boundaries again." Marcus's jaw tightened, and for a second, Ronan saw past the Alpha mask to the broken man underneath. "They think we've gone soft."
We have gone soft. You've gone soft. You used to lead with wisdom, not just rage.
But Ronan didn't say that. Hadn't said much of anything to his father since he turned sixteen and Marcus started training him like a weapon instead of raising him like a son.
The walk to the council chamber felt like a march to his own execution. Each step echoed through the stone corridors of the estate, past portraits of Montague Alphas who had led with honor and wisdom. His great-grandfather smiled down from his gilded frame, a man who had negotiated peace treaties instead of planning assassinations.
What would you think of us now? Ronan wondered, studying the painted face that looked so much like his own. What would you think of what we've become?
The heavy oak doors of the council chamber loomed ahead, carved with the family crest—a wolf beneath a crescent moon. The motto beneath it read: Strength in Unity, Honor in Truth. Once upon a time, those words had meant something.
Marcus paused with his hand on the brass handle. "Remember, you're here to observe and learn. Not to question centuries of pack wisdom."
"And if the pack wisdom is wrong?"
His father's golden eyes—so much like his own—went cold. "Then you're not ready to inherit it."
The pack council meeting would determine everything.
The pack council chamber smelled like old leather and older grudges. Twelve of their most senior wolves sat around the oak table that had hosted Montague leadership for over a century. Ronan took his usual seat at his father's right hand, the heir's position that felt more like a target on his back than an honor.
Beta Sarah—his aunt, his guardian angel, the only person who still remembered he used to laugh—gave him a small smile from across the table. She'd been trying to fill the maternal void his mother left behind, but some holes were too deep to patch.
"The southern border situation has escalated," announced Beta Tom, their head of security. He spread a territorial map across the table, red pins marking recent incursions. "Capulet scouts have been spotted three times this month. They're testing our response times."
Ronan's wolf stirred restlessly beneath his skin. At eighteen, he was still learning to control the Alpha instincts that demanded he defend their territory with fang and claw. But something about this felt wrong.
"How do we know they're scouts and not just young wolves exploring?" he asked.
The room went silent. Twelve pairs of eyes turned to him with expressions ranging from surprise to disappointment.
"Excuse me?" Marcus's voice could have frozen hell.
"I'm just saying, we've been patrolling their borders too. Maybe it's not aggression. Maybe it's just—"
"Just what?" Elder Patricia leaned forward, her weathered face twisted with disgust. "Coincidence? Ronan, your mother died because we thought Capulet movements were 'just exploration.'"
The words hit like a physical blow. Ronan's hands clenched into fists under the table, claws threatening to extend. The familiar guilt crashed over him—the weight of not being strong enough, fast enough, Alpha enough to save her.
"That's different," he managed.
"Is it?" Marcus's golden eyes, so much like his son's, held no warmth. "Tell me, son, what would you do about these incursions?"
It was a test. Everything with his father was a test lately.
"I'd try talking to them first. Set up a neutral meeting. Address the tension before it escalates into—"
"Into what we should have done six years ago." Elder Marcus—his uncle, not his father—slammed his palm on the table. "End this threat permanently."
Ronan's blood ran cold. "What are you talking about?"
Beta Tom cleared his throat and pulled out a second map, this one marked with detailed patrol routes and timing charts. "We've identified three young Capulets who've been leading the border crossings. We have their schedules, their patrol routes, their habits."
The room suddenly felt airless. Ronan's wolf whimpered, sensing the predatory intent radiating from the council members.
"If we eliminate them during their next incursion," Tom continued clinically, "it sends a clear message about the consequences of testing Montague resolve."
"Eliminate them?" Ronan's voice came out strangled.
Elder Patricia smiled, and it was the most terrifying expression he'd ever seen on a grandmother's face. "Quick. Clean. Justified under territorial defense laws."
"You're talking about murder."
"We're talking about justice," Marcus said quietly. Dangerously. "We're talking about ensuring no Montague mother ever has to die the way yours did."
Ronan stared at the map, at the careful notations marking where three young lives would end. His hands shook as he thought about teenagers like himself, probably worried about school and dating and pack politics, not knowing they'd been marked for death.
"Those are kids. Teenagers like me."
"Teenagers who will grow up to be the Alphas that order our deaths." Elder Patricia's voice carried the weight of decades of hatred. "Better to end the threat now."
Ronan looked around the table, searching for someone else who saw the insanity in this plan. Sarah's face was pale, her hands folded so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She caught his eye and gave the smallest shake of her head.
Don't. Not here. Not like this.
But he was alone in his horror, surrounded by wolves who had forgotten the difference between protection and predation.