The call came at midnight—Jenny's number, but the bond between us carried urgency that preceded the words.
"We have a problem."
I was on a plane within two hours.
The flight from Denver to Missoula took forever. Ruth met me at the airport with a vehicle that had been pushed past reasonable speed limits, the kind of driving that suggested she was worried too.
"Marcus," she said without preamble. "Young werewolf from the Marsten pack. He's challenged Jenny's authority."
"Challenged how?"
"Formal pack challenge. He claims she's betrayed pure werewolf interests by allying with 'outsiders.' The other wolves are watching to see what happens."
The Marsten pack. The werewolves we'd absorbed during the territorial expansion—the ones whose previous Alpha had been eliminated by independent forces before I'd consolidated the region. Some of them had never fully integrated.
"How many support him?"
"Hard to say. Maybe a quarter of the pack. The rest are loyal to Jenny, but they're watching. If she loses..."
"She won't lose."
"You don't know that."
I did know that. But saying so wouldn't help.
We reached the Haven at three in the morning. The challenge was set for dawn—pack tradition, something about fighting under the rising sun. Coalition members had gathered in the common area, tensions visible in how they clustered by species.
Jenny found me in the war room.
She looked tired—the kind of exhaustion that came from sleepless nights and constant vigilance. The challenge had been building for days, and she'd been managing it while I was in Denver playing politics with witches.
"You should have called earlier," I said.
"I thought I could handle it without involving you." Her jaw tightened. "I was wrong."
"What's his argument?"
"That I've subordinated pack interests to coalition goals. That werewolves shouldn't take orders from a skinwalker. That I'm—" She paused. "That I'm compromised by my bond with you."
The blood bond. Our connection was visible to supernatural senses, a declaration of alliance that transcended normal pack relationships. Marcus was using it as evidence of divided loyalty.
"I could intervene," I said carefully. "Coalition authority supersedes individual pack challenges."
"No." Jenny's voice was sharp. "If you overrule this challenge, I'll never lead the pack effectively again. They'll always wonder if I'm Alpha because I'm strong or because you protect me."
"Jenny—"
"This is pack business." She met my eyes. "Let me handle pack business."
The challenge took place at dawn, on the high ground above the Haven where werewolves traditionally settled dominance disputes.
Marcus was young—mid-twenties, built like someone who'd grown up fighting. He'd shifted to beta form, halfway between human and wolf, claws and teeth ready for combat. The aggression radiating off him was genuine, the kind of anger that came from perceived betrayal rather than calculated ambition.
Jenny stood opposite him in the same form. She was smaller, older, more experienced—but experience didn't always win against raw power.
The pack formed a ring around them. Coalition members watched from a distance, close enough to witness but far enough to avoid interfering.
I stood with them.
"This is pack business," I announced when eyes turned to me. "Jenny handles pack business."
The words cost more than they should have. Every instinct screamed to intervene, to use the authority I'd built to protect someone I—
The fight began.
Marcus attacked first, all power and fury. Jenny dodged rather than blocked, letting his momentum carry him past her while she scored shallow cuts along his ribs. First blood.
He recovered fast, came back harder. His claws caught her shoulder, drawing real blood this time. She snarled, the sound carrying pain and determination in equal measure.
The next exchange was brutal. They closed distance, grappling, teeth seeking throats while claws tore flesh. Jenny took damage—a bite on her forearm, claw marks across her back—but she gave as good as she got.
Marcus was stronger. That became clear as the fight continued. His blows landed harder, his recovery was faster, his endurance seemed inexhaustible.
But Jenny was smarter.
She let him push her back, let him think he was winning. Then, when he overcommitted to a finishing blow, she moved inside his guard and broke his arm.
The crack of bone was audible across the clearing.
Marcus howled—pain and rage and disbelief. Jenny didn't give him time to recover. She drove him to the ground, her claws at his throat, her weight pinning his broken arm beneath her knee.
"Submit or die."
He struggled. She pressed harder, blood welling around her claws.
"SUBMIT OR DIE."
"I submit."
The words came out as a gasp, all the defiance drained from them. Jenny released him and stood, chest heaving, covered in blood—his and hers—but unmistakably victorious.
The pack howled acknowledgment. Even the wolves who'd supported Marcus joined in, their loyalty transferring to demonstrated strength.
I found Jenny in her quarters afterward, bandaging her wounds with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
"Let me help."
She didn't argue. I took over the wrapping, securing gauze around the bite on her forearm while she sat motionless.
"I almost lost," she said quietly.
"But you didn't."
"If he'd been a little stronger. A little faster—"
"But he wasn't. And you won."
She didn't respond. The tremor in her hands didn't stop.
I finished the bandaging and sat beside her. The bond between us carried exhaustion, relief, fear that the victory might not last. She'd proven herself today. But proof required constant reinforcement.
"Get some sleep," I said finally. "The pack will need to see you tomorrow. Strong. Unshaken."
"Will you stay?"
"For a while."
Dawn broke over the Haven. The pack settled into post-challenge rhythms—Marcus alive but defeated, his supporters quietly rejoining the mainstream, Jenny's authority confirmed through blood and violence.
I watched from the window, thinking about the cracks in my kingdom. Every empire had them. The question was whether they spread or healed.
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