"Miss Seymour," Brenda stepped forward, her tone firm as steel wrapped in silk, "Elliot may have made mistakes in the past, but the Presgrave pack has already compensated you for everything it could. You should know where the line is drawn."
The pressure in the hall shifted. Even without an Alpha command, her voice carried authority—bloodline authority, the kind that made weaker instincts quiet down.
Hayley looked at her, then at the gathered pack around them. She had already stirred the hall enough; pushed enough emotion, enough doubt. But she also understood something dangerous—pushing further would turn the entire room against her.
Her expression softened instantly, slipping back into fragile submission.
"I understand," she whispered, eyes lowering as if wounded. "I'm sorry, Grandma. I didn't mean to disrupt the gathering. I'll leave now."
A performance.
Perfectly controlled.
The kind that made instincts uneasy even when logic couldn't prove why.
