The ridge was still long after Mercer and his injured rogues fled. The quiet wasn't peace—it was the kind of silence that carried teeth. The kind that watched. The kind that waited. Ronan stood alone at the crest, eyes burning faintly as he tracked the lingering scents—blood, sweat, adrenaline, fear.
Tonight had shifted something inside him.
Not broken it.
Sharpened it.
He stared after Mercer's retreat until even the echoes of his footsteps disappeared. Only then did Ronan exhale, slow and controlled, letting the night settle over him like armor.
Bootsteps approached fast.
Ronan didn't turn until Colton Reyes and six fighters reached the ridge, breath thick in the cool air, eyes catching the moonlight.
"Alpha," Colton said, scanning the scene. "Report said the rogues were here—"
"They were." Ronan cut him off with a quiet finality. "They're gone."
Colton's gaze flicked to the unconscious rogue sprawled across the dirt. "That one's not."
Ronan looked down at the man—shallow breaths, bruises forming across his face, dried blood beneath his nose. The rogue's shift had collapsed midway through the fight, leaving traces of claws and ridges still faint on his skin.
"What are your orders?" Colton asked.
Ronan's eyes narrowed, a flicker of red tightening at the edge of the iris. "Leave him."
The fighters stiffened. One opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. They weren't afraid of questioning orders—they were afraid of misunderstanding this Ronan. The one who had fought seven rogues alone. The one whose patience had clearly reached its end.
Colton swallowed. "Yes, Alpha."
Ronan began walking back toward the ranch without another word. The group followed behind him, silent. They felt the shift in him. It radiated through the pack-bond—not emotion, but intention. A line drawn. A decision made.
Lights glowed inside cabins and porches as they approached. Pack members watched through windows, tense until they saw Ronan at the front of the formation. Shoulders eased. Heartbeats slowed. But their relief remained thin; they felt the same thing Colton did.
Ronan wasn't angry.
He was resolved.
Inside the main house, Dax sat curled on the couch, blanket around his shoulders. His eyes widened when Ronan entered.
"You're back," he said, voice small.
"You should be resting," Ronan replied.
"I tried," Dax admitted. "Didn't work."
Ronan poured himself water without looking at him. "You're safe tonight."
"Mercer…" Dax hesitated. "He sent them after me, didn't he?"
Ronan didn't lie. "Yes."
Dax's fingers tightened around the blanket. "Is he coming here?"
"Yes." Ronan took a sip. "Eventually."
Dax licked his lips. "What will you do when he does?"
Ronan looked directly at him.
"End it."
The words landed heavy, quiet, honest.
Dax nodded slowly—fear and trust blending in his scent. Ronan didn't wait for another question. He walked down the hall, closed the bathroom door behind him, and washed the dried blood from his hands. When he lifted his gaze to the mirror, his reflection met him half-shifted—gold bleeding into blue, red threading the edges.
He forced the shift down.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Mercer's taunts replayed:
unstable… broken… not in control…
Ronan's teeth grit.
He steadied his breathing, forcing his heartbeat back into rhythm. He didn't fear losing control. He feared hesitation. Hesitation killed pack members. Hesitation got people like Dax dragged into shallow graves.
He left the bathroom and headed outside again. The night air cooled the heat on his skin. He crossed the yard toward the training barn, the old structure glowing faintly from torchlight inside.
He wrapped his hands and began hitting the heavy bag. Clean strikes. Sharp. Efficient. No wasted movement. Every blow a release valve. Every exhale a reminder he was alive, aware, centered.
The barn door creaked open.
Ronan didn't look back. "I said no interruptions."
"You didn't mean me," Mara said.
Ronan stilled mid-strike.
He unwrapped his hands as she stepped closer. The druid's eyes took him in with unsettling clarity, reading the tension in his posture, the ridges he hadn't fully retracted, the stiffness in his shoulders.
"You confronted Mercer," she said.
"Yes," Ronan replied.
"You're different."
Ronan gave a humorless breath. "Tonight required it."
"Required," Mara repeated, studying him. "Or revealed?"
He turned away. "Mercer crossed a line."
"He wanted to," Mara said. "He wants to draw out the part of you that frightens him."
"I'm not here to comfort him."
"No," Mara agreed softly. "But you're afraid he'll make you become something you don't want to be."
Ronan swung around, eyes flaring. "I'm not afraid."
"You are," Mara said gently. "Not of losing control. Of what control will demand."
Ronan said nothing.
Mara stepped closer. "You've tried to lead without bloodshed. Without violence. Without repeating mistakes of those before you."
"I've kept Texas safe."
"And it's time you ask what safety costs." She paused. "Do you think Mercer will stop? Do you think he'll retreat? Or will he keep sending rogues until you're forced to put someone in the ground?"
Ronan's jaw clenched hard enough that muscle flickered in his cheek.
"You gave him one warning," Mara said. "That was your mercy."
Ronan's voice dropped low. "There won't be another."
"Good," Mara said simply.
She left him alone with the torches and the bag and the echo of a promise he'd already made to himself.
Ronan hit the bag again.
Harder.
Sharper.
Clearer.
Each strike carried the certainty that Mercer's next mistake wouldn't end with broken bones.
It would end with a body.
⸻
When Ronan returned to the main house, Dax was still awake—barely. He looked up as Ronan entered the room, blanket slipping from his shoulder.
"Alpha?" he whispered.
Ronan didn't answer immediately. He went to the window, looking out at the stretch of land beyond the porch. Patrol torches flickered along the borders. Heartbeats thrummed in the distance—his wolves cycling shifts, staying vigilant.
They trusted him.
They depended on him.
And tonight, he had shown them exactly who he had to be now.
Only when the silence stretched too long did Ronan speak.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you start training."
Dax sat up straighter. "Training for what?"
Ronan turned from the window, eyes steady and colder than before.
"For killing, if you have to."
Dax's breath caught. "I—I don't know if I can—"
"You'll learn," Ronan said. "Survival isn't enough anymore."
He stepped away from the window, crossing the room slowly. Controlled. Deliberate.
"You came to my land," Ronan said. "You chose the Dominion. That choice comes with responsibility."
Dax swallowed hard. "Yes, Alpha."
Ronan stopped beside him. "Mercer won't come after you again."
Dax almost smiled with relief—until Ronan added,
"Because next time, he won't walk away."
Dax's expression flickered, unsure whether to be afraid or reassured.
Ronan didn't clarify.
He didn't have to.
Dax lay back down under the blanket, and Ronan headed toward his room. Before he reached the door, he spoke quietly over his shoulder—calm as moonlight, sharp as steel.
"There are no more warnings."
The door closed behind him.
The house fell still.
Outside, the ranch held its breath.
Far beyond the ridge, Mercer was gathering forces—wolves who mistook chaos for freedom, resentment for leadership, violence for power.
But Ronan Vael was done hesitating.
He had drawn his line.
And the next time Mercer crossed it—
the land of Texas would drink blood.