The morning after the battle was too quiet.
Not peaceful—Ronan didn't believe in peace. Not here. Not in Texas. Never in the Dominion.
This was the kind of silence that came after violence, when the earth itself seemed to hold still and listen, waiting for the next crack of thunder.
Ronan stood at the edge of the property line, eyes fixed on the horizon. The desert stretched wide and open before him, shimmering under the early heat. Behind him, the pack moved through their rotations with steady discipline, but their glances kept drifting toward him.
They knew something was coming.
They knew he wasn't finished.
Colton approached, stopping beside him with his hands behind his back. "Trail update."
Ronan didn't look at him. "Speak."
"They're headed east. Mercer and the three you let run."
Ronan nodded once. He expected that.
"They're moving fast," Colton continued. "Really fast. Fear's pushing them."
"Good," Ronan said.
Colton hesitated. "You're sure letting them go was the right call?"
"It wasn't a call," Ronan said. "It was strategy."
Colton swallowed. "And now?"
"Now they lead me to the rest."
Because Ronan Vael didn't leave enemies half-dead.
He didn't leave embers smoldering.
He didn't leave people who would one day come back for the Dominion.
He let Mercer and three rogues run because fear makes cowards predictable—and predictable enemies are easy to end.
Colton looked at him carefully. "Want backup?"
"No," Ronan said. "This ends with me."
Colton didn't argue. He just nodded once—the kind of nod a lieutenant gives when he knows the alpha will not be dissuaded, no matter what stands in his way.
Ronan started walking east.
Not shifting.
Not rushing.
Not wasting energy.
Just moving with purpose, boots crunching dry earth as he followed the faint scent of Mercer's blood and the sour panic of the three cowards at his heels.
⸻
The land transitioned from open desert to industrial bones—abandoned metal structures rising from the dust like rusted ribs. Old refinery pipes hunched overhead. Half-buried machinery jutted from the ground. Graffiti covered every flat surface, faded by sun and wind.
It was the perfect place for weak wolves to hide.
Ronan walked through the shattered doorway of an old fuel depot, shadows stretching long across the concrete floor.
The rogues froze when they saw him.
Eight of them.
The three he let run.
And five more—half-starved, nervous, hiding in the dark, too scared to join the fight the night before, too loyal to leave Mercer entirely.
Mercer stood behind them.
He looked worse than he had last night—bruises deep, shirt torn, eyes swollen. But the hatred was still there. It clung to him like a second skin.
"Ronan…" one of the rogues whispered. "He—he followed us—"
Ronan stepped fully into the room.
"You ran exactly where I needed you to," he said.
And then he moved.
⸻
The first rogue didn't even get a chance to scream.
Ronan crossed the distance in a blur, claws punching through his chest. Blood sprayed across the dusty floor. The body dropped, twitching once before going still.
Another rogue lunged stupidly, swinging in a panic. Ronan caught his wrist, twisted it until bone snapped, then slashed his throat in the same motion.
Two down.
The next rogue tried to backpedal, stumbling over crates. Ronan grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed him face-first into a steel beam. Teeth shattered. Skull cracked. The man slid down the metal, already dead.
Three down.
Screaming erupted from the other side of the room. Rogues scattered like startled rats. Ronan stalked through them with cold precision. He hooked one by the collar and yanked him back, driving claws into his spine. Another tried to hide behind an overturned barrel—Ronan flipped it, dragged him out by the ankle, and crushed his ribs with a single stomp.
Four down.
Five.
Six.
Panic thickened the air.
Only two remained.
The two runners from last night.
They stared at Ronan with identical expressions—terror, regret, disbelief.
"P-please—" one stammered. "We—we didn't know he'd—"
"You knew," Ronan said.
He tore his throat out.
Seven down.
The last rogue tried to beg, but Ronan didn't allow it. One clean slash. No hesitation.
Eight down.
Silence.
Only Mercer was left.
⸻
Mercer staggered backward as Ronan stepped closer, boots echoing in the sudden quiet.
"You… you let us run," Mercer breathed. "You… planned this."
"Yes," Ronan said simply.
Mercer's face twisted in fury and fear. "You used us like bait."
"You made yourselves bait," Ronan answered. "I just took advantage."
Mercer lashed out suddenly, claws flashing toward Ronan's throat. Ronan caught his arm mid-swing and slammed his elbow into Mercer's ribs. Something broke.
Mercer choked on blood. "You think this makes you better than me?!" he shouted. "You kill just like I do!"
"No," Ronan said, dragging him across the concrete. "I kill to protect. You kill to control."
Mercer clawed at his face, leaving three shallow lines. Ronan didn't blink. He yanked Mercer up by the throat and slammed him into the wall, holding him there effortlessly.
Mercer gagged, kicking. "Trials… made you a monster…"
Ronan's eyes flashed—a deep, dangerous red-ring around storm-blue.
"No," he said quietly. "The Trials revealed what I already was."
He threw Mercer across the room.
The man crashed into an oil drum, rolling across the ground. He tried to push up, but his arms shook too hard to support his weight.
Ronan approached slowly.
"Do you know the difference between us, Mercer?" he asked.
Mercer spit blood. "I'm smarter than you think—"
Ronan stomped on Mercer's chest, pinning him to the floor.
"No," Ronan said. "You're smaller than you think."
Mercer gasped, legs kicking uselessly.
Ronan crouched beside him, claws extending fully with a soft, deadly sound.
"The Trials didn't turn me into a killer," he said. "They forged me into someone who finishes what needs to be finished."
Mercer's eyes widened.
"And today," Ronan said softly, "you needed to be finished."
With one smooth motion, Ronan drove his claws into Mercer's chest.
Mercer's breath hitched—just once.
Then went still.
Ronan held him for a heartbeat, watching the life fade from his eyes. He wasn't looking for satisfaction.
He was making sure.
Finally, he pulled his hand free.
Mercer fell silent forever.
⸻
By the time Ronan stepped back outside, the Texas sun burned high overhead, washing the world in heat and gold. His claws dripped red. His footsteps were steady.
Mercer was gone.
The remaining rogues were gone.
The Dominion was safe.
Colton met him at the gate when he returned. "All of them?"
"All," Ronan said.
Mara watched from the porch. "And Mercer?"
"Dead."
"And how do you feel?" she asked.
"Like I kept my word."