Page 8 of Bitten, Marked, Obsessed

“Try telling that to Vann.”

I glance across the bar. Sure enough, Vann’s hulking in a corner, scowling like it’s a full-time job. He’s got a pint glass in one hand and a chip on his shoulder the size of Manhattan. Always has. He’s my father’s favorite pitbull—right up until I open my mouth.

And right on cue, he starts stalking over.

“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter.

He stops at our table, arms crossed, shadow swallowing the flickering neon.

“You trying to start a war, Wulfson?” he growls.

I look up slowly. “Nice to see you too, Vann.”

“You step into their side of the city like you’re looking for a goddamn invitation. You think they won’t rip us apart the second we blink?”

“Nothing happened,” I say. “I made contact, de-escalated, backed off. Nobody got hurt.”

“You were lucky,” he snaps.

“She was scared,” I counter, sitting back. “You ever seen a werewolf afraid of a shifter?”

That shuts him up for half a second.

“Doesn’t mean they ain’t dangerous. Doesn’t mean they won’t gut us the second we turn our backs.”

I lean forward, voice low. “So will humans. So will other shifters. The only thing that makes them different is the PR.”

“Don’t get soft just ‘cause you’ve been reading peace pamphlets and sniffing around the city.” He spits the word like a slur.

I don’t rise to it. Not this time.

But Elias does. “You weren’t there, Vann. That wolf could’ve attacked. She didn’t.”

“Could’ve,” Vann scoffs. “And one day, she will. Then you’ll both be dead, and I’ll have to clean up the mess.”

I stand, slow and deliberate. I’m taller, but he’s bulkier. Doesn’t matter. I’m done looking up to anyone who thinks war is inevitable.

“You wanna clean up a mess, Vann?” I ask, voice cold. “Start with your damn attitude. I don’t give a shit about old grudges or who howls louder at the moon. I care about keeping our people alive.”

He snarls, stepping in close. “That’s rich, coming from the heir who doesn’t even want the crown.”

“Maybe if the crown didn’t come with blind hate and bullshit traditions, I’d consider it.”

That does it.

His fist flies.

But I’m faster.

I duck the swing, grab his wrist, twist. He grunts, stumbling into the table. Glass shatters. People yell.

“Enough.”

My father’s voice cuts through the bar like a blade. Everyone freezes.

He walks over, slow, steady, every step dragging the weight of command behind it.

“Callum. Vann. Sit.”

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