Page 4 of A Gathering Storm
Or perhaps just the right catalyst to transform brittle tradition into something stronger. Something that can weatherboth the storms within and the scrutiny without. Something that can remind all of us why we fight to preserve this life instead of simply abandoning it for easier paths.
The rain starts again, soft this time, washing away the scent of challenge and submission from the stones above. Each drop carries salt from the sea and ozone from the storm, mixing with the granite dust and old magic that clings to this place like memory. By morning, there'll be no trace of what happened here tonight except in the memories of those who witnessed it.
And in the consequences that will ripple out from this night like waves from a dropped stone, touching every life on these islands before they're done.
CHAPTER 2
RAFE
The shadow between weathered dock pilings has been mine for three hours now, long enough for the tide to turn and the moon to slide behind clouds heavy with tomorrow's storm. My golden eyes track every movement below—the skiff cutting silent through black water, the practiced swing of sealed crates from boat to dock, the nervous energy of men who know they're dancing on the edge of something lethal.
Salt and rotting kelp mask most scents, but contraband has its own perfume. Spanish wine from my homeland, aged in oak barrels that remember Mediterranean sun. Cuban cigars wrapped in cedar, their tobacco leaves still holding Caribbean heat. And beneath those familiar notes, something sharper—oiled canvas concealing cargo my human contacts don't need to identify. Won't identify, if they value their tongues.
My panther purrs deep in my chest, a rumble too low for human ears. This is what we've built in five years of careful violence—an empire that runs on fear and efficiency in equal measure. Every man moving crates below knows the price of betrayal. Some learned it secondhand, through whispered stories of bodies weighted with concrete, fed to crabs in the deepest channels. Others saw it firsthand when I made examplesof those who thought distance from Spain meant freedom from consequences.
The warehouse squats at the dock's end like a bloated corpse, its weathered walls hiding a labyrinth of storage spaces and hidden passages. Once it processed herring and mackerel for export. Now it processes darker commerce, goods that slip through legal nets as easily as I slip through shadows. The local authorities look the other way—some paid, some threatened, all understanding that Rafe Vega's business is best left unexamined.
Movement stirs the air behind me. Heavy footsteps on creaking planks, deliberate enough to announce presence. No attempt at stealth, which means either stupidity or supreme confidence. The scent that reaches me—storm and wolf and alpha dominance—identifies which.
Declan MacRae.
I don't turn, don't acknowledge his approach. Let him come to me in my territory, let him see how little his alpha status means here among rust and rot and human commerce. My men below pause for half a heartbeat, instinct warning them of predator proximity, but they know better than to stop working. Fear of me outweighs fear of anything else that stalks these docks.
"I need your word, Vega."
No greeting, no pretense of courtesy. The wolf alpha's voice carries desperation poorly disguised as command, authority stretched thin as old rope. He needs something, and need makes even alphas vulnerable.
I turn slowly, letting him see the gold flash of my eyes in the darkness. "MacRae. Strange to see you so far from your stone circles and clan politics."
His storm-grey eyes are hard as winter seas, but there's something else there—exhaustion maybe, or the weight ofholding together something that wants to shatter. "Stay neutral in clan disputes. Don't fuel the fire."
Interesting. I push off from the piling and begin circling him, slow and deliberate. My panther recognizes his wolf, predator acknowledging predator, but neither of us shifts. This is business conducted in human skin, even if the beasts pace just beneath.
The silence stretches between us, taut as a garrote. His jaw tightens with each second that passes without my response. Control—wolves always need it, especially alphas. They build hierarchies like humans build churches, desperate for order in a chaotic world. Panthers know better. We thrive in shadows and solitude, answering to no one but ourselves.
"My empire thrives on chaos, MacRae." I let my Spanish accent curl thick around the words, a reminder that I'm not bound by Scottish clan laws or ancient treaties. "War is good for business. Scared people pay premium prices for protection, for escape routes, for weapons that might give them an edge."
Below us, one of the dock workers stumbles, nearly dropping a crate. Every man freezes, knowing that mistakes in my presence have consequences. I raise one hand—a simple gesture, dismissal and warning combined. Work resumes instantly, fear driving efficiency.
"What makes you think I'd choose sides in your little wolf war?" I continue, stopping my circling to face him directly. "Both sides have gold to spend. Both sides have secrets they'd kill to keep buried."
He steps closer, close enough that our power signatures clash like conflicting tides. Storm-magic clings to his skin, old and wild, the kind of power that shaped these islands before humans ever set foot on them. My panther bristles at the challenge, but I hold still, intrigued by his boldness.
"Because if Stormhaven falls to human exposure, your smuggling routes die with it."
Ah. There it is—the leverage he thinks he has. I tilt my head, studying him the way my panther studies prey, cataloging weaknesses and strengths in equal measure. He's not wrong. My operation depends on Stormhaven's unique position—remote enough to avoid scrutiny, connected enough to reach larger markets. If humans discover what lives here, if government agencies descend with their satellites and forensics and endless questions, everything I've built dissolves like salt in rain.
"You assume I couldn't relocate," I say, though we both know that's posturing. Building this network took years, required specific conditions that don't exist elsewhere. "Find another island, another port where authorities can be bought and bodies can disappear."
"You could." His voice is steady now, finding footing in negotiation rather than command. "But you won't. You've marked this territory as surely as any wolf. You've tasted power here, control. Starting over would mean vulnerability, and panthers hate vulnerability as much as wolves hate chaos."
Smart. Smarter than I expected from someone who spends his time managing primitive pack dynamics and ancient rituals. But then, holding together three wolf clans ready to tear each other apart probably requires more subtle intelligence than I've credited him with.
"Neutrality, then." The words taste like concession, though I shape them into something sharper. "I won't arm your enemies, won't provide safe passage for clan deserters or sell information that tips the balance."
His shoulders ease slightly—so slight a human wouldn't notice, but I catalog every tell, every weakness. "And in return?"
"You keep your wolves away from my operations. No territorial pissing contests over the docks, no righteous cubs thinking they can muscle in on my trade routes." I show teeth that aren't quite human, a reminder of what lives beneaththis civilized veneer. "And when your clan war inevitably spills over despite your best efforts, you remember who kept it from spreading faster."
