Logan
My father arrived without ceremony and strode in like he owned the place. He moved through the entry like a man checking his investment, not visiting his son.
We settled into the study. He declined tea. Declined whiskey. He wasn’t here for pleasantries.
“I’ve reviewed the most recent polling data,” he began, already thumbing through his tablet. “Public support in the northeast territories has softened. Your last visit there didn’t land the way you hoped.”
I nodded once. “The West Ridge Alphas are split. But we’re working on it.”
“Are you?” he asked, without looking up. “Or are you playing house with a Blackwood girl who still doesn’t have control of her Pack or her wolf?”
The words were sharp, but not new. My father rarely wasted time with subtlety when it came to his legacy.
