Sold to Bastard Alpha after My Divorce!-Chapter 221

Kael’s POV

"Eastern perimeter is compromised. Ronan’s unit is dark. I need a full defensive line established on the secondary perimeter within ten minutes. Pull Unit Seven from the southern watch and redirect to eastern flank. Unit Three holds the north—nobody moves from those positions, I don’t care what they see or hear."

"Yes, Alpha. What about—"

"I’m not done." I was already crossing the tent, grabbing my tactical vest from the rack. "Get Unit Nine mobilized for a forward push. Light formation—speed over force. I want them ready to move on my signal, not before."

"Understood. Anything else?"

"Get Damon."

I hung up.

Aria was watching me. She hadn’t moved from where she stood by the map table, but her whole body was taut.

"Kael—"

"I need you to go back to the house." I said it fast. Before she could argue. Before I could see the look on her face and waver. "Take the secondary guard detail. Go straight there. Don’t stop."

"What are you going to do?"

I pulled the vest on. Checked the straps. Tight. Secure.

"What I have to."

"Kael." Her voice sharpened. "What are you going to do?"

I stopped. Looked at her.

She was scared. I could see it—in her eyes, in the way her hand had gone to her stomach again, in the slight tremor she was trying to hide. But underneath the fear, something else. Steel.

My mate.

"I’m going to the front line," I said. "I’m getting Ronan and his unit back. And then I’m ending this."

She held my gaze. Didn’t blink.

"Come back to me," she said.

Not a request. An order.

I crossed the space between us in two strides. Kissed her. Hard and fast and thorough, one hand cupping the back of her neck, the other pressed flat against the swell of her stomach where our child was growing.

"Always," I said against her mouth.

Then I let go.

Walked out.

Didn’t look back.

Because if I looked back, I wouldn’t leave. And Ronan was out there somewhere—hurt or captured or worse—and twenty years of loyalty meant I didn’t get to choose my own comfort over his life.

---

Damon met me at the north checkpoint.

He was already geared up—vest, weapons, that wild look in his eyes he got when things were about to get ugly and he was glad about it. His wolf was close to the surface. I could smell it—leather and gunpowder and the sharp edge of adrenaline.

"Heard the call." He fell into step beside me. "How bad?"

"Bad enough. Ronan’s gone dark. Twenty-plus hostiles hit the eastern perimeter. They knew exactly where to strike."

"Inside information?"

"Rebecca."

Damon’s jaw tightened. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: "So what’s the play? We reinforcing the perimeter or—"

"I’m going out there myself."

He stopped walking.

I kept going for two steps before turning back to look at him.

"You’re going to the front line," he said. Flat. "Personally."

"Yes."

"Into what is very obviously a trap designed specifically to draw you out."

"Yes."

"And you know it’s a trap."

"Damon." I looked at him. Let him see it—the cold, calculated certainty that had settled over me the moment Ronan’s link went dead. "Magnus has been poking at us for weeks. Raiding supply lines. Hitting lookout posts. Killing young soldiers. Picking us apart piece by piece."

"I know—"

"This isn’t a raid," I said. "This is a challenge. He’s calling me out. And if I don’t answer—if I hide behind my walls and let him pick off my people one by one—then I’ve already lost." I held his gaze. "It’s time. He wants a fight? He gets one. The last one."

Damon stared at me for a long moment.

Then he grinned. Slow and savage.

"About damn time," he said. "What do you need?"

"Strike team. Eight wolves. Fast, quiet, lethal. We move to Ronan’s last known position, assess the situation, and track from there."

"Rules of engagement?"

"If it’s hostile, put it down."

"Now you’re speaking my language." He cracked his knuckles. "Give me five minutes."

He took three.

The team assembled at the eastern treeline—eight of our best. Veterans. Wolves who’d been in the pit, on the border, in every ugly corner of this territory where violence lived. They moved like shadows. Spoke in hand signals. Understood the mission without needing it spelled out twice.

I checked my weapons one final time. Blade at my hip. Silver-tipped knives strapped to my thigh. Not because I planned to use them in human form—but because plans had a way of going sideways, and I’d learned long ago that the wolves who survived were the ones who brought options.

"Formation," I said. Low. Clipped. "Two-two-two-two. Damon on point with me. We move fast and we move quiet. No shifting unless I give the signal. If we encounter hostiles before reaching the target zone, neutralize silently. No alerts."

Eight nods.

"One more thing." I looked at each of them. "Ronan is out there. Alive or dead, we bring him home. That’s not negotiable. That’s not optional. We do not leave our people behind. Clear?"

"Clear, Alpha."

We moved.

---

The forest was wrong.

I felt it the moment we passed the secondary perimeter. Something in the air—a heaviness that had nothing to do with humidity or weather. Fenrir felt it too. He was prowling in my skull, hackles raised, every sense dialed to maximum.

*Quiet,* he growled. *Too quiet.*

He was right. No birds. No insects. No small animals rustling in the underbrush. The forest had emptied itself, the way it did when a predator was near. When something big and dangerous was moving through, and every creature with survival instincts had the sense to get out of the way.

We kept moving.

I tracked the path Ronan’s unit would have taken on their patrol—standard route, one they’d run a hundred times. Through the eastern ravine, along the ridge, down toward the creek that marked the edge of our actively patrolled territory.

Nothing unusual for the first kilometer. Standard terrain. Standard silence.

Then Damon held up a fist.

We stopped.

He pointed. Low. To the left.

I looked.

Blood.

A smear of it on a birch trunk, about shoulder height. Dark. Still tacky. Recent—maybe an hour old. The coppery smell cut through the dead air like a blade.

I moved closer. Crouched. Examined the ground.

More blood. A trail of it, leading deeper into the trees. Not a steady drip—irregular splashes, the kind made by someone moving fast while injured. Someone being dragged.

Or carried.

My stomach clenched.

I signaled the team forward. Slowly. Carefully.

We followed the blood trail for another two hundred meters. It wound through the trees in a path that wasn’t random—it was deliberate. Chosen. Someone had picked this route specifically, using the densest brush and the most uneven terrain.

Making it hard to follow quickly.

Making it easy to set up an ambush.

I held up my hand. The team stopped.

I closed my eyes. Extended my senses. Pushed Fenrir’s heightened awareness out as far as it would go, scanning for heartbeats, for breathing, for the particular vibration of bodies trying to stay hidden.

Nothing.

No bodies.

Not one.

Which meant he wanted them alive.

Which meant he needed them for something.

The team searched for twelve minutes. Methodical. Thorough. They covered every inch of the surrounding area, marking scent trails and disturbances.

I forced myself to stop. To breathe. To think.

This was the moment. The fork in the road. Push forward into what was almost certainly a prepared killing ground, or pull back and regroup.

Then from somewhere in the dark treeline beyond the clearing—hidden in shadow, invisible, deliberately concealed—

A laugh.

Low. Soft. Amused.

A voice I knew.

A voice that made Fenrir explode in my chest, snarling and savage and murderous.

"Are you looking for me?"