Taming The Wolf

Chapter 8

Bran paced his chambers, frustration radiating from every muscle in his body. He'd scared Aoife, the very woman he'd sworn to protect. The look of fear in her eyes haunted him, a stark reminder of the vast differences between their worlds.

He paused at the window, gazing out at the moonlit forest. His reflection stared back at him, silver eyes filled with regret. Bran ran a hand through hair.

"Damn it all," he muttered.

The altercation with Fiadh had been necessary, but he'd lost control. Aoife didn't understand their ways, the brutality sometimes required in werewolf society. He needed to explain, to bridge the gap between their cultures.

Bran strode to his desk, pulling out a piece of parchment. He began to write, detailing the intricacies of werewolf hierarchy, the importance of dominance displays, and the raw nature of their interactions. His quill scratched across the paper, pouring out explanations he hoped would ease Aoife's fears.

As he wrote, Bran realized the enormity of the task before him. He wasn't just protecting Aoife from external threats; he needed to guide her through the complexities of his world. He set down his quill, looking at the words before him. It wasn't enough. Mere explanations on paper couldn't convey the nuances of his people's ways. He needed to show her, to let her experience the beauty and strength of werewolf culture alongside its harshness.

Bran moved to the door, ready to seek out Aoife and make amends. He paused, hand on the handle. No, he thought. She needed time to process, to feel safe again. He'd approach her later, as promised.

The urge to seek out Aoife gnawed at him, but he forced himself to step back. She needed space, and he'd promised to give it to her. With a low growl of frustration, he turned and strode back to his desk. The parchment with his hastily scrawled explanations lay there, mocking him. Words on paper seemed woefully inadequate to bridge the chasm between their worlds. Bran sank into his chair, rubbing his temples as he pondered his next move.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Enter," he called, straightening in his seat.

Lorcan stepped into the room, his weathered face etched with concern. "My king, there's been an incident in the great hall."

Bran's silver eyes narrowed. "Fiadh?"

Lorcan nodded grimly. "She's stirring up dissent among some of the younger pack members. They're questioning your decision to claim a human as your mate."

Bran rose, his muscles tense with barely contained anger. He'd known Fiadh would be trouble, but he hadn't anticipated how quickly she'd move against him.

"What exactly is she saying?" he asked, voice low and dangerous.

"She's playing on their fears, my lord. Claiming that bringing a human into our midst will weaken the pack, make us vulnerable to our enemies."

Bran's jaw clenched. He'd hoped to avoid this, to ease Aoife into their world gradually. But Fiadh's actions forced his hand. He couldn't allow this challenge to his authority to go unchecked.

"Gather the pack in the courtyard," Bran ordered. "All of them. It's time I made my position clear."

As Lorcan hurried to comply, Bran moved to the window once more. The moon hung full and heavy in the sky, calling to his wolf. He'd need that primal strength for what was to come.

Bran strode into the courtyard, moonlight glinting off his jet-black hair. The assembled pack stood in tense silence, their eyes fixed on their king. He could smell their fear, their uncertainty, and beneath it all, the acrid scent of rebellion.