#chapter Too Close for Comfort
Crimson Fang thrived on routine, the steady rhythm of its warriors training, its scouts patrolling, and its pack preparing for whatever storm might come next. Malrik’s arrival didn’t shatter that rhythm—it bent it, subtly and quietly, like a gentle wind nudging the course of a stream. He wasn’t loud or commanding like Draven. Instead, he seemed to slip into the fabric of the pack with a soft-spoken curiosity that left people unsure of whether to distrust or indulge him.
Malrik had a way of appearing where he wasn’t expected, always with a disarming smile and an easygoing demeanor. He didn’t assert himself—he asked questions, gave compliments, and observed with an attentiveness that made people feel seen. It was hard to hate someone so mild, even if his presence set the Alpha on edge.
One afternoon, Isla wandered the pack gardens. The dappled sunlight played through the leaves, casting shimmering patterns on the ground. She ran her hand absently over her growing stomach, her thoughts swirling. It was a rare moment of peace, one she treasured amidst the chaos of recent weeks.
“Beautiful spot,” Malrik’s voice came from behind her, soft and friendly. She turned to find him standing a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed.
“Malrik,” she said, startled but not unkind. “You’re in the gardens?”
He chuckled lightly. “Why not? A man can appreciate a little beauty, can’t he? Besides, it seems the Luna has a habit of finding the best places to think.”
Isla regarded him carefully, unsure of his motives but finding no malice in his tone. “And you came looking for me?” she asked, her voice measured.
He stepped closer, keeping a respectful distance but enough to indicate he wasn’t merely passing by. “Not intentionally,” he said, his gray eyes earnest. “But I saw you from across the yard and thought… why not say hello?”
“You’re awfully sociable for someone who doesn’t know where he stands here,” she remarked, crossing her arms.
Malrik shrugged, his crooked smile softening. “I suppose that’s true. But I didn’t come to Crimson Fang to be anyone’s enemy. I came because of my brother. And… well, I wanted to understand the woman who holds this pack together.”
Isla blinked, caught off guard. “Understand me?”
“You’re not what I expected,” he admitted, his voice thoughtful. “Draven always spoke about strength like it was something heavy—something sharp and unyielding. But you…” His gaze flickered to her stomach, then back to her face. “You’re strength, yes, but not just in the way he sees it. There’s kindness in you. Warmth. That’s rare in a pack as fierce as this.”
Isla’s defenses eased slightly. She’d heard plenty of flattery before, but there was no slyness in Malrik’s tone, no manipulation she could sense. He seemed genuinely curious, even if she didn’t fully trust him yet.
“Strength takes many forms,” she said, her voice steady. “And a pack needs more than just brute force to survive.”
Malrik nodded, his smile faint but sincere. “That it does. You’re lucky, Isla. Lucky to have found a way to balance both.”
Before she could respond, the sharp snap of a branch interrupted them. Isla turned to see Draven approaching from the tree line, his amber eyes locked on Malrik with unmistakable tension. His steps were slow but deliberate, his presence a wave of restrained power.
“Malrik,” Draven said, his voice low but carrying an edge. “I didn’t realize you had business here.”
Malrik smiled, the same friendly one he’d offered Isla, and held his ground. “No business, brother. Just a chat. Your Luna was kind enough to humor me.”
Draven’s jaw tightened. He looked at Isla, his voice soft but insistent. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Isla replied, her tone calm but edged with confusion. “We were just talking.”
Draven’s gaze shifted back to Malrik, his stance stiffening. “You’ve been ‘just talking’ a lot lately.”
Malrik raised his hands in a show of harmlessness. “I’m trying to understand the pack, Draven. That includes Isla. Surely you can’t fault me for getting to know my family.”
“Don’t push it,” Draven growled, his voice deepening. “Family doesn’t mean trust.”
Isla stepped forward, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “Draven, stop. He’s not done anything wrong.”
Draven’s eyes flicked to her, his voice firm. “You don’t know him like I do.”
“And whose fault is that?” she shot back, her silver eyes blazing. “You won’t tell me anything about him. All I see is you snapping at every word he says.”
Malrik shifted uncomfortably, as though caught in a private dispute he hadn’t intended to ignite. “I don’t mean to cause trouble,” he said softly. “I just… wanted to make things right between us, Draven. That’s all.”
Draven’s amber gaze burned with something unspoken—a mix of anger, protectiveness, and an old wound Isla couldn’t place. Finally, he stepped back, his shoulders taut with restraint. “Stay away from her.”
Malrik nodded, his expression tinged with regret. “Of course.”
As Malrik walked away, Isla turned to Draven, her voice low but fierce. “You can’t keep shutting him out. He’s trying to fix things. Why can’t you see that?”
Draven didn’t answer immediately, his eyes following Malrik’s retreating figure. “Because fixing things isn’t what he does,” he said finally, his voice tight. “He breaks them.”
