TREY
"Pick a fucking lane."
I slam my palm against the horn as the sedan in front of me drifts across the line for the third time in less than a minute.
The driver responds by slowing down and my jaw clenches.
Great. Exactly what I need this morning.
I sink deeper into my seat. "Take your time, asshole. I’ve got nowhere to be for the rest of my life."
My phone vibrates somewhere on the passenger seat, but I don’t bother checking it. If it’s Coach asking why I bailed before his twenty minute post practice sermon about discipline, he can wait. If it’s Professor Collins reminding me for the third time that my research proposal is due Friday, he can wait too.
Actually, everybody can wait.
Practice was shit, my research is shit, I have an assignment due at midnight, another practice at six tomorrow morning, a sponsor shoot I’ve already rescheduled twice, and three messages from my father I’ve been deliberately ignoring.
At this point, I just want to get home, fall face first into my bed and stay there.
By the time I pull into the underground parking beneath my apartment building, I’ve managed to upgrade my mood from extreme anger to mildly unpleasant.
Grabbing my duffel from the passenger seat, I sling it over my shoulder and head upstairs.
All I want is a shower, food and maybe six consecutive hours where nobody says the words hockey, grades, pack or heir around me.
Apparently, that’s asking for too much because the second I unlock my apartment, I know someone’s inside.
I stop with one hand still on the door handle, staring at the lights I definitely didn’t leave on this morning.
[It’s your old man.] My wolf, Trex, says as I push the door wider and step inside.
I could already smell him before Trex said anything, but seeing my father sitting in the middle of my living room still pisses me off.
A normal person waits at the door of a home that isn’t theirs but my old man must have skipped that lesson growing up.
He’s sitting comfortably on my couch with a glass of water on the table in front of him and two of his bodyguards standing on either side.
I let the duffel slide off my shoulder and hit the floor.
"Looks like you’ve made yourself at home." I kick the door shut behind me. "How did you get in?"
His eyes move over me without answering, starting at my face before dropping to my arms. They linger on the fresh bruise near my elbow, then the much uglier one spreading across my knee from practice.
You’d think he was concerned but I know better. He’s probably already adding them to the list of reasons hockey is a waste of my time and why I should quit screwing around on the ice and start acting like the heir he wants me to be.
Never mind that he has another perfectly functional son. Somehow, Ezra existing has never stopped my old man from being balls deep in every decision I make.
"The bruise looks ugly." He finally says.
"I’ll get it cleaned up." I shove my hands into my pockets. "How did you get in here? How did you know my access code?"
Instead of answering, he gestures toward the sofa across from him. "Sit."
My teeth grind together.
Sit? In my own apartment?
"I’m good."
His eyes narrow, but he gives a small shrug. "Fine. Stand." He reaches for the glass in front of him and takes a sip. "You need to stop pushing me away, Trey. It’s a waste of time. A father should be close to his son, and a son should respect his father. That is how the Goddess designed it."
I bite back a sigh.
Goddess, tradition, family. The holy trinity of every conversation where he wants something from me.
"Why are you here?"
His expression hardens slightly.
"My grades are fine," I continue before he can start. "I’m working on my research proposal, and before you ask, no, I haven’t messed up. Everything’s good. So whatever emergency made you break into my apartment, I’m listening."
"You haven’t heard about the changes to the Ascension Trials?"
Fuck.
A headache starts building behind my eyes as I rub two fingers against my forehead.
He seriously barged into my apartment over the same stupid tournament he forces me into every year?
The Ascension Trials have always been more of an ego contest for Alphas than anything that actually matters. Throw their heirs into combat, strategy tests, pack-law quizzes and a bunch of other bullshit for a week, rank us at the end, hand somebody a trophy and give their father something to brag about until the next one.
I show up because he makes sure I don’t have much of a choice, do what I have to do and get the hell out.
Well... that’s not the only reason I show up but that’s beside the point.
"What about it?"
"The rules have changed."
"You broke into my apartment to tell me that?"
"Starting this year, the Trials will determine pack hierarchy." He places the glass back on the table. "The final rankings will determine funding, anti-rogue medication allocations, trade priority and political influence for the next five years. Packs will no longer retain their positions simply because of bloodline or history."
"And whose brilliant idea was that?"
"The Council’s." He leans back against the couch. "Which means Goldenmoon’s standing now depends on you."
I knew we’d eventually get to the part where the future of several thousand wolves becomes my personal problem.
"There’s more," he adds. "The heir who finishes first will be granted a provisional seat on the High Council."
My brows pull together.
The High Council is the oldest governing body to exist. Old families, old laws and a handful of people with enough power to decide what every pack beneath them can and cannot do. My father has been trying to get the pack a permanent seat for years.
Seems I’m his latest application form.
"This is an opportunity we cannot afford to waste," he continues. "A seat gives us direct influence in Council decisions and we will no longer have to negotiate from the outside."
I exhale slowly. "I’ll pass."
His eyes narrow. "Excuse me?"
"I said I’ll pass." I gesture vaguely at myself. "This season is already kicking my ass. I have practice almost every morning, games, classes, a research project I’m behind on and assignments professors expect me to actually submit."
"You will make time."
"No. I won’t."
His jaw flexes.
I bend down and grab my duffel from where I dropped it. "You have two sons."
"Ezra is not the heir."
"So make him one."
His expression goes still. "What?"
"Make Ezra the heir." I sling the bag over my shoulder. "He’s been dying for it since he learned what the word meant. Hand him the title, let him do the Trials, let him sit on the Council. Everybody gets what they want."
"You know succession does not work that way."
"It can. You’re the Alpha."
"And you are my first son."
"Congratulations to both of us."
His stare turns cold, but I’m too tired to care.
"I don’t want the Council seat. I don’t want to spend the next few months training for some competition I already hated when it meant nothing, and I definitely don’t want to rearrange my entire life because a bunch of old men decided pack hierarchy needed a scoreboard." I adjust the strap on my shoulder and jerk my chin toward the front door. "You know where the exit is. Clearly, you’ve already figured out everything else about my apartment."
I turn toward the hallway.
"Your grandmother’s condition is getting worse." His voice carries across the apartment, and I stop mid-step.
Slowly, I turn back.
"Her dementia is progressing," he says, completely unfazed by the look on my face. "The episodes are lasting longer. Her doctors believe she’ll require additional treatment soon."
I take a step toward him, already knowing where this is going, and the fact that he’s going there makes something ugly crawl beneath my skin.
"You’re talking about money?"
"Among other things."
I scoff. "That’s pocket change to you. You probably spend more flying around with these assholes every month." I gesture toward the two men behind him. "So why are you bringing up what Grandma costs?"
"If it’s so insignificant, take her."
My jaw locks. "What?"
"Bring her here, pay her medical expenses, hire her nurses and arrange her appointments." He gestures around my apartment. "You’re twenty-two. Surely you’re capable of caring for her yourself."
He knows I can’t. Between classes, games and everything else, I’m barely in this apartment long enough to sleep. Grandma needs people around her twenty-four hours a day now. She needs doctors she recognizes and a familiar environment that doesn’t leave her terrified every time she wakes up confused.
And he fucking knows that.
I drop my duffel again and cross the space between us. "You’re using her as leverage? Seriously? You’ve gone that low?"
One of the guards shifts behind him, but my old man lifts a hand.
"She’s Mum’s mother." I point at him. "She’s the last family I have from her side and you’re dragging her into this because I won’t do what you want? Grow a conscience."
"The only thing I’m interested in growing is our pack’s authority." He rises and closes the distance between us, his hand coming down hard on my shoulder. "Your problem, Trey, is that you’ve spent your entire life enjoying the power that comes with your name while pretending you’re too good for the responsibilities attached to it."
I knock his hand away. "Don’t touch me."
His eyes flash. "You live under the protection of the Mercer name. You play hockey because I have tolerated it. You walk around rejecting every responsibility attached to your blood while still enjoying everything that blood gives you."
"I never asked for any of it."
"It doesn’t matter what you asked for."
His finger drives into my shoulder this time. "You were born my first son. You were born the heir to Goldenmoon. There are thousands of wolves whose position after these Trials will depend on what you do, and I will not watch you drag this pack down because you want to play student for a few more years."
My hands curl into fists.
Trex growls inside my head. [Let me out.]
I hold my father’s stare. "And if I still say no?"
A slow smile pulls at his lips, and somehow, that tells me everything before he even opens his mouth.
"Then your grandmother leaves my estate." He declares. "And you won’t see her again. Where she goes and what happens to her after that will be my concern."
For a second, I can’t bring my lips to move.
He straightens the cuff of his sleeve like he didn’t just threaten an old woman to get his son to enter a tournament.
"Think carefully about what you want to do. I sent the registration link to your email." He steps past me. "Start preparing. If hockey gets in the way, drop it. If you need a tutor, hire the best one you can find. You’re a Mercer. Start acting like one."
I’m still standing in the same spot when he walks out.
The door slams shut behind him and I stare at it, my fingers curling so tightly that my nails bite into my palms.