Fractured Bond

PACO

I leaned back into the cream leather seat, tilting it just enough to put some space between my uncle and me.

The leather was still warm from hours in the air. A low vibration carried through the cabin frame and into my ribs, almost enough to drown out his chewing.

Tío Esteban had been working through a lamb bone for the better part of an hour, talking the entire time.

I let my eyes drift over the cabin, the overhead lights bouncing on the dark walnut panels and polished surfaces. Anything but his mouth.

Across the mid-cabin conference area, four of our elite pack warriors sat around the large table. These were Esteban’s men, bigger than our standard pack warriors. They moved as one, with their identical horseshoe cuts, trimmed beards, and garnet plates. Holding themselves like they were already deployed, eyes fixed forward.

My wolf tracked them anyway, and my chest tightened.

I kept my expression still, tearing my eyes away to track the movement across the cabin. Two flight attendants moved efficiently, serving and clearing with ease.

Esteban’s voice broke through, bouncing off the cabin walls.

“And your father expects you ready early tomorrow,” he said, wiping his fingers on a linen napkin before reaching for his glass. “This ceremony will be one of your first public appearances since your return. We’ll be seated prominently. You need to stay composed and respectful. Alpha protocol applies.”

My thumb followed the stitching on the armrest while he talked. The raised thread held my attention more than his instructions.

“Paco, are you even listening?” His tone sharpened as he tore into the last of his lamb, juices slurping audibly.

“Yes, Tío,” I said flatly, “Ceremony tomorrow. Be Reverent. Observe protocol.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, forcing the sigh down.

The leather shifted beneath him, and his voice came, measured and precise, “Paquito… mírame.”

I stayed where I was.

He sighed, the sound carrying across the cabin.

“This reflects on your mother as well.”

That did it.

I straightened, hands folding in my lap. “Sí. Please continue.”

He studied me, eyes moving over my face as if assessing a warrior’s stance. His gaze lingered on the changes — the sharper lines, my posture, and the discipline carved into me over six years. His dark hair was swept back in neat waves, the fade at his temples sharp. Even gnawing on a bone, he looked like he’d stepped out of a briefing room.

A flight attendant appeared, clearing his plate. She pressed a steaming towel into his hands, the Valriva crest embroidered in gold thread. He rubbed his palms slowly, deliberate enough to hold my attention.

“As acting Beta,” he said, with that familiar edge, “it’s my responsibility to prepare you for what comes next.”

He leaned forward slightly. “You will only assume Alpha duties when your father and I are both absent. Together, not separately.”

His movement closed the distance between us, deliberate and commanding. “That distinction matters.”

I nodded once and drew a controlled breath, letting it settle.

“Your formal schedule will arrive once we land. Until then, remember this: tomorrow isn’t about standing out. You’ll need to keep yourself in check, tone it down,” he added as the cabin quieted. “Especially around humans.”

I kept still. The elite warriors didn’t move, their silence filling the space with unease.

“So appear normal?” I asked.

A small smirk curved his lips. “At least passable as normal.”

A tray appeared between us, holding two crystal tumblers and a bottle of whiskey.

I lifted a brow at the glass, then looked back at him. “I thought this trip was about decorum.”

He laughed, full and unrestrained, slapping his knee. The elite warriors didn’t flinch. My eyes followed as he poured himself a generous measure, then tipped the bottle toward me.

I shook my head. Six years of training had burned that reflex out of me. Indulgence wasn’t allowed. Control came first.

“Look at you,” he said, the corner of his lips lifted, his eyes glinting. “They really smoothed you out.”

He raised the glass to his lips, eyes on mine. “You’re stiff, disciplined, and precise. Just like your father after his program.”

I held my posture. The elite warriors shifted their weight in unison, a subtle reminder of the standard I was expected to meet.

Esteban clicked his tongue, shaking his head. I caught the faint approval behind it.

“More for me then,” he said.

His hands lifted in a sweeping gesture that took in every inch of me. “You can relax, Paquito. No one else needs to know.”

He leaned back, and the moment stretched.

“So,” he said casually, “since we picked you up alone in Madrid, you have not met your mate.”

My grip tightened on the armrest before I eased it.

“No. The moon did not see fit.”

Esteban let out a low grunt in response.

Seatbelt signs blinked above as the pilot’s calm voice filled the cabin, announcing our approach. His words settled heavy in my gut.

The plane tilted gradually, driving me into the seat as lights streaked past the window. My body braced the way it always did entering Valriva territory.

I’d been away for six years, two of them without a single visit, and my gut still clenched.

Esteban finished his whiskey and set the glass down. “That is it for now, Paquito. How well this goes depends entirely on you. Before your training, you could get easily distracted.”

I stifled a snort, and he caught it immediately. Compared to who I am now, I had been a disaster. Training had carved the recklessness out of me, leaving something sharper behind.

When my father handed me the brochure, he said, “Time to smooth out your wild tendencies.” I was sixteen, defiant, sent away for training, following the path set by my grandfather. That version of me no longer existed.

“You do not need to worry about me, Tío. I will act as expected.”

My collar pressed against my throat, the knot of my tie sitting too tight, but I kept my hands still.

The plane touched down with a controlled jolt, tires screeching against the runway. My knuckles cracked against the armrest as being home hit me.

The cabin door opened, letting in a rush of warm night air. The scent of fuel and hot asphalt hit first, thick and metallic. The tarmac shimmered under the harsh glare of the floodlights.

I stepped onto the top of the plane stairs, pausing to take it all in. Three black SUVs waited below, Valriva emblems gleaming on the doors. I stiffened.

They hadn’t sent a motorcade like this for me since I was sixteen. Before I took a step, the realization hit me: only one person could command this. My father.

Esteban stepped down first, his long stride eating the distance. I followed, the heat rising from the asphalt in slow waves. The night was still, the plane winding down behind us the only sound left.

A pack warrior moved toward the lead SUV, reaching for the rear door. He misjudged the timing by a fraction. The door swung open from the inside with force, a sharp arc of metal slicing through the space and missing his thigh by inches. The warrior jerked back, boots scraping against the pavement.

The air shifted before I even saw him, and every nerve tensed in recognition.

Then he stepped out.

He filled the doorway, towering at six foot eight, shoulders broad, chest stretching the tailored lines of an impeccable navy suit. The floodlights caught the slick sweep of his dark hair, brushing the collar of his jacket.

I hadn’t seen my father in two years. Andrés, Alpha of the Valriva Pack in Hudson Valley, and his presence struck me like it always did.

He didn’t smile. He just looked me over, from my hair to my shoes, his gaze moving with the precision he demanded from everyone under him.

“You look well,” he said.

His hand landed on my shoulder, firm and unyielding, his authority clear. I could still feel his grip even after he pulled away.

“Thank you, Papa,” I said, tone even, giving him nothing else.

He turned and climbed back into the SUV without another word, expecting me to follow.

I stepped in after him, the heat of the night falling away as the door closed behind us with a muted thud.

The cabin held the deliberate stillness my father preferred — no music, no idle conversation, nothing softening the space. He sat beside me, posture straight, hands resting on his knees as if the ride itself were another form of discipline.

I kept my eyes forward as the SUV eased away from the runway. Neither of us spoke. Silence wasn’t uncomfortable for him. It was expectation. I matched it.

The tires rolled over the asphalt, sending us farther from the runway, inching closer to home with every turn.

After a long stretch of road, I finally said, “How’s Mamá?” My voice stayed level, though something tightened low in my chest.

His shoulders eased by a fraction. “She’s excited to see you, Paquito.”

The nickname landed harder than I expected, stirring memories I’d kept buried. My mother’s hands in my hair, her voice calling me in from the yard, the way she used to say my name before everything shifted.

Tomorrow, I reminded myself, would bring its own reckoning. I’d have to face everything I’d left behind.

I turned toward the window, letting the darkness shield whatever crossed my face.