COLD COMMAND- The Secret Son

"A celebration is one thing, but your pack isn't going to let a Cole lounge around the Reed estate."

"I told you already," I said, leaning back against the truck. "Mama said you're welcome anytime. She doesn't say things she doesn't mean."

Grayson snorted, his eyes tracking a hawk circling the valley. "She was just being civil because of the moon."

"She’s always civil, but she isn't a liar."

He didn't buy it. Not until the meat was off the fire and the jars of moonshine were uncapped. It was Mason who finally cracked that iron shell of his.

Our pack feasts follow a blood-deep order. The Alpha offers the kill to the spirits, then the frenzy starts. The pups eat first, grabbing ribs and bread with greasy fingers. Once they’re settled, the warriors and hunters line up. The women go last, tasting every dish to ensure the seasoning is right and the gossip is fresh.

When the pups were called, Grayson trailed me like he was walking into an ambush. We were an island of two in a sea of Reeds. The other kids gave us a wide berth, their instincts telling them to stay clear of the scrapper. Grayson wouldn't touch the platters, so I did it for him. I piled his plate high until the ceramic groaned. Smoked venison, heaps of wild tubers, charred corn, and thick slices of honeyed bread.

I left him staring at the food like it was a trap and ran to the creek to snag two cold ales from the stone basin. By the time I got back, Mason had claimed the seat across from him. He wasn't talking pack politics. He was talking steel. One thing about Mason Reed—he treated every male like a warrior, no matter the age.

"You have a knack for the scout rigs?" Mason asked as I set the ale down.

"Yes, Alpha." Grayson’s voice was steady, but his knuckles were tight. "Steel makes sense. It doesn't lie. Every gear has a slot. If it’s not in place, the machine dies."

Mason gave a slow, appreciative nod. "The problem is finding the fracture before the whole thing snaps. I’ve been messing with that old iron-clad transport for three winters. Still haven't heard it roar."

"What’s the sound when you turn the ignition?" Grayson asked, leaning in.

Just like that, the world around them vanished. They spent the rest of the afternoon dissecting combustion and torque. Grayson cleaned his plate without even noticing, one hand anchored protectively on the scrolls I’d given him while he and the Alpha debated mechanical failures. Not even Eleanor’s sharp glares slowed them down.

I stayed right there. I skipped the ritual wrestling and the spear-throwing games. I just wanted to watch him. I’d never seen him this alive. He was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.

His black hair caught the sun, flashing like obsidian. His silver eyes were bright, moving fast as he followed Mason’s hand gestures. And when he laughed—a real, raw sound—dimples cut into his cheeks, making him look less like a stray and more like a prince of the scrap heaps. I saw Mama and the aunts watching him from the shade, their expressions unreadable, trading those silent looks women use when they see something coming before it hits.

That was the day the crush took root. I was eight. I didn't know a damn thing about heat or mating cycles, but watching him made me feel like I’d finally found my own pack.

My mission shifted. It wasn't just about saving him anymore; it was about keeping him close. My head was spinning with ways to lure him back, but Mason solved it for me. By the time the fires were dying down, Grayson had agreed to help the Alpha with the transport whenever he could slip away from his father’s territory.

The Academy was set to start the Friday after the feast. Only a few days of freedom left. On Wednesday, Lily Brooks got a pass from the old widow who watched her to spend the day at our farm. We were entering the fourth cycle of training, and we spent the morning tearing apart everything from the new combat instructors to the boys in our class.

I didn't mention Grayson once. He was my secret. My find. I wasn't sharing him with anyone, not even my best friend.

Lily reminded me of a wild fox. She had a shock of red hair, a tangled mess of copper curls that no comb could survive. She was a live wire—always moving, always talking. I was the quiet one, the one who’d rather disappear into a book than lead a charge. It made us a perfect match.

We were in the hayloft, messing with a new litter of barn kittens. They were three weeks old, stumbling on shaky legs. Their mother, a half-feral tabby, watched us from the rafters with glowing eyes.

"Hugh likes you," Lily said suddenly.

"Gross. No, he doesn't." I let a black kitten needle its claws into my shirt.

"That’s why he’s always trying to trip you or steal your lunch."

"He’s just an idiot. That’s just Hugh."

"Well, I think he’s sharp. For an Alpha’s nephew."

"You think every boy with a pulse is sharp."

Movement caught my eye. I looked toward the barn doors. Grayson was there. His gaze hit mine, a small, quick smile tugging at his lips before he vanished toward the workshop. Over the last few days, he’d developed a sixth sense for when Mason was opening the hood of the transport. They’d huddle over the engine like healers over a dying king, muttering about valves and spark. Usually, I was the one standing by, acting as the medic.

"Wrench." Snap.

"Pliers." Snap.

But today, I had Lily. They’d have to survive without me.

"What is he doing here?" Lily’s eyes narrowed as she watched the door.

"Helping the Alpha with the rig."

She dragged a piece of straw across the floor, watching a kitten pounce. "Peggy Treece is telling the whole school you’re obsessed with him because you brought him to the feast. She calls him 'Garbage Grayson'."

I felt the growl before I heard it. "He isn't garbage. He’s cleaner than Peggy. She smells like sour milk and desperation."

"I know." Lily wrinkled her nose. "I had to sit next to her in history. So, why did you actually bring him?"

I looked at the workshop where Grayson was lost in the steel. I didn't have the words for it then—the way his eyes looked when he talked about fixing things, or the way the mark on his back made me want to burn the world down.

"Because he’s the only interesting thing in this valley," I said.

The workshop door creaked open. Grayson walked out, his hands covered in black oil, his face smeared with grease. He looked up at the loft, his eyes finding mine instantly.

"Savannah!" Mason’s voice boomed from the shed. "Get down here. I need someone with small hands to reach this fuel line."

I looked at Lily. She just shrugged. I scrambled down the ladder, my heart doing that annoying thumping thing again.

"You’re a mess," I said as I reached Grayson.

"And you're late for duty," he countered, a spark in his eyes.

I followed him into the dim heat of the workshop. The transport sat there, a hunk of dead iron. Mason was cursing under his breath.

"Get in there, Savannah. Reach under the manifold and tell me if the line is kinked."

I slid onto the oily floor, my back against the cold metal. It was cramped and smelled of gas. I reached up, my fingers searching for the rubber hose.

"I got it," I grunted. "It’s pinched."

"Hold it right there," Grayson said.

He slid in next to me. The space was tiny. His shoulder was pressed hard against mine, his heat radiating through my thin shirt. I could smell the soap he used to scrub off the salvage yard scent, mixed with the raw, metallic tang of the shop.

"Move your hand a half-inch left," he whispered.

His hand covered mine, guiding my fingers. His skin was rough, calloused, and so hot it felt like it was branding me. My breath hitched. We stayed like that for a heartbeat too long—two kids under a broken machine, our pulses thrumming against each other in the dark.

"Got it," he said, his voice a bit huskier.

He pulled back, and the cold air rushed in to fill the gap. I scrambled out from under the rig, my face burning. Mason was grinning.

"That’s it! She’s breathing!"

The engine turned over, a coughing, sputtering roar that filled the shed with blue smoke and the song of victory. Mason was cheering, slapping Grayson on the back. Grayson was beaming, the most honest expression I’d ever seen on him.

But as the smoke cleared, I saw a figure standing in the doorway.

It was Frank Cole. Grayson’s father.

He looked like a corpse brought back to life by spite. His eyes were bloodshot, his clothes rags, and the scent of cheap whiskey rolled off him in waves. He didn't look at the engine. He didn't look at Mason. He looked at Grayson.

"Get in the truck, boy," Frank rasped.

The light died in Grayson’s eyes. He stood up, the joy vanishing as if it had never existed.

"I was just helping the Alpha, Dad."

"I don't care if you were helping the Moon Mother herself. I told you we don't mix with Reeds. Now move, before I move you."

Mason stepped forward, his eyes glowing amber. "He was doing me a favor, Frank. Leave the lad be."

"He’s my blood, Reed. Not yours. Don't forget it."

Grayson didn't look at me as he walked toward the rusted truck idling in the driveway. He didn't look at the transport they’d just fixed. He just got in and stared straight ahead.

As they drove away, I saw something hit the dirt.

I ran out and picked it up. It was one of the scrolls I’d given him. It was crushed, the leather casing cracked where Frank had clearly stepped on it.

"Savannah," Mason said, his hand heavy on my shoulder. "Stay away from that house. It’s a tomb."

I didn't answer. I wiped the dirt off the scroll and held it to my chest.

That night, the sky turned a bruised purple, and the first storm of the season broke over the valley. I sat by my window, watching the lightning strike the distant peaks. I thought about Grayson in that 'tomb' of a house.

I waited until the house was silent, then I grabbed my cloak. I didn't care about the rain or the wolves in the woods. I had to know if he was okay.

I made it to the edge of the Cole territory, my boots sinking into the mud. Their house was a shack, the windows dark. But then, a light flickered in the shed.

I crept closer, my heart in my throat. I peered through a crack in the boards.

Grayson was there. He was shirtless, hunched over a workbench. But he wasn't fixing an engine.

He was holding a piece of jagged glass, and he was carving something into his own forearm.

I stifled a scream. He stopped, his head snapping toward the wall.

"Who’s there?" he snarled.

I stepped into the doorway, dripping wet. "Grayson, stop! What are you doing?"

He tried to hide his arm, but it was too late. Blood was dripping onto the floor. I grabbed his wrist, pulling his arm into the light.

It wasn't just a cut. He was carving a symbol. The Reed pack crest.

"Why?" I whispered, tears blurring my vision.

"Because he can beat me until I break," Grayson said, his voice cold and hard as flint. "But he can't beat you out of me. I won't let him."

He pulled me into him then, his bloody arm wrapping around my waist. He kissed me—not the desperate kiss of the bridge, but something deeper. It tasted of rain and copper.

"Go home, Savannah," he whispered against my lips. "Before he wakes up."

I turned to run, but a shadow blocked the door.

Frank Cole was standing there, a heavy iron rod in his hand.

"I knew you'd bring the bitch here," Frank sneered.

He swung the rod.