Chapter 85: Remember

Chapter 85 Simone "Simone, I need to have a conversation with my father-in-law." I freeze mid-step, staring at Cameron like he’s lost his damn mind. The words hang in the air between us, sharp and ridiculous. I blink. "I’m sorry, isn’t your father-in-law, you know... dead?" "Thank you for the astute observation," Cameron says dryly, rubbing a hand across his jaw. He doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t even look embarrassed. "But my mate tells me there’s a spell, or ritual, or something, that can do that." Mate. He used the word without hesitation. I catch it, the subtle slip. He doesn’t notice it, but Cameron Anderson—Mr. Billion-Dollar Empire, Mr. Boardroom-Confidence, Mr. Logic and Reason—is becoming more wolf every day. I set down the stack of files I’ve been organizing, narrowing my eyes. "Oh. Right. Call your dead father-in-law for a chat. Totally normal day at the office." Cameron gives me the look. That one—eyebrows raised, mouth pressed flat—that says, figure it out, Simone. And damn it, I will. With a long sigh, I reach into my oversized tote. I’ve been keeping Nana’s book of recipes, instructions, and half-terrifying spells tucked in there. A one-track-all guide, if you will. When I have downtime, I flip through it, half to learn, half to remind myself what lines I won’t cross. Some of this stuff... it’s questionable. Spells that mess with free will, charms that bend emotions. Love potions. Honestly, what the hell kind of wolf even needs a love potion? That’s one step away from kidnapping in my book. I flip past pressed flowers, ink-blotted pages, odd scribbles I can’t even begin to decipher, until my finger pauses. Found it. "There," I say, tapping the faded page. "It says here you can talk to him in your dreams. But it’s not instant. It’s possible, but you’ll need some things." I trail off as my eyes scan the ingredient list. My mouth twists. "And by some things, I mean things that aren’t exactly in the company break room." Cameron doesn’t say anything. He just fixes me with that CEO-stare that once closed million-dollar deals but now is being used to bully me into witchcraft. I exhale through my nose, resigned. "Fine. I’ll figure it out." Of course I will. That’s apparently my new role—witch, researcher, problem-solver of impossible situations. *** Cameron "Well, if it isn’t my son-in-law—" "Cut the shit, Eamon," I snap. He stands before me, familiar and infuriatingly calm. His farmiliar figure doesn’t flicker, doesn’t shift like a half-formed illusion. It’s solid. Real. "Guess you’re not happy to see me?" he says, tilting his head, that same damn smirk Lenora has when she’s testing me. "Why was I called though?" "You know why," I bite out. "Ah." That’s it. Just ah. Like that explains everything. "Are you insane? You didn’t teach me a damn thing about being a pack leader!" My voice rises, echoing strangely in the dream space. "Oh, but I did." My hands clench. My jaw tightens. "Really? Jog my memory, then. Because I must’ve missed the Chapter on ’How Not to Let an Entire Pack Collapse Under You.’" He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t bristle. He just walks forward with maddening calm and presses his hand against my chest. Heat pulses there, sharp and insistent, like his touch burns through my skin into something deeper. "I did," he says quietly. "Remember." "What the hell does that mean?" I demand. "Trust who you are, Cameron. Trust him." "What?" I rasp, because my chest feels too tight, like something is clawing its way out. Eamon’s gaze flicks past me, and slowly, against every instinct, I turn to follow it. And there it is. The black wolf. Towering, gleaming eyes like glowing blue coals, fur bristling, its presence pressing down on me like gravity doubled. The sheer weight of it steals my breath. I know, instantly, without question, that it’s me. The part of me I’ve been ignoring. The part I keep shoving aside in favor of board meetings, clean lines of logic, and the human life I built from nothing. "That’s you," Eamon says softly. "The part of you that already knows what to do. And seriously, remember." Before I can ask, before I can demand answers, he shoves me by the chest. The world tilts, cracks, shatters. * I wake up gasping. The sheets are damp with sweat, tangled around my legs. My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Beside me, Lenora stirs. Her gray eyes blink open, drowsy and concerned. "Cameron?" Her voice is soft, raspy with sleep. I lean down and press a kiss against her temple. "Go back to sleep." She frowns, about to protest, but I slip out of bed before she can push. I need air. I need space. The dream lingers, heavy in my chest. His words, that wolf, the way it looked at me like it knew me better than I knew myself. I walk into the bathroom, flick on the light, and splash cold water over my face. It shocks my nerves into something like clarity—and knocks loose a memory. I’m on my back in the dirt, breath burning, ribs aching where Eamon pounded the lesson in with his fists. "I’m sorry," I grunt, tasting iron. "You apologize too easily, Cameron. Don’t." He stands over me, unbothered, the shadow of a grin cutting across his face. "Alpha wolves do not apologize." "Well, I—" "Remember who you are. You own the room. You own the world. Don’t dilute your words. Make your apologies mean something by never saying them." "And if I’m wrong?" I shoot back, angry enough to sit up. "Especially if you’re wrong," he says, unblinking. "You do not start with sorry. You try to fix it. If you can’t fix it, then you apologize." "What an absolutely shitty philosophy," I mutter. He shrugs, maddeningly patient. "I don’t make the rules." The mirror fogs under my breath. I blink, and the bathroom is back: the tile, the hush, the steady drip from the tap. That asshole. He wasn’t tossing out random macho nonsense. He was grooming me.