Alpha by Rachel Vincent Page B

without declaring war right then and there. And that would have been beyond foolish. We were outnumbered by our enemies, and most of our troops were hundreds of miles away, at the ranch.
    My father watched me intently, but sent me no signal. No silent instructions for my next move. He was asfrustrated as I was. Maybe more so. So I could only nod and return to my seat, in spite of every impulse urging me to keep talking until they all saw reason.
    On my left, Colin Dean spread his legs to take up as much room as possible in his folding chair. His thigh met mine, and I wanted to reopen his newly healed scar with my bare fingernails.
    I started to scoot away from him, then realized that would mean scooting closer to Alex Malone, who’d been directly involved in Ethan’s death, his own brother’s murder, and the new scar bisecting my cheek. So I could only sit there, fuming and grinding my teeth, trying to ignore the unwelcome warmth leaching into my leg from Dean’s as Councilman Blackwell called for the official vote.
    It would be an open, vocal vote, for something this big. Each Alpha’s decision would go down on record. We might have actually pulled it off, if they’d used closed ballots. If the weaker of Malone’s allies—Nick Davidson seemed less than solidly on board—didn’t have to face him during the procedure, or admit that they’d switched sides.
    Or if Blackwell had voted. But he stuck to his guns, shaky though his aim was.
    One by one, they went around the table, and each Alpha said a name. My father and Malone were excluded, and Blackwell removed himself from the proceedings.
    The vote started with Milo Mitchell, whose son Kevin had been exiled by my father, then killed by Marc. “My vote goes to Calvin Malone.” No surprise there.
    Next came Umberto Di Carlo, across the table from Mitchell. “I support Greg Sanders.”
    Then Jerald Pierce, who had two sons—Parker and Holden—in the south-central Pride, and had just lost his oldest, Lance, to the thunderbird justice system. “Malone.” I wanted to shake him and ask how he could side with one son over the others. Especially considering that Lance’s cowardice had cost two other lives, and almost cost many more.
    After Pierce came my uncle Rick Wade, my mother’s brother. “Greg Sanders has my vote, and my unyielding support.” I wanted to cry.
    Wes Gardner, whose brother Jamey had been killed in our territory by Manx, voted with a single word. “Malone.”
    Aaron Taylor, whose daughter we’d saved from being kidnapped and sold in the Amazon, showed his loyalty by voting for my father.
    And finally came Nick Davidson, and for a moment, I thought he’d falter. I thought he was seeing the light at the last minute. Then he closed his eyes and sighed. And said, “Calvin Malone.”
    And just like that, justice died without so much as a whimper of pain. Four votes to three. If Blackwell had voted, he could have forced a tie and bought us time. But he went with his conscience, and as inconvenient as that turned out for the south-central Pride, a part of me respected him for sticking to his guns, regardless of the consequences.
    Yet there was another part of me that wanted to choke him where he stood.
    And suddenly I understood something my father had been trying to teach me for almost a year: sometimes you have to do the wrong thing for the right reason in order to truly make a difference.
    I’d come close to understanding that with Lance Pierce, when we’d had to turn him over to save Kaci. But in a span of ten minutes, by simply refusing to act, Paul Blackwell had driven home a point my father hadn’t been able to make me see in all my time as an enforcer.
    The world isn’t black and white, good or bad. The battles that make a real difference are fought in the murky area in between, where the greater good requires brutal sacrifice. Where both