Page 43 of Match Made In Growl

They drove north in Kieran's truck, past the town limits and into the deep woods where the old territories began. Neutral ground was a clearing about four miles past the northern ridge, an open meadow ringed by ancient oaks that predated the town itself. Tiger pride tradition held that no dominance claims applied on neutral ground. Every shifter who entered the clearing did so as an equal, at least in theory.

In practice, Criss knew, the hierarchy just got quieter. It didn't disappear.

The clearing was already half full when they arrived. Maybe fifteen tigers, more than Criss had seen gathered in one place since he was a teenager. Some he recognized. Others were faces from scattered pockets of the pride who lived within a day's drive of Hollow Oak but rarely came in. They stood in loose clusters, talking low, their scents mingling in the cool evening air.

Then he caught a familiar one and stopped walking.

His mother was standing near the far edge of the clearing, her dark hair pulled back, her posture straight, her amber eyes, so like his own, scanning the arrivals. Leora Holt was fifty-three, slim, composed. She carried herself the way she'd carried everything since his father left: alone and without complaint. When she saw Criss, something moved across her face. Relief. Worry. The particular combination that only mothers achieve.

"Mom."

"Criss." She took his arm and pulled him aside, voice low. "Rydan called this meeting. He's been making calls to the scattered families for three days. Whatever he's planning, he's been building support."

"Support for what?"

"I don't know yet. But he framed it as a threat to pride heritage. People are nervous."

Kieran joined them, greeting Leora with a nod that carried more warmth than his usual reserve. "Any idea who's backing him?"

"The Coles. The Martins branch from Asheville. A few of the older families who remember Rydan from before his exit." Leora's mouth thinned. "He's leveraging nostalgia. Making it sound like the old ways are under attack."

A low sound rippled through the clearing, the collective attention of fifteen tiger shifters orienting toward the same point. Rydan Ashkar stepped into the meadow from the northern tree line, dressed in the same understated clothes Criss had seen before, dark shirt, tailored trousers, the leather-bound book absent tonight. He moved to the center of the clearing with the unhurried confidence of a man returning to a stage he'd built.

"Thank you for coming," Rydan said. His voice carried without effort, pitched to fill the space. "I know many of you have traveled far. I wouldn't have called this gathering without cause."

The clusters tightened into a loose circle. Criss stood between Kieran and his mother, arms crossed.

"Some of you are aware that an archaeological excavation has been underway near Hollow Oak's eastern ridge," Rydan continued. "The site sits on land our ancestors settled. The wards beneath that ridge were placed by tiger pride founders to protect knowledge that was sealed for the safety of every supernatural family in this region."

He paused to let the weight of it settle. Criss watched it land successfully.

"The archaeologist conducting this dig is a human named Stephanie Ward. She possesses a rare sensitivity to old magic, which has allowed her to access layers of the site that were never meant to be disturbed. In the past two weeks, she has destabilized foundational wards, exposed sealed chambers, and begun documenting inscriptions that, if made public, could unravel the agreements that have kept this community intact for nearly a century."

Murmurs through the circle. Criss felt Kieran's hand press against his arm. A warning. Stay quiet.

"I want to be clear," Rydan said. "Miss Ward is not malicious. She is an academic pursuing her work with the tools available to her. But intent does not determine impact. The truths beneath that ridge were sealed because our ancestors understood that releasing them would fracture alliances, reopen wounds, and destabilize a community that took generations to build."

"What truths?" one of the Cole shifters asked. Middle-aged woman, dark hair with skeptical eyes.

"The details are not for open discussion. What matters is that the seal was placed with the unanimous consent of the founding pride leadership, and it has held for seventy years. One human archaeologist should not have the power to undo that unilaterally."

Criss watched the faces in the circle. Rydan was good. He'd given them just enough to be afraid and not enough to ask the right questions. He'd framed Steph as a well-meaning outsider threatening something sacred, and he'd positioned himself as the reasonable voice urging caution. Half the circle was already nodding.

He gasped suddenly as something pulled at Criss's gut. Sharp, brief. Like a hook tugging at his navel. He blinked, lost the thread of Rydan's next sentence, and the sensation passed. His tiger stirred, restless, oriented south toward town. He pushed it down.

"I'm asking this gathering to formally endorse a petition to the Hollow Oak council requesting the excavation be suspended pending a full pride review," Rydan said. "This is our heritage. Our ancestors' work. We have the right to determine how it's handled."

"Formally endorse based on what?" Criss said.

The circle went still. Kieran's hand pressed harder against his arm. Criss ignored it.

Rydan turned those pale amber eyes on him. "Based on the authority of this gathering to protect pride interests."

"Protect pride interests from what? An archaeologist with a brush and a journal?" Criss stepped forward, out of the circle's edge and into the open center. "You just told us that the truth beneath that ridge is dangerous enough to justify seventy years of silence, but you won't tell them what the truth actually is. You're asking for a formal endorsement of ignorance."

"I'm asking for trust in the judgment of those who came before us."

"The judgment of those who came before us included cutting pages out of family ledgers and rewriting treaty stones." His mother's hand found his shoulder. He didn't stop. "I've read the Holt records. Sixteen years are missing. 1927 to 1943. Gone. And the directive authorizing the removal has your name on it."