Page 100 of Bearly Out Loud

Vuzen sat. Set his cane against the table with the deliberation of a man planting a flag. Surveyed the room. Found Dojin’s eyes.

“You were right.”

Three words. Each one extracted at a cost that showed in the tightening around his mouth, the rigid set of his shoulders. Henrik Vuzen had built the Keiser Sleuth’s financial foundation alongside Stellan. He had watched timber collapse, real estate falter, and a young alpha pivot the family’s fortune into entertainment and media, and he had resisted every stepbecause resistance was how old bears loved: by refusing to let go of the version of the world that had worked.

“I was wrong.”

The room was very still. Elder Magnusson’s coffee cup paused mid-lift. Elder Walter’s pen stopped moving.

“I don’t like it.”

Dojin nodded. Once. He did not gloat. He did not smile. He understood what those nine words had cost a seventy-two-year-old bear whose entire identity was built on being right about money, and he met the concession with the respect it deserved.

“Thank you, Henrik.”

Vuzen’s jaw worked. He tapped his cane once. “The animation revenue is—” He paused. Swallowed a word. “—strong. The streaming deals are sound. The Forgotten Gate projections exceed any property we’ve launched in two decades.” Each compliment landed like a tooth extraction. “Your judgment on the entertainment division was correct.” The cane tapped once. “The Wixx woman.” Another pause. “She brought cake.”

Elder Magnusson set down his coffee. “Was that a fourth compliment? Should I check the structural integrity of the building?”

Vuzen aimed the cane at Magnusson like a bayonet. “One more word and I rescind all of them.”

His phone buzzed. Reo.

Vuzen admitted fault. Checking if the sky is falling.

Dojin typed back:It held.Then:Barely.

Want me to frame the minutes from this meeting? Platinum? Gold leaf?

Get the gathering floor ready. Tonight.

The introduction?

She brought cake.

Then two words from Reo:She’s perfect.

The gathering floorthat evening held Sixty bears and one human.

Dojin had cooked for most of the day. Not because the sleuth expected it—caterers existed, staff existed—but because feeding people was how he led, and tonight he was introducing the woman he’d claimed to the family he’d fed for a decade, and both of those things required his hands on the food. The kitchen on thirty-eight smelled like roasted meat, fresh bread, honey-glazed root vegetables, three kinds of pie, and the specific brand of nervous energy that came from an alpha bear trying to express love through side dishes.

Reo materialized at his elbow while he was arranging the honey display. “You’ve made enough food for eighty people.”

“The sleuth eats.”

“Sixty of us. You’ve cooked for a small army.”

“Bears are large.”

“You’re stress-cooking.”

“I’m hosting.”

“You’ve reorganized the honey jars three times. The lavender honey is now alphabetized by harvest date.”

Dojin looked at the honey jars. They were, in fact, alphabetized by harvest date. He moved one jar two inches to the left and refused to acknowledge this as a concession.

Nari arrived at six-fifteen carrying a cake.