I look at my father, at the lines cut deep in his face. At the way he holds anger like a sword. And I realize, all at once, that he is afraid. Terrified that everything he’s ever worked for is about to evaporate because I couldn’t play my part. As if he has no other children.
The last Everhart worth a damn.
My shoulders tense, jaw clenches, stomach acid rises hot in my throat. I taste copper where I've bitten the inside of my cheek without realizing it. Helena, Richard, and Dorothea. They matter more than I do because they’re allbetterthan me in almost every way. And while I may be my father’s first-born son, my position as their other brother matters far more.
My position in Everhart Pack mattersmost.
It just took me this fucking long to see it. I don’t want his legacy. I want to protect something real.
“You want me to fix this.” I don’t expect him to answer. But he does.
“I want you to be a fucking alpha,” he spits. “You fix it. You get her out of the headlines. You get her out of your life. And you do not, under any circumstances, bring that omega back into this house. Do you understand me?”
I nod. “I understand perfectly.”
He looks at me for a long time, waiting for the argument, the rebellion. When it doesn’t come, he leaves. The sound of his shoes on the marble echoes long after he’s gone.
I stand there, staring at the garden, until I can’t see the difference between the glass and the morning. I think of Emery’s hands, the way she held her coffee mug with both palms like it was the only thing keeping her from floating away. I think of her laughter, the way it made even Bastion smile. I think of howproud Wyatt would make Christopher in every way, even with this Royals Anonymous bullshit.
I reach for my phone and dial Bastion. He doesn’t answer. So instead, I message Emery. It’s time to save my pack and our future.
Home is wherever you are. Please come back.
I don’t know if she’ll answer. I don’t know if we deserve it.
But I do know this: I am not my father’s son. I am my own man, and I have a pack worth fighting for.
CHAPTER 31
Wyatt
There’sno such thing as a good graveyard, but at least this one has a sense of humor. Maybe it’s the tiny windmills spinning above every other headstone. Maybe it’s the patchwork of cheap solar lights and plastic flamingos, or the persistent geese that treat the whole cemetery like a rest stop.
But mostly it’s the inscription on the granite slab I’ve come to see:
CHRISTOPHER B. WHITLOCK
Son, Brother, Wolf.
“Still faster than you, dipshit.”
I stand there for a while, hood up, my hands jammed into my pockets, staring at the words I picked out on the world’s worst day. It’s raining—not dramatically, not even consistently, just enough to be irritating and ruin any chance at dignity if you try to wipe your nose. I don’t have flowers. I do have a bottle of off-brand root beer from the gas station, which I figure is what he’d prefer anyway.
“Hey, Chris.” I keep my voice low. It’s early enough that the only witnesses are a pair of bored crows and a guy in the next row over who’s trying to light a cigarette in the drizzle, but it still feels like a place that should be quiet. “It’s me. Again. Nobig news, unless you count total emotional annihilation as news. Which, knowing you, you probably would.”
The words hang there, damp and stupid. I can’t look directly at the headstone, so I focus on the space just above it and the way the rain beads on the curved granite and then runs down like tears on a cartoon face.
“I know I should be here more.” I immediately regret it. “But, like, what would we even talk about? You were always better at the heavy stuff. I’m just here to… I don’t know, check in? Ask for advice? Not that you ever gave me any when you were alive.”
That’s a lie, but it feels better than the truth.
I uncap the root beer and pour a little out over the grass. It fizzes, hissing against the wet moss, and I imagine Chris laughing at me for being sentimental. I can hear him, even now:“Get a grip, Wyatt. If you’re gonna cry, at least do it with style.”
I crouch and rest my elbows on my thighs. The air smells like ozone and mud. I want to tell him everything, but I don’t know where to start. So I just talk.
“Ranier thinks he’s going to start a revolution with the Council. Bastion wants to run away on his motorcycle, or at least he did before this year’s Omega Selection Day. As for me? I let the best omega I’ve ever met walk out because I was too scared to fight for her.”
The rain picks up, drumming on my shoulders. I let it.
