Did he? As long as they quit advising him to let his wolf take control… “Please.”
“All right, Malachi. You require strength and control from yourself at all times. You believe they’re your most valuable traits, but we’ve told you for twenty years that’s not true.” Arlo nodded to his mate, and she nodded back. “But there are things a wolf’s mate can tell him that nobody else can. So talk to April, and see if she doesn’t agree with the old folks. See if hearing it from her helps you finally believe it. I hope you will, son.”
Son. Arlo hadn’t called him that in almost five years. Not since Malachi had taken on the role of alpha after William’s death.
Of course, now that the topic was broached, Rebecca made her push. “Arlo says your scent has gained a flavor of hers already, so you can’t tell us the bonding in your wolf heart isn’t strong.”
“It’s strong,” Malachi said quietly.
“And it makes you truly happy,” Rebecca said. “Since you were small, that’s been a hard thing for you to feel. So you’re afraid of that too now, but you don’t need to be.”
Her words seemed to split a dam that had long been fortified in his heart. Malachi growled harshly to cover a dry sob. He covered his face with both hands.
“What you’ve been through in the last day is too much for anyone, Malachi, even you. You’re aching, tired, overwhelmed with the duties you carry. And now we’re trying to convince you to embrace happiness.” Rebecca gave a soft laugh. “Why don’t we pause this while you eat?”
Food. He hadn’t had a bite of food since dinner…yesterday. Before he’d been attacked. He nodded and pushed to his feet, but Rebecca grasped his hand and tugged him back down.
“I know you don’t like to be served, but please, let me get you something.”
He was a full-grown seventeen-percent alpha wolf. No one should bring him food, especially not his elderly adoptive mother. He pulled his hand free and stood again. “That isn’t necessary.”
Her scent thickened with worry for him as he left the room. He moved as smoothly as he could, but the limp was persistent. In the kitchen he searched the fridge and cupboards.
From the other room, quietly though she knew Malachi could hear her, Rebecca said, “Does he smell very troubled?”
“Very,” Arlo said.
“I know carrying the wellbeing of the pack is part of his nature, but right now, after what he’s been through…well, I wish I could take on some of those worries for him.”
Well,thatwould be utterly wrong. A low grumble filled his chest as he prowled the kitchen. Plenty to eat, plenty variety. Some of it didn’t even need prepping beyond the microwave. He wasn’t nauseous; nothing looked revolting. Yet nothing looked appetizing. He found himself standing in front of the open fridge a second time.
Behind him came Rebecca’s soft shuffle and scent of lavender honey. “Malachi.”
He shut the refrigerator door and turned.
“If I promise it’ll taste good, will you promise to eat what I set in front of you?” Her mouth turned up with a gentle tease.
They were old words, old routine from his early days as their pup. By that point his body had become so accustomed to the limits placed on food, his awareness of hunger and appetite were stunted. Rebecca had explained that skipping meals was no good for a wolf, and at eleven years old he had replied that surviving on less was a sign of his strength.
Was he unconsciously trying to do that now? The realization froze him in place.
His expression must have betrayed his thoughts. Rebecca nodded, came to stand in front of him, and reached up to set a hand on his shoulder. “My strong good pup. I know you’re my alpha now, but you’ll always be my pup too, you know. Fate’s gift to a sixty-one-year-old woman who’d given up long ago on mothering.”
He set his hand over hers on his shoulder, nearly brought to tears. The last day had frayed his emotions to such a degree he felt prickly, edgy, and on the verge of weeping all at once.
“Will you go sit with Arlo and let me fix you something?”
Of course she read his face, nudged him again while she thought she might persuade him. He tried to answer her, but all he had was a quiet growl that emerged as more of a whimper. He drew her into his arms with care not to jar her elderly frame. She’d never been tall, but these days she was shrunken by arthritic posture. The top of her head came to only halfway up his chest.
Her hug wrapped around his waist. “There’s so much good on its way, Malachi. You’re learning some hard things right now, but when you learn them you’ll be strong in new ways.”
She couldn’t know that. But Malachi couldn’t argue with such faith as she’d always had: in fate, in things working out for good, and in him.
“All right, Rebecca,” he said quietly.
“Good pup,” she said.
Arlo could smell in Malachi’s mood—or maybe just knew him well enough to guess—that conversation was now beyond him. They sat at the table quietly. Ten minutes later, Rebecca presented him with a glass of water and a plate of leftovers she had arranged like a restaurant special. She’d made him a chicken sandwich mounded with meat, smothered in pickles, and dripping with his favorite homemade gravy. She’d chosen two sides: mashed potatoes and collards. As she set the meal in front of him, his mouth watered. Suddenly he was famished. He tried to devour with dignity, but he could not eat fast enough.
