Page 53 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

“That’s not what I asked either.”

His gaze slid to mine. “Damien,” he said.

One word, and there was our son. Our difficult, frightened, selfish, wounded son.

“We need to see him,” Hudson said.

I closed my eyes. “We need to tell him.”

The violet came back.

One week later, we were in Boston. We were later than we told Mary we’d be there, but we were there. As much as I wanted to find Mary first, we went to Damien because Hudson was right. Being a father meant dealing with the difficult things even when every alpha instinct in your body wanted to run after the omega who’d been haunting your sleep.

Damien’s fraternity house sat on a street lined with half-bare trees and cars parked badly. It was a brown brick building with a peeling front step, the lingering smell of beer and bleach, and the scent of young men who preferred to spend money on beer rather than deodorant.

“I hate what we’re about to do,” Hudson said as he stared ahead.

“Being a father.”

“Being the man who shouldn’t want his son’s ex.”

I smiled and opened the car door.

Then I smelled her. It wasn’t strong, unlike the hotel room. Not the heat-sweet and overwhelming scent of those nights. Now it was just a thread of blackberry, rain, and the faintest smell of violet in the cold air.

I turned so fast in the direction of the scent. Across the road, a female stepped off the curb with her head down and her dark wavy hair loose around her face. She wore a long coat, one hand tucked around the strap of her bag, and she moved like someone trying not to be seen.

My whole body moved toward her.

“Lincoln,” Hudson said.

“That’s her.”

Hudson stared at the figure as she turned a corner. “It is. Follow her.”

“What about Damien?” We rushed to the corner.

“We have to tell her we’re here. She thought we’d be last week. And then we’ll see Damien and tell him everything.”

“There she is.” I pointed but the traffic slid between us. A delivery van blocked the crossing for three seconds too long. By the time it passed, she was on the opposite sidewalk, disappearing around another corner beside a coffee shop with steamed windows.

I crossed the moment it cleared. Hudson followed. But she was gone. Even her scent got fainter under the city smell.

I stood there looking around and breathing too hard for a man who’d spent years pretending he didn’t believe in fate. “She was here,” I said.

Hudson’s face had gone pale beneath his control. “Why was she heading to Damien’s house?”

Neither of us spoke for a beat. Then Hudson looked back toward the direction of the fraternity house. “Did she see us?”

“Did she run?” I said.

“Let’s find out.”

Damien opened his bedroom door wearing sweatpants, a university hoodie, and the surprised expression. “Dad,” he said, looking at Hudson first, then me. “I thought you were coming later.”

“We were nearby,” Hudson said, stepping into the room and immediately wanting to open every window.

The room was a mess. Hockey gear leaned against the wall. Textbooks lay open on the desk. Protein powder sat beside a half-empty coffee cup. A poster hung slightly crooked above the bed. And on the chair by the wardrobe was a navy scarf.