by Callie Rose
I stretch, dislodging both sleeping men with very little effort. They readjust and continue snoozing as I sit up and rub away the sleep from my eyes.
Archer sits in a cushioned armchair beside the bed, the last man on watch. He dragged the chair in here when we arrived before the battle with the witches, after I revealed that I was worried my magic might hurt one of them while I slept. It surges every now and then, the black marks streaking across my skin, the magic swirling out of me like smoke, ready to hurt any shifter that might get too close.
So every night, my men take turns watching me—partly because of the errant magic, and now partly because of the constant worry that Cleo might invade my mind.
Not that they’d be able to save my life if she did. I have a feeling the next time Cleo gets through, she won’t fail to destroy me.
Archer has a paperback open between his hands and reading glasses perched on his nose. He has gorgeous golden hair, tan skin, vivid green eyes, and a boy-next-door look. When he adds the glasses, he becomes the hot, nerdy guy who makes my heart do little backflips.
He looks at me over the top of his glasses and smiles. “Morning.”
I crawl over Dare’s sleeping body to slide off the mattress, then lean over the chair, hands on both armrests as I kiss Archer. He showered sometime after I fell asleep last night. My wolfish nose can smell the soap on his skin. I feel an insane urge to lick it off, to rub against him and replace that crisp, clean scent with my own. Luckily, I’m too aware that I might have morning breath, so I refrain from any licking.
“Good morning,” I murmur, my lips brushing his one more time before I finally straighten. “Did Trystan ever come to bed?”
A shadow passes over Archer’s face, and he shakes his head. “He came home though. Late, while I was sleeping but before I took over for Ridge. I smelled him in the house when I woke up.”
I reach out and run my fingers through his soft blonde hair. “You look tired.”
“Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. I could sleep for weeks and never come out of this.”
My heart squeezes. With so much going on right now, it’s easy for every day to feel like it lasts a week, but in reality, Malcolm’s death is still so recent. I know it was good for Archer to let some of his sadness out yesterday, but that doesn’t mean he’s done mourning. That’s not how grief works.
And on top of all of that, he’s trying so hard to do right by his pack and take care of everyone. To deal with the witch threat and get people on board with a possible new pack dynamic. If I were him, I’d feel like I was being assailed from all angles at this point. It’s a miracle his eyes are even open.
“You will get through this. All of this,” I say firmly. “But for now, why don’t you try to get a little more rest? I’m awake now. I don’t need you to stand guard over me—I need you to sleep.”
I don’t have to ask him twice. He takes off his glasses and pulls a bookmark from the back of the book to mark his place. Then he shoves the book down between the cushions, where it will wait until he’s on watch again. He pecks me on the lips one more time and crawls over Dare, sprawling out between the two sleeping shifters.
Ridge rolls over, flinging out an arm so that it hangs over the edge of the bed, and Dare flops over, making more room for Archer even in his sleep. Archer lies on his side, his body curved around Dare and his face pillowed on his hands. His eyes flutter shut almost immediately, and it’s like I can just see the tension draining away from him. Within moments, he’s breathing easier, and his face has gone slack with sleep, where the stress can’t reach him.
I stare down at the three of them, a happy ache spreading through my chest. They share the bed well, so comfortable together that it seems like second nature. There was a time not that long ago when all four of my men were waiting for me to choose between them. They put up with one another those first couple weeks thinking that eventually, my wolf would mate with one of them, and they could send the other three wolves packing out the door.
But that day seems so far in the rearview now. None of us could have seen this coming, but somehow, we’ve made it work. We’ve all built our relationships and molded our lives together as if it’s just always been this way. As close as I’ve become to all of them, they’ve become friends with each other too. Brothers, even. I love the bonds they’ve built alongside the one they share with me.
With one last glance, I turn and leave the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind me so as not to disturb them.
The hallway smells like food. Butter. Melted butter. Eggs. Cheese?
My wolf nose is excited to sniff out all the nuances and guess at what awaits me in the kitchen, though I don’t give too much thought as to why I’m smelling food cooking while three of my mates are passed out in the bedroom. Not until I cross the threshold into the kitchen and realize food doesn’t just cook itself.
Trystan, of all the people on this planet, stands over the stove with a spatula, staring intently at a sizzling skillet.
I pause just inside the door, gaping at him. Since when does Trystan cook? Usually it’s Archer or Ridge whipping up our meals while Trystan sits at the table and makes wisecracks about them doing their housewifely duties.
He glances over his shoulder at me and shrugs as if he can read my mind. “Weirdly enough, cooking eggs helped me the morning you woke up after your transition to witch.”
“That’s… good?” I ease further into the room, hoping he’ll keep talking.
“I didn’t realize it at the time,” he adds as he slides the spatula under a perfect, sunny-side up egg, “but having something to do and some way to do something for the people I care about helped me deal. Gave me something to focus on.”
I join him over the stove and look down into the skillet. He’s even seasoned the eggs like he’s an old pro. Nudging him with my shoulder, I grin and say, “I’ll have to buy you an apron. Something kitschy like ‘Kiss the Cook,’ I think.”
“Great idea. Then I could cook for you while wearing the apron and nothing else.” He flashes me one of his patented Trystan smiles, but it doesn’t quite land right, and neither does the joke.
He must still be upset about what happened at the meeting last night. I assume he’s mainly bothered because it was his pack that so stoutly refused the idea of coming together, but at this point, all I have are assumptions. I wish he would talk to me and get it off his chest before he explodes from an overload of emotions.
I step up fully beside him and reach for a fresh egg, then crack it over the edge of the skillet and let it slither beside the two already cooking. “You know, what happened at the meeting is okay. Merging packs is a big idea. Ambitious. Some people are just going to be really resistant to it at first. We have to keep plugging it until we convince everyone that it’s truly the safest option.”
Trystan shakes his head, his face growing hard as stone. He focuses on the new egg, sliding the runny edges back into place as the hot skillet begins to whiten them. But he doesn’t respond; instead, his jaw clenches so hard I’m afraid he’s going to hurt himself.
I lean into him, nuzzling my chin against his shoulder. “Seriously. Don’t let it bother you so much. We can turn them around.”
“No. You don’t understand.” He jabs the spatula beneath the egg with so much force he accidentally breaks the yolk. We both watch the yellow trickle out into the rest of the pan as he continues. “My pack feels that way because of me. Because of the example I set. My mindset poisoned them completely to the idea of coming together. I taught them by example that we didn’t need to help the other packs, as long as we were doing well all on our own. I was so fucking arrogant.” The last sentence came out on a vicious snarl, and he slams the spatula to the counter. “I never considered that insisting on going it alone meant we were maybe more weak. More vulnerable.”
I’m so startled by his outburst that all I can think to do is touch him, to try to make him feel better in any way I can. I rub my hand over his back, pr
essing hard and massaging his tense muscles. His lips are pressed into a thin line, and he stares ceaselessly at the runny yolk slowly turning solid in the bottom of the pan.
“I’m not so sure challenging my father was the right choice,” he goes on in a voice so low that I almost can’t hear him over the sizzling eggs. “When I did it, I thought… I thought I was helping my pack. But am I really any better than my father? It doesn’t feel like it. Not anymore.”
I ache for him. How long has he been harboring these feelings? A guy like Trystan isn’t used to feeling inadequate. I can only imagine how deep it cuts.
And from everything I’ve heard about his dad, the man needed to be ousted. He was a terrible alpha, and all the stories I’ve heard have showed me without a doubt that Trystan is the better man for the job. But that isn’t something you can easily tell a person and have them believe you.
Whatever doubts have settled into Trystan’s head, they won’t be driven away by a half-witch, half-wolf promising him he’s doing a good job.
But maybe there’s another way to make him see it.
As far as I know, he hasn’t spoken to his father directly since he challenged the older man for alpha status and won. But his dad is here now in the East Pack village; he came with the rest of the West Pack before the fight. I know, because Trystan rolled his eyes when he told me he’d arrived.
“I think you should talk to your father,” I say before I can lose my nerve. I have no idea how he’s going to react to the statement. A small part of me worries he’s so filled with doubt and anger that this will tip him over the edge into whatever pit of despair he’s hovering over.
Trystan recoils visibly, whipping around to look at me with an expression of shock on his face. “What? Why?”
I shrug, reaching for the spatula. The eggs are burning. “I just think maybe you have some unfinished business.”
He narrows his eyes, his jaw clenching. “I haven’t spoken to him in years.”
“I know. But maybe it would be good if you did. Just once.” I scrape the eggs off the bottom of the pan, salvaging what I can while Trystan continues to stare at me. I give him a minute to sit with the idea and to process what I’m saying before I add, “I’ll come with you. Honestly, I’ve heard so much about him—I’d like to meet him for myself.”
That’s what finally gets him to agree. He nods, his features contorting in something like a grimace. “Fine. If you really want to meet him, we’ll go see him after breakfast.”
I pass him the plate of semi-burned eggs with a smile. “Thank you.”
He nods again, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of my head, although his eyes are still distracted and troubled. He doesn’t want to do this. I can see the reluctance in every line of his body. But he will, for the simple reason that I asked him to, and I’m not sure Trystan would ever deny me anything.
I just hope I’m right in thinking a meeting between the father and son will be a good thing.
5
Trystan
I try not to let my bad mood overshadow cooking breakfast with Sable, but it’s fucking hard.
First, my pack being dicks last night at the meeting, and now, my father’s shadow hovering over me like an unwelcome specter. I want to be pissed at Sable for even invoking his memory, but I can’t blame her. I brought him up first.
This is the first time I’ve ever questioned whether taking the title of alpha from my father was a good idea or not. It’s never occurred to me that I’m anything less than a stellar leader. Though I guess that’s because my circle was fucking smaller than a dime, and my pack spent so much time lifting me up, I wouldn’t have been able to see through bullshit with a flashlight and a map.
By the time I finish flipping a few more eggs—not burned, this time—the rest of the guys drift into the kitchen, still in the clothes they slept in and looking just as rough as I feel. I doubt any of us are used to this kind of emotional fucking rollercoaster.
The oven timer dings as Ridge helps himself to coffee. He glances over at me while the steaming liquid pours and raises one sardonic eyebrow. “Since when do you cook, Martha Stewart?”
“Since I felt like it,” I shoot back, avoiding his laughing gaze.
Dare steps up next to me and opens the oven, then lets out a long, low whistle. “Mm. Those are some sexy biscuits, man. From scratch?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I say, but I laugh anyway.
Sable has just filled up her own mug of coffee, and she stops on her way to the table to rise on her tiptoes and kiss my cheek. “I think you did a fabulous job. Props to the chef.”
“I had help.” I swoop in and steal a kiss from her lips before she can cart her coffee away to the table.
Archer opens the cabinet to grab a mug for himself, then catches my eye. “Honestly, I thought you got lost on the way to the bathroom.”
“Lucky for you assholes, I have a bad sense of direction,” I joke.
I know it’s all in jest, and I do my best to play along, but the truth is, everyone in the damn room knows I’m not okay. Shifters don’t miss a lot, so I know they can see the tension in my tightly wound muscles and sense the unease within me. At least they seem to know my issues have nothing to do with them.
But even their jokes can’t shake the heavy weight lying across my shoulders. No matter how slowly we eat breakfast, and no matter how much time I manage to kill cleaning up afterward, it will only delay the inevitable. Sable and I are going to go see my dad, and that idea grates on me like a knife scraping down my spine. It’s all I can think about—coming face to face with the fucker, having to have a legitimate conversation with him.
I don’t know why she suggested it. My first thought was that she thought maybe I should pass the pack back off to him, letting him take over as leader again. God help me, for a minute, I even considered it. A life with Sable and the rest of the guys where I don’t have to lead, don’t have to worry about two hundred other people whose fates rest in my hands? The thought lifts half the burden weighing me down.
But I’d never fucking do that, and I know Sable well enough to know that isn’t what she was insinuating. She’s got a reason. My mate doesn’t do fuck-all without a reason. But what the hell it is remains to be seen.
Plus, she got to meet Archer’s dad, so the least I can do is let her meet mine. Even if he is a piece of shit.
After breakfast, I’m all set to wash every dish by hand using a God damned toothbrush if it will delay us a few moments, but Dare takes the rag right out of my hands and shoves me away from the sink.
“No way. You cook, we clean. Get out of here.”
“Since when do you have manners?” I quip.
“Since I had to be around your lazy ass,” he replies without missing a beat, then sinks his hands in the hot, soapy water.
So it’s not like I have any choice but to wash up, change clothes, and follow Sable out the door.
Damn, I’m not looking forward to this. The sum total of my interactions with my dad since the day I challenged him and won couldn’t even take up all the fingers on one hand. I never let it bother me much. We didn’t have the greatest father-son relationship to begin with, which was why Malcolm and Archer’s relationship always seemed so alien to me. The silence was worth it. Has been worth it.
I can’t believe I’ve agreed to break it.
It comes as no great surprise to me that my dad’s managed to get himself a nice little shack on the outskirts of the village. The man is charm itself when he thinks it can get him what he wants. By the shack’s closeness to a small cabin, and the extension cord running power from the cabin to the one open window, I’m guessing he managed to convince the family that he deserved to sleep in their shed.
Sable raises an eyebrow at the tiny place. “Everyone in the village is crammed together like sardines or living out of leaky tents, but your dad got his own little house.”
“Being an arrogant ass can get you places,” I say. “Though it doesn’t win
you friends.”
Tiny or not, it affords him privacy, and that’s a hot commodity in the village right now. A sneer tilts the corner of my lips up, and I brace myself for what comes next.
I almost let Sable knock on the door because I’m a fucking pussy, but at the last minute, my hand darts out and bangs against the uneven wood with a lot more force than necessary.
My heart’s doing some kind of wild dance, like it’s trying to run away. Too fucking late for that now.
The door opens.
My father appears, his shaggy brown hair shoved away from his face with a bandana. He looks like he always does—a smug smile on his face, a look of disdain like he thinks he’s better than everyone. But he’s shorter than me, and thinner. And if I’m being really fucking petty, my dick’s probably a lot bigger too.
He spares a glance for Sable, raking her with his dark brown eyes in a way that makes me want to claw them out of his head, before he finally looks at me. “Trystan.”
“Cooper,” I reply in a dead, disinterested voice.
“Surprised to see you darkening my doorstep.”
“Surprised to see that you have a fucking doorstep when Dolores Fisher is sleeping in a tent.” Dolores is just shy of ancient with bad hips and a hernia she likes to bring up every other sentence. But she’s a great lady, and an institution in the West Pack.
Unfortunately, Cooper doesn’t have an ounce of empathy in him.
“The woman survived two heart attacks. Nothing short of a gunshot wound to the head’s gonna nail her.” He leans a hip against the door and eyes me. “What do you want?”
“Can we come in?” I demand, a little impatiently. “We’re not here to admire the garden shed.”
Cooper’s shit-eating grin spreads wider, and he steps back, opening the door to let us pass into the dimly lit room. He looks at Sable like he wants to take her for a test drive, a flash of interest in his eyes. It takes all my willpower not to lay him out on the floor like the trash he is just for looking at her the wrong way.
