All three packs suffered devastating losses in the battle yesterday. But we fought hard, and all three packs are still here. We escaped utter destruction because we faced the threat together. Too bad we didn’t embrace that idea sooner. Maybe Dare’s pack would still be with us.
I glance out over the burial preparations taking place all around us. Farther in the distance, beyond the trees, a plume of greasy black smoke billows into the sky. Not the black smoke of magic, but the black smoke of burning bodies. The witches’ dead. They didn’t deserve the respect of a burial, the same respect given to my father and my pack mates.
“Let’s do this,” I say, shoving aside my pain. I look down into the six foot grave where Trystan’s leveling out the bottom. “Switch places with me. I want to be the one…” I trail off. I can’t even say the words.
But Trystan seems to understand what I mean. He holds up his shovel to me, and I haul him out of the dirt as he walks up the loose wall. Then I leap down into the hole and steel myself for the weight of my father’s body to add to the weight of my grief.
Ridge and Dare lower the blanket-wrapped bundle into my arms. In the final months, Dad lost so much weight he hardly registers in my arms now. He just wasted away, the disease eating him up the same way the magic did last night.
I lean over and set him gently on the soft dirt, taking a little extra time to make sure his limbs are stretched out. He could be only sleeping beneath that shroud, but I know he’s gone. A fresh wave of anger laced with agony washes over me, and I remain on my knees for a long time, unable to leave him.
Finally, I glance up to see my friends have gathered around the grave. Trystan. Ridge. Dare. Sable. Amora. Hope. They hold hands, forming a circle around us as they bow their heads in respect to my father. They’re a life raft when I feel like I’m drowning, and it takes everything I have not to break down.
After I pull myself together, I climb out of the grave with a helping hand from Trystan and Dare. I brush dirt off my knees and hands, swallowing against the lump in my throat. I’ve never known heartbreak like this, but I know I can’t wallow in my grief. I’m the alpha now. It’s up to me to lead my pack, to be there for them in their time of need.
But fuck, I miss my dad.
Sable comes to stand beside me over the grave, and she slips her hand into mine. Her fingers are cool against my skin, and I can feel waves of silent comfort and support flowing through the mate bond. I squeeze her fingers, grateful for her. If anyone can help me survive this hole in my heart, she can.
Dad was right about that.
It takes much less time to fill the hole than it did to dig it. Before I know it—before I’m ready—he’s gone, and there’s nothing but a fresh mound of dirt left behind. Hope and I drag the temporary marker to rest above where his head lies, and I promise him silently that he’ll have a better one soon.
The whole pack came to honor their alpha’s life, and I can feel their presence behind me as I gaze down at the grave. A number of the North and West pack shifters came too, and their presence means more to me than I expected it would. It fills my heart with an aching sort of pride to know that my father was respected even outside his pack.
He never asked to fall ill. He was dealt a shitty hand, and he faced it with more grace and strength than anyone I’ve ever known.
And he died a fucking hero.
He saved the woman I love.
“Thank you, Dad,” I murmur, my voice catching on the quiet words.
As the gathered crowd begins to disperse, we walk back to my cabin as a group, though there’s very little talk. Everyone is subdued, mourning
their own losses. I told Ridge and Trystan to go be with their packs, but both refused. They promised me they’ve said their goodbyes already to the deceased, and their packs know where to find them if they’re needed.
I’m grateful. Honestly, I don’t want to be without any of them right now. Sable is the axis, while Dare, Trystan, Ridge, and I are the spokes, and every part of this wheel is necessary for my sanity.
A street away from my house, Hope gives me a warm, strong hug before she trudges away toward my dad’s house. I make a mental note to check on her later. My father has been her only responsibility for years—his home has been her home. She likely feels as adrift as I do, and I owe her so much for what she did to help us these past few years.
Inside my place, I head to the kitchen and through the motions of making a pot of coffee, because it gives me some sense of normalcy. Inwardly, I’m numb, going over and over the moment my father died and wondering if I could’ve done something differently. Not that it really matters. I can’t turn back time on death.
Dare heads toward the back of the house to grab a shower, and Ridge digs into the fridge looking for something to cook up for lunch. I’m measuring grounds into the filter basket when Trystan looms over my left shoulder, startling me. I jerk, finely ground coffee beans flying out over the counter top.
“Shit, man. I’m sorry.” Trystan grabs a towel from the rack and swipes the spilled grounds into the sink. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t,” I lie, reaching for the tablespoon to measure out a new portion. “Just distracted is all.”
He stares at me for a moment as if he’s considering calling my bluff, but he refrains. Then he purses his lips, pulling them to one side. “Hey, look. I need to tell you something.”
I groan inwardly. I don’t know if I’m up for dealing with whatever bullshit he’s going to say. Usually, I can let his judgmental attitude roll off my back, but today, I don’t have it in me.
“What?” I ask, jamming the filter basket into place above the pot.
“I want you to know… I was wrong about you.”
I blink at the buttons on the front of the coffee maker, momentarily forgetting what I was doing. I glance at him and repeat, “What?”