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I wrap my arms around myself, hating the way I feel so broken, so empty.
My feelings right now are silly because, without sharing he was a werewolf, there was no way Ryan could’ve told me he knew about our baby. How could he have told me we conceived?
I was on birth control and wouldn’t have believed it was possible.
So it’s illogical that I’m hurt... but I am. We both knew at separate times, but we never got our chance to celebrate together, to share the joy, to be happy.
“He lived a very hard life,” Alex says, and I nod, sniffling. “I’m sorry, Maia. We didn’t keep this from you deliberately, but I hate the way it was shared.”
“So do I.”
He pulls me into his lap, being careful not to disturb the sleeping infant, and his hand trails up and down my back. “None of your feelings are stupid, little butterfly.”
At his encouragement, at the deep understanding I feel from him, I let my sobs overtake me.
I’m moving on with them, I am. I’m working through my grief, and I’m truly trying to be happy because I know I deserve it.
But the thing about grief is that it isn’t linear at all.
I just needed time to process this pain, to let myself feel the hurt, and then I could deal and accept the truth.
“You weren’t his mate,” Alex says quietly. “But that doesn’t mean he didn’t love you. It doesn’t mean that you couldn’t have been happy together.”
I sob harder, wrapping my arms around him. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” He kisses the top of my head, holding me as tightly as I need. “I wish I could take this pain from you.”
“Honestly,” I hiccup out a laugh, “me, too.”
But now the question I have is: was Phoebe’s birth one he orchestrated?
And if so... why?
I brush my tears away, hating that I won’t ever be able to hear the truth from him. So many family members who contain our answers are dead. My parents, Ryan, and even Morgan, for a while.
But there’s someone here, in my house, who might have some answers. I look over to the cracked open door and sit up properly on Alex’s lap.
“Is it safe to bring her downstairs?” I murmur, not meeting Alex’s eyes.
“Ah. Our guest. That’s something else I wanted to talk to you about,” he says. There’s a hesitant look on his face, and his eyes flick to the doorway before giving me a small grin.
I cock a brow. “What have you done to him?”
“Nothing he didn’t deserve.” If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was Ben who answered here, with how petulant he sounds.
“But you have done something?”
He shrugs, but I can see the amusement dancing in his eyes. “He’s fine. Just a little bloodied up. Roughhousing between cousins is normal, you know.”
I cover my face with my hands, groaning into it. That was not the way to go about this. Not in the slightest.
It’s hard for me, being around Oliver, and seeing the ways he’s so like Ryan. It’s a mental struggle, trying to keep the two men separate, even with having a little bit of time to prepare for it.
It should be easy. Ryan is dead, and Oliver is the one who has been tormenting me for months.
He’s been showing up and following me around, coming inside my house… fuck, for all I know, he’s taken more than just the diary. He’s been a constant shadow, a presence messing with my mind and tormenting me day after day.
And yet, the two brothers share a face, they share a voice, they’re identical… Oliver is so similar to Ryan that even being around him is hard to remember there’s actually a difference.
