"At the funeral." The memory was seared into my brain, sharp and poisonous, and speaking it out loud felt like reopening a wound that had never healed. "You looked at me across the grave, and there was something in your eyes—I thought it was blame. I thought you hated me for what I did. For leaving him alone. For being the reason he—" I couldn't finish. Couldn't say the words out loud. My throat closed up, and I pressed my fist against my mouth to hold back the sob.
The silence stretched out between us, heavy and terrible.
"Oh, mon Dieu." Papa's voice was barely a whisper, shattered and small. "Remy. Mon fils. That wasn't blame. That was—" He broke off, and I heard a sound that made my heart stop.
My father was crying.
In all my years, I had never heard my father cry. Not when his own father died. Not when Luc drowned. Not even during the worst of the chemo when he was so sick he couldn't lift his head. But now, through the phone, I could hear the sobs tearing out of him—raw and broken and decades overdue.
"I was looking at you because I was terrified I was going to lose you too," he choked out. "You were standing there so still, so empty, and I could see you slipping away from us. I wanted to go to you, to hold you, but your mother was falling apart and I didn't know how to—" He broke off, his breathing ragged. "I failed you, Remy. We both did. We were so lost in our own grief that we didn't see you drowning right in front of us."
"Papa—" The word came out strangled, barely recognizable as my own voice. I bent forward on the dock, pressing my freehand against my chest where my heart was threatening to beat right out of my ribs.
"And then you were gone." The words came out in a rush, like a dam breaking. "Eighteen years old, and you just vanished. Left a note that said 'I'm sorry' and nothing else. We didn't know if you were alive or dead for months. Your mother didn't sleep. She'd walk the floors at night, calling your phone over and over, just to hear your voice on the voicemail." His voice cracked into a sob. "Do you know what that did to her? To lose one son and then have the other disappear?"
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The phone was slick with tears and sweat in my shaking hands.
"I should have chased you," Papa continued, his voice wrecked and raw. "I should have hired every investigator in Louisiana. I should have tracked you down and dragged you home and told you every single day that we loved you, that we didn't blame you, that you were still our son and nothing would ever change that." He let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "But I was too proud. Too stubborn. I told myself you needed space. Told myself you'd come back when you were ready. And the years kept passing, and the silence kept growing, and somewhere along the way I stopped believing you'd ever come home."
"I'm sorry," I whispered, and the words felt pathetically inadequate for the weight of what I'd done. "Papa, I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I didn't?—"
"I know you didn't." His voice gentled, exhaustion and love bleeding through the cracks. "That's what kills me, Remy. You've been carrying this guilt for over a decade, and we never found a way to tell you the truth."
I closed my eyes, guilt washing over me like a wave. "I couldn't—I didn't know how to?—"
"What's changed now, son?" he asked, his voice hoarse but steadier now. "Why are you calling?"
I took a shaky breath, gripping the phone so tight my knuckles ached. "I need help. Real help. Not for me. For someone I love. For my pack."
A pause, longer this time. "Pack," he repeated, and there was something strange in his voice—surprise, maybe, or the first fragile spark of hope. "You have a pack now?"
"Yeah, Papa." I closed my eyes, pictured Artemis's face, her fierce smile, the way she looked at me like I was worth something. "I have a pack. An Omega. Two Alpha brothers. A home." I swallowed hard. "Something worth fighting for."
The silence stretched out between us, heavy with years of unsaid things. I could hear the creak of leather as he shifted in his chair, could imagine him reaching for the glass of bourbon that was always at his elbow.
"Tell me," he said finally, his voice softer now, the sharp edges worn down by something that might have been hope.
So I told him.
I told him about Artemis and her cabin in the bayou, about the land her family had held for almost two hundred years. I told him about Crescent Holdings and their surveys and their legal threats, about the men in suits who'd shown up with a sheriff and tried to intimidate her into selling. I told him about her parents—Alpha parents who'd abandoned their Omega daughter and then had the nerve to show up as investors in the company trying to steal her home.
I told him everything except the parts that were too private to share, the parts that belonged only to us. When I finished, there was another long silence. I could hear birds calling in the trees behind me, could feel the dock swaying gently beneath me as Gumbo surfaced nearby, his ancient eyes watching me with something that looked almost like concern.
"This Omega," my father said slowly, each word measured and careful. "She matters to you."
"More than anything," I said, and my voice cracked on the words, emotion spilling through despite my best efforts to hold it back. "She saved me, Papa. She saw through all my bullshit and loved me anyway. She gave me a home when I didn't think I deserved one." I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, not caring anymore if he could hear the tears in my voice. "I'm going to bond with her. With all of them. And I'll be damned if I let some corporation take everything she has."
More silence. I gripped the phone tighter, my knuckles aching from the tension.
"You sound different," my father said finally, his voice quiet and wondering, like he was hearing a stranger speak with his son's voice.
"I am different," I admitted, staring out at the water, watching the light dance on the surface. "I came back when you were sick, and I thought maybe I could stay. But once you were better, all that guilt came flooding back, and I didn't know how to handle it. So I ran again—just not as far this time." I took a shuddering breath. "But I can't run anymore. I don't want to run anymore. I found something worth staying for. Worth fighting for."
"Remy." My father's voice had changed again, gone thick and rough with something I couldn't identify. "There's something I need to tell you. Something I should have said years ago, but I was too much of a coward."
My heart stopped. I gripped the phone tighter, bracing myself.
"Your mother and I... we never blamed you. For Luc." The words came out slow, deliberate, like he was placing each one carefully. "Not once. Not ever. We were grieving, and wehandled it badly—God, we handled it so badly—but we never, ever blamed you."
