Page 187 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

The rest of the drive passed in silence. She never looked out the window. She just held the flowers gently in both hands, like they might fall apart if she gripped them too hard.

I could feel the shift in her through the bond the moment we pulled through the cemetery gates. Heavier. Older. She walked straight to the plot like muscle memory, never once checking the path.

She stood in front of the four stones for a long time, eyes fixed on the names. I stayed a few steps back and couldn’t stop looking at the fourth one. Harper Mitchell. The grave of the girl she used to be.

My hand twitched at my side. I wanted to touch her. I didn’t. This wasn’t my moment.

Finally, she drew in a slow breath.

“Hi, Mom.” Her voice was low. “I wish you could’ve met him.”

I stepped up beside her. Her fingers slid between mine without looking away from the stones.

“This is Jackson. My mate.”

She didn’t say anything else for a long moment. Just stood there, holding my hand like an anchor while the late summer air moved through the grass around us.

“Thomas Black is dead,” she said finally. “He can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

The smallest, sharp-edged smile crossed her face.

“I’m pregnant,” she said. “She’s almost here.”

She looked down at her stomach for a second before lifting her eyes back to the stones.

“We’re naming her Harmony. We’ll call her Moony for short.”

Whether our daughter grew into a wolf or a cougar sixteen years from now didn’t matter to me. She was ours.

Harper crouched slowly and laid the wildflowers across the graves, one bouquet at a time. When she was done she stayed crouched for a few seconds longer, hand resting on the curve of her stomach like she was steadying herself.

I didn’t speak. Through the bond I felt old grief rolling just beneath the surface. It wasn’t gone. Maybe it never would be. But it no longer drowned everything else.

She stood, looked at the four stones one last time, then turned away without another word. We walked back to the car hand in hand.

I exhaled and rolled my shoulders, coming back to the present. That morning at the cemetery had left a deeper mark than I expected.

The phone on the counter lit up. Noah had messaged about pack business. He had stopped by two days earlier with updates on the rebuild. The omegas were finally getting housing and the funds that had been stolen from them for years. The old guard was still circling in places, but Noah was not Thomas. He listened. He acted. The challenges had dropped to almost nothing.

Cassidy’s text waited underneath:

If you name that baby anything ending in -iah or -son I’m staging an intervention. Also I know she’s a cult heir. Do not lie to me.

I set the phone down. Harper was still half-asleep on the couch, one foot twitching like when her cat was dreaming.

I couldn’t look at her without remembering how close I came to never seeing her again. First with John. Then Lia. Then Thomas. The pure fucking terror of each one still sat under my ribs sometimes, even months later.

As for my father, there was no grief left to dig through. Harper had finished what needed finishing, and I had never resented her for it. If anything, it settled something in me. He was gone. That was enough.

Lia was the only thread I’d cut clean. She’d written. Called. Harper told me once it was okay if I wanted to talk to her. But I wasn’t stupid. I knew she didn’t mean it. Not really. And honestly? I didn’t want to. The second Lia put her hands on my mate, she stopped existing for me. Childhood. Shared history. None of it meant shit anymore. I’d told the facility to stop contacting me altogether.

Harper’s eyes were open now, watching me. Same pale blue that had pinned me in place that first day. Same mouth that had confessed every body she left behind. The woman who walked into my father’s territory with nothing but a list and a knife and walked out carrying my child. I’d known from day four. Maybe sooner. She was the end of every road I’d ever walked.

I would burn the rest of the world down before I let anything touch her again.

She shifted on the couch and made room. I went to her without hesitation, sinking down beside her. I pulled her against my side, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other hand spreading wide over the tight swell of our daughter.

Harper tucked her head under my chin, her breathing slow and trusting.

I kept my other hand on her belly, thumb brushing slow circles. For a long moment I just held her like that, feeling our daughter move under my palm. The kicks came irregular now, stronger, like she was already restless to get out into the world.

Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small carved wooden cougar. I set it on the low table beside the couch, close enough for Harper to see when she woke.

For our daughter. One day she'd need to know her mother's strength came with teeth.

Harper’s fingers tightened on my shirt, even in sleep.

This was home.

The end.