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“Oh, yay.” I let out a sigh that blows my hair from my face. “And what’s going on until then? Can I help with clean up somewhere?”
“Actually, I think you have a stronger need somewhere else.” He glances over at me, honey burning with sympathy and sorrow. “Archer is at his father’s house.”
My heart aches at the mere mention of Malcolm. The East Pack alpha was already at death’s door from a terminal illness when he gave his life protecting me during the battle. But that did little to ease the pain of his passing. His entire pack is hurting—his son most of all.
“What’s he doing?” I ask, glancing in the direction of Malcolm’s house.
“Getting up to speed on some of the things Malcolm took care of as alpha,” Ridge says, and I nod because that sounds about right. Archer would need to know all aspects of the job, not just the things he stood in for while his father was ill. “But also going through his possessions.”
“Oh, no. So soon?” Even I can hear the dismay in my voice. My heart squeezes painfully as I think of Archer sitting in the dusty living room, going through old photo albums and the accumulated belongings of a long, happy life. He’s hardly had time to deal with Malcolm’s death, and I know the grief is still raw. He shouldn’t be sorting out his father’s things already.
Ridge makes a noise of agreement. “I think you should go be with him. He’s going to need you.”
I nod, then rise up on my tiptoes to kiss his scruffy cheek. “Thank you for coming to find me.”
He catches my chin with his fingers, turning his head to kiss me on the lips. “Always, little wolf.”
Our lips linger for one second longer before we break apart. Then, gathering the meager threads of my strength, I change direction and head across town toward Malcolm’s house, hoping I’m not too late to keep Archer from falling apart.
2
Archer
My dad’s entire house is as orderly as his life leading the pack was, and it stings like holy hell, because it reminds me how short I’m going to fall against his legacy.
I came into Dad’s house thinking I’d have to split things up and organize. Pack documents here, personal documents there, knick-knacks and old clothes, all the little things that make up a person’s life. But as it turns out, my father must have been preparing for his absence a helluva lot longer than I did. An entire filing cabinet is already neatly alphabetized and labeled with my name in Dad’s crisp, neat handwriting.
I stare down at the label for so long that my feet might as well have become rooted to the hardwood floor. I wonder when he wrote it, since his hands were shaking so much in the end that I can’t imagine the handwriting would have come out so clean.
Did he do this right after the diagnosis? Before the illness even began to take him from me? I guess it isn’t that big of a leap to think he’d prepare so early. When a man’s facing imminent death, I’d imagine getting his affairs in order becomes a top priority.
But then I think of how he’ll never write anything ever again, and a fresh wave of hot, sharp grief rolls over me, damn near knocking me off my feet. I grip both sides of the filing cabinet, the metal biting into my palms and giving me something to focus on, something to hold on to.
I don’t have time for grief or reminiscing. I need to keep my focus on protecting my pack—keeping the people I love safe and upholding the legacy my dad handed down to me when he died.
I spend an hour sorting through the documents inside the filing cabinet, familiarizing myself with everything I need to know. Some outline the pack’s communal fund; others are legal documents for owning the land, as well as permits for building. All the stuff Dad handled on his end while I managed the physical aspects of being in charge. Fortunately, the pack is in great shape, all thanks to him. He set me up well to transition into leading our people fully.
Good thing too, since no one stepped up to challenge me. I hate to even think what that means. Everyone in the pack respects me, and upon my father’s death, everyone expected me to be the alpha. No challenges. No questions. No doubts. They all think I’m the best choice for their leader.
My dad was a good leader. Me? I’m not so sure I can handle this.
r /> I move on all too soon to personal items. It’s easier to rifle through legal documents and maintain a clear head. Business keeps me focused, and making sure the pack is squared away can occupy the forefront of my mind for some time. But once I start looking at my dad’s things—the things that made him Malcolm, not the things that made him alpha—I can’t outrun the grief anymore.
I’m on the floor in front of the old TV stand, clearing out the shelves. It’s been ages since we sat on the couch and watched a movie together. The last six months or so, any quality time we spent together was passed with Dad in his hospital bed back in the bedroom. All our old DVDs have dust on them, and the DVD player won’t even turn on, so I toss it in the trash pile.
Once I’ve cleaned out the TV stand, I move to the bookshelves lining the back of the living room. A lot of it can stay—framed photographs of our family, pictures of my mom before she died, several “crafts” I made as a kid that he insisted on keeping despite the fact that they were shit. The contents of these shelves are like a time capsule of our life together, and honestly, I don’t want to get rid of any of it. It’s all I have left of him.
I pick up a small sterling silver frame and stare down at one of my favorite pictures. I was seventeen, I think. Maybe sixteen. My dad and I had just returned from a particularly exciting hunt, and we’re grinning at the camera, our arms draped around each other’s shoulders. I look like a carbon copy of my father, only twenty years younger.
Grief returns like a tidal wave. I back up and sink onto the couch cushions because my knees don’t seem to want to hold me. I clutch the frame between both my hands, my vision turning watery until I can’t even see Dad’s face anymore.
I’ll never see his face again. Not the real one. Only shallow, useless color copies that could never capture who he truly was in life. Pictures will never be able to fill the hole he’s left behind.
I drop the frame to the cushion beside me and rest my elbows on my knees, propping up my suddenly heavy head.
“This is stupid,” I mutter to myself. “I shouldn’t be here. I can’t do this.”
Saying the words out loud makes it feel real. Like I’m just a kid playing dress up, pretending I can fill my father’s shoes when I can’t even look at a picture of him without falling apart.
