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Lawson isn’t going to make it.
17
Ridge
The strain in the older woman’s face leaves little room for interpretation. I don’t have to ask her what Lawson’s condition is. I don’t have to say is he going to recover?
Because the truth is clear in the stark look she gives me.
Sable’s small hand alights on my arm, and I take an ounce of comfort in her presence as I glance down at my brother.
My jaw clenches painfully. Yeah, Lawson and I didn’t exactly have a perfect relationship. In fact, it was pretty fucking shitty for the majority of our adult years. Sometimes, I felt like I almost hated my brother, which goes against every pack code regarding the sanctity of family.
But looking at him now, dying and broken, I can’t muster any of that old hate. It seems fucking petty at this point, all the bickering, the fighting, the arguing. The day he challenged me and lost. The day he was tortured and gave up all the pack’s secrets. Despite all that he did wrong, I only feel sorrow.
Lawson is the last of my family. When he’s gone… there’ll only be me.
I reach for his hand. The last time I held it was probably almost twenty years ago, back when we were kids and neither of us gave a shit about the alpha position that one of us would one day inherit from our father. His hand is covered in dried, flaky blood, but I ignore it. I focus on the warmth of his palm and try to remember who we were before pack politics—and Lawson’s thirst for power—drove us apart.
As if prompted by the feel of my hand in his, Lawson’s eyes open. He blinks several times, his eyes darting as if he’s trying to focus on his surroundings. He shakes his head, and his gaze finally finds me where I hover over him.
“Ri-idge.” His voice is low, just as broken as his body. He squeezes my hand, but it’s such a small, quick movement, I have no clue whether it was on purpose or involuntary. “I didn’t… go to… them. To the wi-itches.”
“I know,” I say.
“They… c-caught me,” he says with a small gasp. His eyes close, and his other hand flutters to his torso. I don’t know what the spell did to him, but he’s clearly in pain. I try desperately not to think of his internal organs in some kind of soup, but it’s probably a more apt description than anything I could come up with. “After I escaped. I’m sorry—”
“It’s all right,” I assure him, my voice cracking. “I forgive you.”
I glance at Sable, who still has her hand resting on my arm in solidarity. She has tears in her eyes. She saw Lawson being tortured through Cleo’s eyes. I can’t imagine she isn’t haunted by the sight of it, especially right now, faced with his dying body.
Lawson takes a deep, shuddering breath before speaking again. “I came to s-see… Everyone okay?”
I nod. “Everyone’s okay. The witches came, and we fought. We sustained losses, but we won.”
Pain tightens Lawson’s face, and I have a feeling it has nothing to do with his injuries. I decide not to tell him one of those we lost was his closest friend. Dying is enough of an indignity without knowing you killed your best friend before you went.
“But we made it through,” I add before he can ask me who died, “because we joined forces with the East and West Packs.”
The corners of his lips turn up in a small, half-smile that seems to take a lot more effort than it should. He closes his eyes. “G-good. That’s good. How it sh-ould be. Wolf shouldn’t fight wolf.”
His fingers tighten in mine, and this time, I can tell it’s on purpose. An apology, I think, for challenging me.
I guess only death can bring a man certain clarity.
He opens his eyes again, and we lock gazes. Regret and pain swim in his bloodshot eyes, and I know those emotions are mirrored in my own. What could we have done together if we hadn’t been at odds for years? Who would we have become if we hadn’t fought for so long against one another? I’m lost in every damn what-if and could-have-been that my brain can conjure up.
Lawson blinks as if his eyelids have become too heavy to keep open, and some of the light seems to have faded from his eyes when he finally focuses on me again. His breathing has gone ragged, raspy, like every inhale and exhale takes more and more energy out of him.
He shakes his head as if to clear it and looks into my eyes, determination on his face. He’s holding death off, forcing it to wait just a little longer, so he can speak.
“Wi-witches,” he gasps out. “They k… eep base on Wolfs...bane. Bi-ig bunker. Can’t see i-it unless you’re up it.”
His voice dies out, and his eyes close again. This time, they stay closed, and his breathing slows. Grows even. Then stops entirely.
His fingers loosen in mine.
My brother is gone.
