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18
Sable
A dozen emotions flow through the expression on Ridge’s face. No one moves or speaks for a long time, as Camilla’s wall clock audibly ticks away the seconds after Lawson’s death.
I want to comfort my mate, but I don’t know how. I feel as useless and hopeless as the day Malcolm died, and during those days after when I couldn’t fix things for Archer. This kind of devastation from losing someone you love isn’t something I have experience with, since my parents died when I was a baby and all I ever had after that was Clint. God knows I didn’t really grieve his death at all.
So I don’t know the right thing to say or do. I just stand at Ridge’s side, my hand on his arm, and give him the time he needs. We all do. A million hours could have passed in this space and time, but we don’t count them. Grief isn’t something you can measure or try to quantify. It just is.
Finally, Ridge releases Lawson’s hand, laying it gently on his brother’s chest before he turns to look around the room at us. I don’t even recognize his face, it’s so hard, so completely lost to grief.
“We need to tell the Elders,” he says. His voice is rough and strained, so that it sounds as if it’s painful for him to even speak. “We need to tell them about the bunker on Wolfsbane Mountain.”
“A few weeks ago we didn’t even realize Wolfsbane Mountain exists,” Archer says, shaking his head.
“The witches’ home base.” Trystan’s lip curls as he says the words. “We’ve never known where they hole up.”
“Well, now we do, thanks to my brother,” Ridge says shortly. “We have a target to attack if we want to take the fight to them.”
Archer takes a single step forward, and every gaze in the room turns to him. “We’ll take care of it. You… need a minute.”
It isn’t a question, and Ridge doesn’t deny it. He just nods and looks back down at his brother’s body. Conversation closed.
Trystan, Dare, and Archer file from the room, presumably to go meet with the elders about this new information. While Ridge stands staring down at Lawson, I process exactly what kn
owing about the bunker means.
We know where the witches roost. We know where they sleep, where they plot. We know where Cleo’s base of power is.
Despite Ridge’s grief, I feel a prickle of something that’s almost like hope. Could we actually beat them at their own game? I’ve been at Cleo’s mercy for days now, and the stress is weighing on me, making me feel like I’ll never come out of this alive. What if I can? What if we can storm this bunker, surprise them at their own game, and annihilate them? Cleo included.
Ridge turns away from the body abruptly. “Camilla, can you see to his preparation?”
The shifter woman nods. “Yes, Alpha Ridge, of course.”
“Thank you.” He motions for me to follow him, and we leave the healer’s cabin in silence.
Outside, in the warmth and quiet of the early evening, Ridge stops on the road and stands still as a cool mountain breeze races past us. His face is impassive, showing none of the emotions I know he has to be feeling right now. He doesn’t look like himself. He’s a shell, like the man I know is breaking inside.
I take hold of his hand and tug him in the direction of Archer’s cabin. I may not know what to say to make him feel better, but taking care of him? That, I can do.
He follows me, still silent and brooding, and I leave him to his thoughts without pressuring him to talk about them. Ridge is different from Archer—more reserved, more contained, more likely to keep everything inside even when it might hurt him to do so. I can’t pressure him, and I can’t force him to deal with his emotions any more than I can make his pain go away with a sigil and a spell.
Archer’s house is quiet when we arrive, since the others are off with the elders discussing the new development. I guide Ridge into the foyer and then gently close the door behind us, internally debating whether I should try to feed him or just get him to lie down for a little while.
Ridge halts just inside, his hands dangling at his sides and his shoulders slumped forward. I’ve just taken his elbow in my hand to walk him to the kitchen when he explodes.
He turns out of my grasp and slams his fist into the wall. “Fuck!”
Startled, I leap back and watch in horror as his punch goes right through the drywall. He rips his hand out, letting out a string of almost unintelligible curses as he stalks away from the hole in the wall. When he stops at the end of the short hall and turns to stalk back, I see that he has silent tears pouring down his face. He shakes with the effort of holding back his grief, pacing to the hole and then back to the end of the hall again with long, angry strides.
“Ridge,” I say softly, reaching for him as he passes me.
He brushes off my touch, but it’s almost as if he’s not even here. It’s not him brushing me away. It’s a shadow of him, barely conscious of anything but the floor beneath his feet. There’s blood running down his knuckles from the punch, and his entire body is rigid, his breathing harsh and shallow.
I leave him pacing to get a wet rag in the kitchen. He’s still in the same place, walking the same pattern when I return, but this time, when I touch him, he finally pauses.
I take his hand and press the rag against his cracked knuckles. He hisses in pain, and for a second, he seems to return to himself, before his grief builds that tough, angry exterior all over again.
