He made a choice.
He deliberately chose her—the woman who once left him in ruins.
A full week had gone by. And now, here I was, standing in front of the grave that held my son’s body. His name etched into the cold gray stone, forever frozen in time. I hadn’t gone back to Ashfen Pack. I hadn’t answered a single call. I’d ignored every message from Ronan demanding answers, claiming we needed to talk.
Talk?
What conversation could possibly matter now?
There was nothing left to discuss.
I was nothing now. Just a broken silhouette of the woman I used to be. When my son died, he took the last part of me with him.
One morning, I lay curled up on my bed, facing the wall as silence swallowed the room. That’s when my father walked in.
His tone was calm, but the tension in his voice said everything he didn’t.
“Alpha Ronan’s on his way,” he said quietly.
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
I kept staring at the wall, wishing I could’ve taken Elior’s place.
But I was still breathing. Still here. And all I could feel was a deep, simmering rage.
Rage directed at myself.
Rage directed at Ronan.
“What does he want?” I muttered. My voice was scratchy, each syllable heavy and dry like gravel in my throat.