He leaned down to press a kiss to my forehead—tender, like old times—and then left without waiting for a response.
He didn’t return.
Elisha later told me that Darrell and Carla had traveled to settle a conflict in another territory. He’d taken her with him—trusted her to stand beside him where I once had.
Alone, I stared at the carved wooden box by my bedside. Inside it were 498 handwritten letters—each one from Darrell, each filled with declarations of love. He once said, when I reached letter number 500, he’d ask me to marry him.
That last letter came six months ago.
My fingers trembled as they grazed the box’s edge. I couldn’t open it. The memories felt too sharp, too unbearable. Instead, I rose to my feet. I needed air. I needed something—anything—that wasn’t this room filled with the ghosts of broken promises.
I headed toward the pack house entrance, hoping the sound of the young wolves I taught might offer distraction. But I froze.
Darrell was there, standing under the warm sun, his laughter echoing through the open air. He was helping Carla carry a basket of apples. His smile—so wide, so carefree—hadn’t looked that genuine in months.