I buried my son alone. There was no comforting hand, no whispered words of solace from the mate who should have been by my side. Days later, I found out why he had abandoned us—not for duty, not for some pressing Alpha obligation. He had been with my sister, Adeline Leclair. She had wanted to see the snow, and Ronan had taken her thousands of miles away to find it. The proof was right there on her Instagram, a picture of them together in the snow-capped mountains, her caption piercing through my grief like a dagger:
[I said I wanted to see the snow, and you took me thousands of miles just to find it.]
I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. What was the point? My son was gone, and my mate had never belonged to me in the first place. So, I packed my things. I had nothing left to keep me here.
But as I prepared to leave, Ronan broke down for the first time. He clung to me, his tears soaking my shoulder, his voice trembling with desperate pleas. Yet, his sorrow came too late. His grief meant nothing to me now.
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