Chapter 10

He stood in the middle of his office, knuckles white.

"Tristan," he said softly. Nothing else came.

The call cut off. He was left with the flat tone in his ear.

His hand jerked. He slammed the phone against the desk. It broke in half.

He was breathing hard, like a stone was sitting on his chest.

The photo frame on the desk held a Marking portrait. Me in a white dress, smiling softly, leaning against his shoulder.

He'd stood so straight in that photo. His eyes had been proud.

He stared at it. Something unsteady flickered at the back of his eyes.

For as long as he could remember, he'd never felt the love of either parent.

His mother had left for overseas less than a year after he was born. His father ran the Pack through cold silence, then remarried, and left Damien in the old Pack House alone.

It was Fiona, the adopted ward, who had shielded him from the beginning.

As a pup he was thin and quiet. The others liked to push him around. Fiona would go for them like a fuse lit. Cursing, fighting, throwing her small body at whoever had come near him.

"You touch my big brother, I bite you to death."

She went wild. Even when her own hands were swollen and red from it, she refused to let a tear fall.

Back then he'd sworn that one day, when he had the power, he'd protect Fiona.

So for years, he'd listened to everything she said. Even Marking me had been for her.

From the beginning, he'd taken me as his mate purely to tie Kane Pack to Hart Pack. He admitted it. He was selfish. Cold.

But he hadn't counted on the fact that, over time, he'd gotten used to me. He'd grown around me without noticing.

I got up early to make him breakfast. I straightened his tie before he left for work. I could read his frown and put hot tea in his hand.

I wasn't a sharp protector like Fiona. I was a quiet warmth. In a cold, hard world, I was the space where he could breathe.

He hadn't noticed at first. He'd told himself I was obedient. Easy. Right kind of woman for a mate.

It took me leaving, it took him lying in an empty bed, for him to understand it was the other way around. He was the one who couldn't leave me.

It wasn't about the Pack or the alliance. It was habit.

It was love. Seen too late.

He remembered coming home once after a business trip, three a.m. He'd pushed the door open and there I was, on the couch, a blanket around me, waiting for him.

I was so tired my eyes kept closing. When I saw him, I let out a breath. "Damien. Have you eaten?"

He said no. And the next second, I got up and went into the kitchen and made him a bowl of pasta with the sauce he liked.

He'd thought, back then, that this was just what a mate did.

Now he knew. It wasn't supposed to. It was my love. My heart.

And he'd ground it under his own heel.

He couldn't imagine life after Severing. He couldn't.

He'd thought, all this time, that he couldn't Sever the Bond because his entanglement with Fiona wasn't cleanly hidden. He was afraid the moment he signed, everything would come out.

Now, what he was afraid of was that after Severing, I'd walk out of his life, and nothing would bring me back.

The sunlight in the foreign country was gentle.

I was standing in the garden behind the little chapel. The sun slanted down to the ground, falling on the small white urn at my feet. Quiet. Saying nothing.

That was Evie's.

The pup who used to lie on my knees calling "Mommy." The one who made me tell three stories before she could fall asleep. All that was left of her was a small handful of ash.

The wind was light. Pansies moved in it. The air smelled of roses and lilies. For a moment it was almost the milk-soft smell of her after a bath.

I nearly didn't stay standing.

Evie had gone too fast.

Not even a real goodbye.

I didn't have time to pick out a new dress for her. No pink ribbon for her hair. Even her favorite bear was still at the house.

Hurried. Shabby. I only understood she was really gone when the urn was put into my hands.

Now she was only a quiet box of ash.

I decided to give her a small service. Even if no one came, she wasn't going to be alone.

It was simple but serious.

I found a small chapel in town with a warm reputation. The priest was gentle. He helped me find the graveyard.

On the hillside behind the chapel, I bought a plot. Mountain at its back, sun on the face. The light fell exactly where the headstone would stand.

There were daisies and white magnolia in summer, cherry blossoms in spring.

She would have liked it.

No one came to the service. Only me.

The priest said a short blessing. At the end he said, "May she rest in eternal peace in the arms of the Lord."

I bent down and placed the urn into the grave.