Page 137 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

For years I told myself that was simply who he was. An old-school Alpha. Hard. Ruthless. The kind of man who believed fear and respect were the same thing. I watched him make examples of wolves who crossed him. I watched my mother shrink a little more every year while he fucked whoever he wanted and expected the rest of us to pretend we didn’t notice.

I hated plenty of things about him. I’d spent years telling myself that when the pack became mine, I would do things differently. That I could take what he’d built without becoming the man who built it.

When it came to the pack, I had always told myself there was a reason for what he did. He was brutal, not evil. There were rules even Thomas Black wouldn’t break.

Harper had just shown me how badly I had lied to myself.

I stopped at the end of the hallway and dragged a hand down my face.

She came here to kill him.

I was certain now that she was behind Colt and Richard’s deaths too. Tonight I had helped her hide John’s body so she could stay free long enough to finish what she had started. I had become her accomplice. The part that should have horrified me... didn't.

My wolf rumbled in agreement, low and darkly pleased.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, forcing my breathing to slow. The storm inside me kept building, but I held it back.

For now.

A restless sound came from the bedroom. Harper stirred with a low, distressed noise, and I moved without thinking.

I climbed onto the bed on top of the blankets and gathered her carefully into my arms. She tensed for a second, then melted against me like her body already knew mine even in sleep. Her breathing evened out again almost immediately.

I stayed there with my chin resting on top of her head, holding her as the night stretched on.

Sleep came eventually, but it was ugly. Flames. Harper’s screams. My father’s cruel smile. Blood on my hands. I woke several times with my heart pounding and pulled her closer each time, needing the solid weight of her against me.

She needed something solid in the morning.

I would be that for her. No matter what it cost me.

I woke before dawn. Harper was still pressed against my chest. I had been half-awake for nearly an hour, unwilling to move and risk waking her. She had curled into my side with her good hand fisted tight in my shirt, like she was afraid I might disappear. Her injured arm rested carefully between us, and every now and then her breath hitched in her sleep.

I looked down at her in the pale light. The bruise on her temple had darkened to a deep purple, and a small angry cut ran along her jaw. Her lashes lay dark against too-pale skin. She looked younger like this, almost fragile, and something twisted hard in my chest.

My wolf stayed quiet. Banked. Present.

She woke slowly. Pain tightened her face before her eyes opened.

“Morning,” I said softly.

“Morning,” she murmured, voice rough with sleep.

I brushed my thumb along her cheekbone. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she lied.

I helped her sit up against the headboard, careful with the sling and her ribs. A small wince crossed her face, but she stayed silent. I held the glass of water for her while she drank. She watched me the whole time, quiet and thoughtful.

The bedroom door eased open under the push of a furry head. Artemis padded in, gave me one unimpressed look, and jumped onto the bed. My wolf rumbled at another male getting close to her, even a furry one.

“Really?” Harper said, dry amusement slipping through.

“Apparently,” I replied.

The cat pushed his head against her good hand until she scratched behind his ear. A loud purr started up almost immediately. After a minute he hopped down and curled up in the desk chair like he owned the place.

I let the quiet stretch between us before I asked the question I had carried through the night.