Chapter 105

Darren

The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, leaving the room bathed in a soft, flickering glow. But I barely noticed the darkness, nor did I notice the sudden cold or the sound of the servant coming in to get the fire going again..

All I noticed was her.

Days had passed, but Aria still hadn’t woken up.

I sat in the same chair by her bedside, unmoving except for the slow, restless tapping of my fingers against the armrest. The sound filled the silence, keeping time with the racing thoughts inside my head.

Lucas had stopped by earlier. He brought one of his picture books, sitting at the edge of the bed with his legs dangling off the side, reading out loud like she might hear him and open her eyes.

But she didn’t.

Eventually, Wendy took him away again, murmuring something I didn’t catch as she left. I barely lifted my head.

“You need to rest, Darren,” my grandmother said again later, standing in the doorway like a shadow. Her voice was gentle, but I could hear the hard steel behind it. “Sitting there like that won’t help her.”

“I’m not leaving.” My voice came out hoarse, like I hadn’t spoken in days. Maybe I hadn’t.

My grandmother stepped further inside with her arms crossed over her chest, watching me with those intense eyes that always seemed so young and yet know too much at the same time. “Lucas is worried about you,” she said. “He’s been asking if you’re angry with him.”

That made me pause. I glanced toward the empty space where Lucas had sat earlier, his small hands clutching the book too tightly.

“I’m not,” I said, although the words sounded hollow even to my own ears.

My grandmother sighed and crossed the room, setting a bowl of stew on the table beside me. I hadn’t even noticed her carrying it, but I had to admit, the scent made my mouth water despite my lack of hunger.

“I know this is hard,” she said gently. “But you can’t fall apart now. Not when Lucas needs you.”

I didn’t respond, but the guilt lodged itself in my chest like I’d just swallowed a goddamn brick. I just sat there, staring at the steam curling up from the stew. Finally, my grandmother let out a small, exasperated sigh and turned away.

When she finally left, the door clicked softly behind her, but I stayed exactly where I’d been.

It wasn’t until I heard her murmur something, followed by the sound of Lucas crying from somewhere down the hall, that I moved at all.

By the time I found him, he was curled up in Wendy’s lap by the fireplace in the living room, his small face pressed into her shoulder as she whispered to him softly. I lingered in the doorway, unsure if I should step in, but Lucas looked up before I could decide what to do.

“Daddy?” he asked softly. His eyes were red, and the sight of him like that hit me harder than I expected.

Wendy met my gaze, giving me that look again. The one that seemed to say, “Fix this.”

She was right; I had to fix this. Emilia would have been furious if she knew I had been ignoring her son, the little boy I’d promised to love and protect, for days on end. So I knelt down, opening my arms without a word. Lucas wriggled out of Wendy’s lap and ran to me, burying his face in my chest as I held him tightly.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered into his hair. “I’m not mad at you. I promise.”

His grip on me tightened, and for a long moment, I just held him there, feeling his small frame shake against me.

I needed to pull myself together. For him. For Aria. For all of us.

But as the days stretched on into an entire week and Aria still didn’t wake up, I grew restless.

The questions churned in my head, louder each day. What had happened to her in that room? Why hadn’t I seen it coming?

I questioned Tracy first.

“I don’t know anything,” she spat through the bars, glaring at me like I was the one who had wronged her. “If I still wanted to bother to hurt your precious human, I wouldn’t be sitting in here. I would have escaped.”

Her words didn’t ease the unease gnawing at me, of course, but I didn’t press further. Tracy was cruel, but she wasn’t stupid. She was already imprisoned, living on thin ice in the cells. One more wrong move and she’d be banished from the pack forever, left to wander the wilds and become a rogue.

So I went back to the room where Wendy had found Aria. Emilia’s room.

I had avoided going there, but for selfish reasons. I hadn’t been inside since Emilia’s death. Even though I knew there must be answers inside, I was… a coward. A downright coward.

Everything looked untouched at first glance. The bed looked the same, the stuffed animals still lined up on the windowsill.

But as I stepped further inside, Aria’s scent washed over me. So she had been in here, just as my grandmother had said.

Frowning, I glanced around, not really noticing anything out of place at first. In fact, everything looked so serene and normal that I almost turned and left.

But that was when I saw it: the floorboard in front of the dresser, lifted just a little. I quickly crossed the room and crouched down, lifting it carefully. And at that moment, I quickly realized what Aria had found in here.

The diary was tucked neatly in the space beneath the floorboard, the leather cracked and worn. I knew the second I opened it what it was. Emilia’s handwriting was unmistakable. She used to love this diary, and hardly went a day without writing in it.

I almost put it back, knowing that she’d be furious if she knew I was snooping in her precious diary. Almost.

But then I saw his name. Charles.

My stomach twisted as I skimmed the entry, my sister’s words seeping into my bones.

Charles had something to do with Michael’s death…

I shut the diary, gripping it tightly in my hands. This wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be.

I needed answers.

Which was why, for the first time in years, I found myself standing outside my father’s house a little while later.

Arthur opened the door, his face twisting when he saw me. “Alpha Darren,” he said, opening the door a little wider.

I tensed on the doorstep, the journal still tucked under my arm. It wasn’t often since I’d visited my father in his mansion outside the village. And it wasn’t often, if ever, that he visited us.

Ever since Emilia had died, he hadn’t left this house unless absolutely necessary. His mind had already been on the fritz after my mother passed, and Emilia’s passing seemed to be the final straw.

And I was so pissed about his distance from me, like I wasn’t the child who was still alive and breathing and in need of his support, that I never bothered to visit him.

“He’s in the study,” Arthur said simply, stepping aside to let me in.

I passed through the dark hallways, trying not to breathe in the scent of musty books and old wood.

I found him sitting in a chair by the window in the study, staring out at the snow-covered trees beyond the glass. He didn’t look up as I approached.

“Father,” I said quietly.

He didn’t respond.

Sighing, I held up the journal. “Dad, I found something about Michael’s death. I think you might want to see it—I think Charles might be implicated.”

Still no response. In fact, when I hesitantly walked up to him and placed my hand on his shoulder, he didn’t even look at me.

Something inside of me snapped.

“You lost her,” I said, my voice shaking. “I know that. But you still have me. And Lucas. We’re still here, and you’ve barely looked at either of us since Emilia died. I needed you, and you shut yourself away.”

His gaze didn’t shift, but his hand twitched almost imperceptibly.

“I’m not letting you stay like this,” I continued. “I don’t care if you want to wallow in grief. I need answers. My mate is unconscious, and I found this in Emilia’s room.” I placed the diary on the table beside him.

His eyes flickered toward it, then back to the window.

A long silence stretched between us before his fingers twitched again, this time more deliberately. I frowned and followed the direction his fingers were moving in, and my heart stuttered in my chest.

He wasn’t just twitching. He was gesturing faintly to the desk beside him. Specifically to a notepad and pen that were resting on top.

Arthur moved to intercept, but I waved him off, grabbing the notepad and placing it firmly into my father’s hand.

“Start writing,” I commanded, folding my arms across my chest.