⊰ 117 ⊱ What Remains of an Alpha

⊰ 117 ⊱ What Remains of an Alpha
| Malachi |

The days have begun to blur together in this prison cell—how long has it been? A week? Two? Time loses meaning when every moment is spent in the same four walls, with only my thoughts for company.

And those thoughts have become my worst enemy.

I lie on the narrow cot, staring at the ceiling, the silver cuffs chafing against my wrists. My body has grown weaker, but it’s my spirit that’s truly breaking. Every time I close my eyes, I see Penelope’s face as she walked away from me. The hurt in her eyes, the disappointment, the loss of something precious that I’m not sure can ever be rebuilt.

I loved you.

…

Loved. 

Past tense. As if it was already over.

And then there’s Elio. My son, who I held for mere minutes before my rage ruined everything. He’ll be growing, changing every day, and I’m missing all of it. By the time I see him again—if I ever see him again—he might not even recognize me.

The thought sends a physical pain through my chest, sharper than the constant burn of the silver.

For days, I’ve been holding onto my anger. Rage at Jax for marking my mate. At Rook for taking Penelope in the first place. Even at Penelope herself for allowing another wolf’s influence over our son.

But beneath the anger is something worse, something I’ve been trying desperately not to face: fear. Pure, primal fear that I’ve lost them both forever. That my son will grow up calling another man “father.” That my mate will move on without me.

That I’ve already destroyed everything I fought so hard to protect.

A bitter laugh escapes me, echoing in the empty cell. All this time, I’ve been blaming everyone else, but the truth is staring me in the face. My pride, my possessiveness, my unwillingness to listen—these are what cost me my family. Not Jax’s mark. Not Rook’s intervention.

Me.

I made decisions for Penelope without her consent. I threatened to take our son from her. I refused to even consider that she might be right about the arrangement with Jackson.

My chest tightens, a sob building that I refuse to release. Alpha wolves don’t cry. We fight. We conquer. We dominate.

But what has that gotten me? A cell. Solitude. The knowledge that with every passing day, Penelope is building a new life that doesn’t include me.

I drag myself upright, ignoring the way the silver makes my limbs feel leaden. I need to do something—anything—before it’s too late. 

When the guard brings my evening meal, I make my request.

“I need to speak with Rook.”

The wolf—a young male with a scar across his chin—looks at me with surprise. “Alpha Rook doesn’t take demands from prisoners.”

I swallow my pride, the action physically painful after a lifetime of dominance. “It’s not a demand. It’s a request. Please.”

The guard stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. In all the time I’ve been here, “please” has not been part of my vocabulary. After a moment, he nods once and leaves without another word.

I don’t expect Rook to come right away. He’ll make me wait—a power play I’d use myself in his position. What I don’t expect is to be left waiting through the night and into the next day. By the time I hear footsteps approaching my cell, the subtle change in scent telling me it’s Rook himself rather than a guard, I’ve had hours to reflect on everything I want to say.

All of it flies out of my head the moment he steps through the door.

Rook looks different somehow—not physically, but there’s a weight to his presence I haven’t noticed before. The responsibility of an Alpha protecting his pack, yes, but something more. Something older and deeper that speaks to the royal blood Elijah told me about.

He says nothing, just stands inside the doorway watching me with those hazel eyes so like Penelope’s. Assessing. Weighing.

I force myself to stand, despite the weakness in my limbs, refusing to face him from a position of submission. But I don’t approach. Don’t challenge. Just meet his gaze and wait.

“You asked to see me,” he says finally, his tone neutral.

“Yes.” My voice sounds rough even to my own ears.

“Why?” One word, but loaded with skepticism.

I’ve rehearsed this conversation a dozen different ways, but now that he’s here, I find myself abandoning the carefully constructed arguments and strategies. Instead, an unfamiliar honesty rises to my lips.

“I can’t lose them,” I say simply.

Something flickers in Rook’s expression—surprise, perhaps, at my directness. He crosses his arms. “That’s your concern, not mine.”

“It should be your concern,” I counter, but without the aggression that has characterized our previous interactions. “Penelope is your sister. Elio is your nephew. Their happiness matters to you, or you wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to protect them.”

“And you think you’re essential to their happiness?” There’s a challenge in his voice, but also genuine curiosity.

For the first time since my capture, I truly consider the question. Am I essential to their happiness? Or just to my own?

“I don’t know,” I admit, the words painful to voice. “But I do know that taking away their choice—my choice too—isn’t the answer. For any of us.”

Rook studies me, his head tilting slightly. “You’ve changed your tune. Last I checked, you were threatening to take Elio from his mother.”

Shame burns through me, hotter than the silver in my veins. “I was wrong.”

Two simple words, but they cost me more than I can express. Alpha wolves don’t admit weakness. Don’t acknowledge mistakes. But the time for pride has long since passed.

“I was wrong,” I repeat, firmer now. “About a lot of things. And I’m paying for those mistakes. But Penelope and Elio shouldn’t have to pay for them too.”

Rook moves further into the cell, circling me slowly. I recognize the tactic—it’s meant to unnerve. I force myself to remain still, to resist the urge to turn and keep him in my sights.

“What exactly are you proposing?” he asks.

“An alliance,” I say. “Against the corruption in the Continental King selection. Against whoever murdered your parents and is now targeting other contenders.” I meet his gaze directly. “I want to help.”

A humorless laugh escapes him. “Help? And why would I trust you to do that?”

“Because we want the same thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“Justice,” I say. “Security for our families. A future where Penelope and Elio don't have to live in fear.”

Rook stops his circling, now standing directly in front of me. “Noble sentiments. But your real motivation is simpler, isn’t it? You want out of this cell. You want access to your son. You want your mate back.”

“Yes,” I acknowledge, seeing no point in denial. “I do want those things. But that doesn’t mean I can’t also want justice.”

For a long moment, Rook says nothing, just watches me with those penetrating eyes. I can almost see the calculations running behind them, weighing risks against potential benefits.

“You’ve spent your entire time here plotting escape, threatening violence, radiating hatred toward me and Jax,” he says finally. “And now suddenly you want to help? Why should I believe this change of heart is genuine?”

The question cuts to the heart of the matter, and I find myself answering not with strategic calculation but with painful truth.

“Because I’m a breaking man,” I admit, the words hanging in the silence between us. “Because I’ve lost everything that matters, and I’m starting to see that my own actions are as much to blame as anyone else’s.” I take a breath, steadying myself. “Because I don’t know who I am without them, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to earn back the right to find out.”

Something shifts in Rook’s expression—not softening, exactly, but a recognition of something authentic in my words.

“Whatever it takes?” he repeats, his tone sharpening. “That’s quite a statement from an Alpha wolf.”

“I mean it.”

He steps closer, invading my personal space in a clear dominance display. “Even working alongside Jax?”

The name sends a surge of anger through me, automatic and visceral. Rook watches my reaction carefully, and I force myself to breathe through it, to master the instinctive rage.

“Even that,” I say when I trust my voice again.

“Even acknowledging your part in driving Penelope away?” he presses. “Your role in breaking her trust by selling your son’s future to Jackson?”

The accusation stings, but I don’t deny it. “Yes.”

“Even accepting that she may never forgive you? That she might choose her true mate over you in the end?”

This question hits hard, and I have to lock my knees to remain standing. The possibility that haunts my darkest thoughts, given voice by the one person who might know Penelope’s mind better than anyone.

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “But her happiness matters more than my pride. It always should have.”

Rook takes a step back, assessing me with new eyes. For the first time since my capture, I feel like he’s seeing me—not just as an enemy or a rival Alpha, but as a man who loves his sister. Who loves their son.

“If—and this is a significant if—I were to consider this alliance,” he says slowly, “there would be conditions. Non-negotiable ones.”

Hope flares in my chest, the first I’ve felt in days. “Name them.”

“First, you remain officially a prisoner to outside observers. No one beyond my inner circle can know about our arrangement.”

I nod. That makes strategic sense.

“Second, your access to Penelope and Elio will be limited and supervised. You will not push for more than what I allow, when I allow it.”

Harder to accept, but I force myself to nod again.

“Third, you will follow my lead in this operation. My orders. My strategies. Even when—especially when—you disagree with them.”

My wolf bristles at this, the Alpha in me rebelling against the idea of submitting to another’s authority. But I squelch the reaction.

“I accept those terms,” I say.

“Fourth,” Rook continues, and something in his tone tells me this will be the hardest condition yet, “you will work alongside not just Jax, but anyone else I deem necessary for this mission, regardless of your personal feelings.”

I hesitate, but only for a moment. “Agreed.”

“And finally,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine, “you will accept that Penelope’s choices are her own. You will not pressure her, manipulate her, or attempt to control her in any way. If she chooses to forgive you, that will be her decision alone. If she doesn’t…” He pauses. “You will respect that too.”

This last condition strikes at my deepest fear. The possibility of winning my freedom only to lose her forever. But isn’t that what I just claimed to accept—that her happiness matters more than my desires?

“I agree,” I say, the words barely audible.

For a long moment, Rook says nothing, just studies me as if trying to see through to my very bones. Finally, he nods once, a sharp, decisive movement.

“We’ll see if your actions match your words, Malachi. For now, the silver cuffs stay, but the dosage in your food will be reduced. You’ll begin to regain your strength, but not enough to threaten my people.”

It’s more than I dared hope for. “Thank you.”

Rook turns to leave, but pauses at the door. “One last thing.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small. For a moment, I think it might be a weapon, but as he holds it out, I realize it’s a photograph. My heart skips a beat as I take it with trembling fingers.

Elio.

My son, sleeping peacefully, his tiny face relaxed in slumber. He’s wearing a onesie I’ve never seen, wrapped in a blanket with unfamiliar patterns that I assume must be Northern Tribe designs. He looks bigger already, even though it's only been days since I held him.

“He’s healthy,” Rook says quietly. “Strong. Penelope is an excellent mother.”

I can’t speak past the lump in my throat, can only nod as I stare at the image of my child, memorizing every detail.

“Don’t make me regret this, Malachi,” Rook says, his voice hardening again. “Because if you betray this alliance, if you hurt my sister again—I won’t just lock you up next time. I’ll end you.”

With that, he’s gone, the door closing firmly behind him. I sink onto the cot, still clutching the photograph, my eyes never leaving my son’s face.

For the first time in days, I feel something other than rage or despair.

Hope.

Small, fragile, but undeniably there. A chance—perhaps my last one—to make things right.