⊰ 126 ⊱ A Crown Left Behind

⊰ 126 ⊱ A Crown Left Behind
| Penelope |

The safe house has been too quiet for three days.

I stand outside Malachi’s makeshift study, holding Elio against my chest as he sleeps peacefully, blissfully unaware of the grief that’s settled over our temporary home. Through the partially open door, I can see Malachi hunched over the desk, surrounded by boxes that Rook brought yesterday.

Elijah’s belongings.

My heart clenches as I watch him lift something from one of the boxes—a photograph, worn at the edges from years of handling. Even from here, I can see it’s old, the kind of family photo that gets treasured and tucked away. Malachi stares at it with an expression so broken it makes my throat tight.

And then I see his shoulders shake.

He’s crying. 

For the first time since he came home in wolf form, collapsing in anguish I couldn’t understand, he’s crying in human form.

I want to go to him. I want to offer comfort, support, anything to ease the pain radiating from him in waves I can feel through our bond. But there’s something holding me back—my own complicated grief that I’ve been trying to hide for days.

Because I’m mourning too. Not just for Elijah, though his loss is devastating. I’m mourning Jax.

The guilt of it sits in my stomach like a stone. I rejected him. I chose Malachi. I don’t have the right to grieve for someone who represented everything that complicated my life. But the pain is there anyway, sharp and confusing, and I can’t make it stop.

Through our bond, I feel Malachi’s grief—raw and immediate and overwhelming. But I also feel something else, something he’s trying to hide but can’t quite manage: relief. A part of him, buried deep but still there, is glad Jax is gone. 

It makes me feel sick. And it makes my own grief feel like a betrayal.

I try to lock it away, to bury it so deep that even our bond can’t reach it. But werewolf bonds don’t work that way, and I know he feels the echo of my pain even if he doesn’t understand its source.

“Penny?”

His voice startles me. I look up to find him standing in the doorway, the photograph still clutched in his hand. His eyes are red-rimmed, his face haggard with exhaustion and grief.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” I say quickly, adjusting Elio in my arms. “I was just—”

“It’s okay.” He steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. “I could use the company.”

The study is small, barely big enough for the desk and chair, but Rook has somehow managed to fit several boxes of Elijah’s possessions into the space. Books, heirlooms, personal items that speak of a life cut short. The sight of it all makes my chest tight.

“What’s that?” I ask, nodding toward the photograph.

Malachi looks down at it, his expression softening. “Us and our older sister who died protecting us.” He holds it out so I can see—two young boys, maybe eight and ten, grinning at the camera with gap-toothed smiles and messy hair. Behind them, hugging them, a young woman. Only a few years younger than I am now. “Elijah kept it on his desk. Rook thought I should have it.”

Oh, Mal…

I’d forgotten how much he had already lost. One sibling. And now the other. The thought of it breaks something in me. Tears spring to my eyes before I can stop them.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, meaning it completely. “I’m so sorry, Mal…”

Malachi nods, his throat working as he swallows hard. “My sister… I never really got over it. Just learned to live with it. Now Elijah? He was supposed to be king, you know. He would have been better at it than me. Better at all of it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” He sets the photograph carefully on the desk, his movements deliberate. “He understood the political games, the compromises. He would have known how to rebuild after all this without…” He trails off, shaking his head.

“Without what?”

“Without running away.” The admission comes out bitter, self-directed. “That’s what I’m doing, isn’t it? Handing the crown to Rook and disappearing. Elijah would never have done that.”

I want to argue, to tell him he’s being too hard on himself. But through our bond, I feel his pain spike, and underneath it, that persistent thread of relief that makes my own guilt flare.

Because while I would do everything in my power to support his choice if he’d choose to stay and be King, I’m glad we’re leaving. I’m glad to escape this world that has cost us so much. And that makes me feel like a terrible person.

“You’re not running away,” I say finally. “You’re choosing what matters.”

He looks at me then, and I see the moment he registers my own distress. His eyes narrow slightly, that Alpha instinct to protect kicking in despite his grief.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “I can feel... something. Through the bond. You’re hurting.”

Tell him. Just tell him the truth.

But I can’t. How do I explain that I’m mourning the man who marked me against my will? That I’m grieving for possibilities I never wanted but which still represented something important? That every time I think about Jax dying alone, fighting for people who weren’t even his family, my heart breaks a little more?

“It’s nothing,” I lie, forcing a smile. “Just everything that’s happened. It’s overwhelming.”

Malachi studies my face, and I know he doesn’t believe me. But before he can press, a knock at the door interrupts us. Rook enters without waiting for permission.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he says, his gaze taking in the boxes of Elijah’s belongings, the photograph still sitting on the desk. “But we need to discuss what happens next.”

“The crown,” Malachi says, and it’s not a question.

“The Council is meeting tomorrow to formalize the new structure." Rook moves closer, his gaze flickering between us. “They’ll need official confirmation of your abdication.”

Abdication. 

Such a formal word for walking away from everything.

“Fine,” Malachi says without hesitation. “Whatever paperwork needs signing, I’ll sign it.”

“It’s not just paperwork, Malachi. This is the crown. The leadership of our entire people.” Rook’s voice carries a weight I haven't heard before. “Are you certain this is what you want?”

“I never wanted it in the first place,” Malachi replies, but I hear the lie in it. He did want it, once. Before everything went wrong. “Besides, you’re the rightful heir anyway. Penelope’s brother. The last of the Northern bloodline with a legitimate claim.”

“Bloodline doesn’t automatically confer leadership ability,” Rook points out. “The Council will want to know why you think I’m qualified to rebuild what the Silent Order destroyed.”

Malachi straightens, and for a moment I see the Alpha he used to be before grief wore him down. “Because you’ve been fighting this war longer than any of us. You saved my mate and son when I couldn’t. You understand what we’re fighting for—not power, but the right to live without fear.”

“And,” Malachi continues, his voice growing stronger, “you never wanted the crown for yourself. That’s exactly why you should have it.”

Rook nods slowly, accepting what’s being offered. Then his attention shifts to me, and his expression softens.

“Penelope, I know our situation is... unique. Discovering you have a brother you’ve never known, finding out about a heritage that was stolen from you.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “I want you to know I don’t expect anything based on blood alone. I won’t demand your loyalty or affection just because we share parents.”

The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. After months of men making decisions for me, claiming to know what’s best, here’s someone actually asking what I want.

“What are you saying?” I ask.

“I’m saying I’d like the chance to earn your trust. To be the brother you need, if you’ll let me try.” His eyes move to Elio, sleeping peacefully in my arms. “Both of you deserve family who choose to be there, not just people bound by obligation.”

The offer touches something deep in my chest. “I’d like that too. I’ve never really had family before. Not the kind that chooses to stay.”

“You have it now,” Rook promises. “All of you. And when Elio’s old enough to understand, he’ll know his real heritage. Not the sanitized version the Silent Order would have preferred, but the truth about his bloodline, his grandfather’s legacy.”

Something significant passes between Rook and Malachi then—an understanding about the importance of truth over comfortable lies.

As Rook prepares to leave, making arrangements for tomorrow’s formal proceedings, he pauses beside me. Gently, he pulls me into an embrace—careful of Elio between us, but warm and genuine.

“You made the right choice,” he whispers against my ear, his voice so low only I can hear it.

The words hit me hard, bringing back that conversation from what feels like a lifetime ago. When he promised to tell me who the better man was once everything was over. 

My throat tightens as he pulls back, his eyes holding mine for just a moment. There’s no triumph in his expression, no satisfaction at being right. Just the quiet recognition of a sister who found her way through an impossible situation.

After he leaves, the silence stretches between Malachi and me. I feel his emotional state through our bond—grief for his brother, relief about our future, and that persistent undercurrent I try not to acknowledge.

The guilt of my own hidden mourning sits heavier now, Rook’s words echoing in my head. I did make the right choice. I know that. But it doesn’t make the grief any less complicated, any less something I need to hide from the man who can feel my emotions but doesn’t understand their source.

“You don't have to hide it,” Malachi says suddenly.

My heart lurches. “Hide what?”

“Whatever you’re feeling. I know you’re in pain, and I know it’s not just about Elijah.” His voice is careful, controlled. “You can talk to me, Penny. About anything.”

But I can’t. Because talking about my grief for Jax feels like twisting the knife in a wound we’re both trying to heal. Because I see the way his jaw tightens when Jax’s name is mentioned, the relief he can’t hide. Because mourning someone who complicated our lives feels selfish when Malachi lost his brother.

“I’m fine, Mal,” I lie again, hating myself for it. “Just tired. It’s been a long few days.”

Malachi nods, but I feel his frustration through our bond. We’re both performing our roles—the grieving brother and the supportive mate—while dancing around truths we’re not ready to voice.

“Tell me about him,” I say suddenly, desperate to change the subject. “About Elijah. What was he like when you were kids?”

Relief washes over Malachi’s face, grateful for something concrete to focus on. As he begins to share memories—stories of childhood adventures and brotherly competition—I listen with genuine interest. 

Because just as he has been for me countless times before, I’m here for him. Through the pain and the grief, I'll hold Malachi’s pain. It’s the least I can do.