Chapter 12 CHAPTER 12
I wasn’t even dressed properly. My hair was still damp from a rushed shower, and I was pacing my room, trying not to stare at the faint scuff marks by the window, when I heard the soft, deliberate knock downstairs.
My stomach tightened, my mind rushing into thinking who it could be.
For a moment, I considered ignoring it, pretending I wasn’t home, pretending my world wasn’t already twisting apart. But the thought of it was that Branden had moved my feet, and they had carried me quietly down the stairs until I reached the last step and saw him through the frosted glass of the front door.
Something warm flickered in my chest before I forced it down and opened the door. Branden stood there with one hand shoved into his jacket pocket and an expression that shouldn’t have been legal this early in the day unreadable, but softer than I was prepared for.
“Ayla,” he said. I swallowed. “You’re early.”
“I didn’t want to wait anymore.” The words hit harder than they should have. I folded my arms, trying to shield myself from the way he looked at me.
“I’m not in the mood for whatever this is,” I muttered.
He didn’t move or look away. “Allow me to take you out to dinner tonight."
I blinked. “Dinner? It’s not even twelve.”
“Then it’s lunch,” he said, tone calm but not really giving me a choice. “Either way, you’re coming with me.”
A stupid part of me lit up at that. The part that remembered the way he touched me two nights ago, the way my body answered his without hesitation. But the other part, the tired, frightened part, wanted to shut the door and crawl back into bed.
“Branden, I’m not—”
“You are,” he cut in, voice low. “You’ve been ignoring me all morning. Don’t do that.” His eyes searched mine like he already knew something was wrong. Heat rushed to my cheeks.
“I’m fine,” I lied. He raised one eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.” I opened my mouth to protest, but footsteps creaked behind me.
“Ayla.” My mother’s voice. I stiffened, too afraid for her that she might have heard me. Branden’s eyes flicked past my shoulder. I didn’t even have to turn to know she was standing there with her arms crossed and her face already tight with disapproval.
I stepped aside automatically, and Branden lifted his chin politely.
“Ma’am.” She didn’t bother greeting him. Her gaze stayed pinned on me as if she could set my clothes on fire with it.
“What is the Alpha doing on my porch?” she asked sharply. I exhaled through my nose, already exhausted. “It’s not your concern.”
She scoffed, stepping closer. “Not my concern? My daughter sneaking around with her sister’s husband’s brother is not my concern?”
“Mother—”
“Do you want to embarrass this family?” she pushed, voice rising. “Do you want Sierra to suffer even more? Because it seems like you do.”
My jaw clenched. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I know exactly what I’m talking about.” She stepped even closer, her eyes narrowing. “You always had a way of making things about you. And now you’re trying to destroy Sierra’s marriage like it means nothing.”
Anger struck hot and fast.
“I’m not destroying anything,” I snapped. “Sierra made her choices, I made mine. And none of this involves you.”
“It involves me when you bring shame to this house.” I laughed, humorless. “This house was already a mess long before Branden showed up, don’t pretend otherwise.” A muscle jumped in her jaw. “So you admit you’re involved with him.” I swallowed hard. I said too much. She had cornered me without even moving. I hated how easily she could twist things.
“This conversation is over,” I said, turning away. But she grabbed my arm.
“No. It’s not. You will not disrespect me in my own home—”
“Enough!” My father’s voice broke through the argument like a crack in the air. We both turned. He stood in the doorway to the living room, one hand braced against the frame as if he needed it to hold himself up. His skin looked pale, almost grey, and there was sweat on his forehead.
My irritation vanished instantly.
“Dad?” I stepped toward him, but he shook his head.
“Stop fighting,” he said hoarsely. “Both of you. I can hear you from the other side of the house.” Mother’s expression shifted, her anger dropping just enough to show worry.
“Are you alright?” she asked, stepping toward him. He opened his mouth, but a dry cough ripped out instead. He clutched his chest, bending forward slightly.
“Dad?” Branden moved before I could, his footsteps quick and firm as he reached my father’s side.
“Sit down,” Branden said, guiding him gently toward the couch.
But my father didn’t make it that far. He coughed again, harder than he stumbled. I caught his arm, and Mother grabbed his other, but his knees buckled beneath him.
“Dad!” His body crumpled to the floor, limp, head hitting the carpet with a dull thud. “Call 911!” I yelled. Mother dropped to her knees, hands shaking violently. “Gregory! Gregory, please open your eyes!” My own heart hammered so loudly I could barely hear anything else, and my hands were cold.
Branden was already pulling out his phone. “Ambulance. Now,” he said into it, voice steady but sharp. Middlewood Road. Male, mid-forties, collapsed, unresponsive.” I knelt beside my father, touching his shoulder lightly, terrified of what I might feel.
“Dad?” My voice cracked. “Please, wake up. Please.” His chest rose shallowly, but he didn’t respond. Mother began to cry then, a soft, broken sound that cut deep despite everything between us.
Branden crouched beside us, eyes moving between my father and me. His hand hovered over my back for a moment, like he wanted to comfort me but wasn’t sure if he should.
I felt it anyway—the warmth, the presence, the steadying force.
“Ayla,” he said softly, “he’s breathing. That’s good. Stay with him.”
I nodded, but my throat closed up. I pressed my hand gently against my father’s cheek. His skin felt too cold.
Outside, faint sirens began to rise in the distance.
Mother kept whispering my father’s name. I could feel her shaking beside me. It struck me suddenly how human she looked, terrified, fragile, nothing like the sharp woman accusing me minutes ago.
Branden stayed close, grounding the room with his quiet strength. He didn’t speak again, but he didn’t need to.
When the sirens grew louder, Mother looked at me with wet, trembling eyes.
“This is your fault,” she whispered. My head snapped toward her, shock freezing me where I knelt.
“What?”
“If you hadn’t been shouting, if you hadn’t provoked—”
“Mary,” Branden warned quietly.
“You bring chaos everywhere you go,” she said, voice breaking. “You always have.” Her words landed like stones, one after another. Before I could respond, paramedics rushed through the door.
Branden helped them explain what happened. Mother kept crying. I felt numb, kneeling beside my father as they lifted him onto the stretcher.
As they moved him out the door, Branden looked back at me.
“I’m taking you with me,” he said, not a question. I didn't say anything in return. The house felt too heavy. Too cold with silence, I couldn’t handle. I stood slowly, my legs unsteady, my mind a blur of fear and anger and something unnamed.
Branden stepped close, not touching me, but close enough that I felt the pull again.
“We’ll follow the ambulance,” he said quietly. And I nodded. Because right now, I couldn’t breathe on my own. And because no matter how complicated everything was, a part of me was relieved he came.