Chapter 26
The pistol hit the mud with a thud, heavier than steel, and had no right to be. Mark flinched as if the earth itself recoiled from its touch. His calloused hands shook, reaching for the weapon as though it burned his flesh.
I tilted my head, vertebrae cracking like branches under weight, the sound cutting through the storm-heavy silence. Clouds pressed low, swollen with rain, the scent of wet earth mixing with wolf musk and blood in the Vale garden, our ancestral ground, where pack had hunted, ruled, and perished.
The soil remembered. Every drop of blood spilled here seeped into its roots, binding us to the ghosts of kings and traitors alike. The air itself seemed to throb with their howls.
Mark’s breath hitched, ragged, uneven. His heartbeat was loud enough to guide me through the dark, a frantic drum announcing prey that had already been cornered. His fingers brushed the pistol grip once more, but he did not lift it. He knew what I was. What I had become.
I stepped closer, the mud sucking at my boots, the garden’s shadows curling around me like loyal wolves. My claws ached beneath my skin, silver-tipped and eager, the beast in me tasting fear before the first strike.
“No guards,” I said, my voice edged with the growl of the beast within. “No witnesses. Just us. You’ve already slaughtered the pack. You may as well finish the bloodline.”
His gaze lifted, feral gold bleeding through the brown. The wolf inside him clawed to answer.
“You hate me,” he whispered, raw, ashamed.
“I did,” I breathed, stepping closer, rain soaking me like another skin. “But not half as much as you hated yourself.”
The barrel rose, aimed at the hollow of my chest. My wolf did not flinch. My heart did, because for one heartbeat, I saw not a monster, but my pup, the boy I raised without condition.
The child who crawled into my arms through night terrors. The youth who left wildflowers on my doorstep. The boy who vowed, I’ll make you proud, Ma, after his first silver-lit hunt.
Now ruin stood before me. His fingers trembled, eyes wet, staring as if I were both prey and
salvation.
“I’m sorry,” he choked. “Too proud. Too blind. I thought power made me wolf. But I was less thar a man. I brought nothing but death.”
His voice cracked.
“You gave me everything. And I spat on it. I don’t deserve forgiveness… but if you can, remember
me once. Not for what I became. For what I tried to be.”
He closed his eyes.
The gun shifted.
Before my wolf could leap, he turned it on himself.
The thunderclap tore the night. Birds scattered. Lavender bent low across my mother’s grave. My legs buckled, the beast inside me silent for the first time in years. Rain washed his blood into the earth, and I wept, not for vengeance, but for the ending of the hunt.
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They thought I’d burn the body, let the flames devour him like a traitor. But Mark was still mine, my son, my sin. In his last act, he chose silence over slaughter. That counted for something.
So I gave him a funeral. Not a pack send-off with howls and fire. No banners. Just an oak casket lined in silk, peonies across his chest, his mother’s favorite. He used to gather them with small fists, before his hands dripped with blood.
We buried him in the orchard, where wolves once ran beneath harvest moons. No crest, no name. Only one word carved into marble:
Forgiven.
Lydia heard two days later. Ram told her gently, though gentleness had no place in our world She didn’t rage or scream. She folded in on herself like a dying flower.
On the fourth morning, I found her kneeling on cold stone, whispering prayers into the damp dark. Whether for his soul or her own, I could not tell.
Alpha Shawn Ravenshade still breathed, though life showed no mercy. His wolf was caged, paralyzed in the body that once ruled a dynasty. His eyes were wide and empty, bargaining with devils who already owned him.
And Marga, she bathed him herself now. Her jewels were replaced with coarse cloth. Twice a day, she wiped the drool from his mouth, swallowed her pride like ash. No longer crying. No onger speaking. Only the crest on her apron bound her to the house she once ruled.
The night after Mark’s burial, we gathered by the fire. Edrick poured Don Roberto’s 1986 vintage. Ram raised his glass, a silent toast to the end of betrayal. Flames snapped, smoke rising like ghosts.
did not drink. I only watched the fire consume the past.
At dawn, I visited Magnus Vale, my father, still unmoving in his hospital bed. Machines breathed n place of his lungs. I took his hand.
‘It’s done. Mark is gone. The twins are safe. The Vale Pack holds.”
His hand twitched, maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
And then there was Damien. Fate spared him by a half inch, the bullet missing his heart. Bruises panded his ribs like war tattoos. His gaze was tired, alive.
‘You look older,” he said.
“You look like you clawed your way out of the grave just to insult me.”
“I did.”
We sat in silence.
“It’s over, I said.
“Is it?” His wolf eyes flickered.
“Mark’s gone. Lydia’s broken. Alpha Shawn rots. Marga scrubs floors. Ken and Kurt study the old tongues. And me? I sleep at night again.”
He tilted his head. “And what did it cost you?”
“Everything,” I whispered.
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His hand caught my wrist, steady, unyielding.
“Not everything,” he murmured. “You still have me.”
And that broke me more than carnage ever could.
Because somehow, through blood and ash, he remained. And for the first time in years, I allowed myself to breathe.
From the bones of empire, I rebuilt. From the ashes of wolves and men, I rose. The world would look at the Vale name and no longer see fear.
They would see me, the woman who buried her past and crowned herself with its bones.
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Lucia Morh is a passionate storyteller who brings emotions to life through her words. When she’s not writing, she finds peace nurturing her garden.