Chapter 364 Heavy Grief
ADRIANA
Leo was waiting in the kitchen when I came down with the twins' backpacks, his tall frame leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. At almost sixteen, he'd shot up in the past year, all angles and sharp edges, but his eyes held the same warmth they'd held when he was Lorain's age. He'd made himself toast, I noticed, and poured his own orange juice—the small independence that had become his trademark.
"Mum." He stopped me before I could launch into the morning routine. "Dad texted me. About Aunt Marie."
I froze, one hand still holding Liam's lunchbox. "He told you?"
"He said I needed to know and you might need to go to them." Leo's voice was carefully neutral, but I saw the hurt there—the old wound of being included in adult concerns only when convenient, excluded when it mattered. "He said you'd probably try to stay here because of Lana and Lorain."
"He's right," I admitted. "I can't just leave—"
"You can." Leo straightened, setting down his juice with a decisive click. "I'll watch the girls. Lorain can help with Lana. I'm not a kid anymore, Mum. I can handle a few hours."
I stared at him, this young man who had replaced my little boy so gradually I hadn't noticed the transition. He was right—he wasn't a child. He was old enough to drive, old enough to make decisions about his future, old enough to hold the fort while his mother attended a deathbed.
"Are you sure?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. "Lana's been fussy. She wouldn't sleep until midnight, and she'll need to be fed in a couple hours—"
"I've watched her before. I know the drill." Leo's expression softened, the teenage armor cracking to show the son who still wanted to be helpful, to be needed. "Go, Mum. Uncle Roy needs you. We can manage here."
I crossed the kitchen in three strides and pulled him into a hug, feeling his arms come up awkwardly around my shoulders. He smelled of soap and toast and the cologne he'd started wearing last month, and I blinked back fresh tears against his shoulder. "When did you get so grown up?" I whispered.
"About the same time Dad started forgetting how," he replied, and I couldn't tell if it was bitterness or simple observation.
I kissed his cheek, tasting the barest hint of stubble there. Another recent development that kept catching me off guard. "I'll have my phone on. Call me for anything. Anything at all."
"Yes, Mum."
I ran upstairs, showered in record time, and dressed in simple black pants and a gray sweater. I stopped by the nursery on my way out, finding Lana awake in her crib, her tiny fists waving in the air, her dark eyes tracking my movement.
"Hi, my love," I whispered, lifting her carefully. She was warm and solid, the newest miracle in a family that had seen too much loss. I pressed my nose to her soft hair, breathing in the scent of baby shampoo and innocence. "Mama has to go help a friend. But Leo's here, and I'll be back soon."
She gurgled, her mouth opening in a toothless smile, and my heart splintered. I kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, memorizing the weight of her in my arms. Then I laid her back down, tucked the blanket around her small body, and forced myself to walk away.
The drive to Roy's territory took ninety minutes that felt like nine hours. I pushed the speed limit, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, my eyes dry and burning.
I tried Elijah's phone twice more, and got voicemail both times. The silence felt ominous, heavy with grief I couldn't yet fully process.
Roy's house sat at the end of a winding driveway, a modest colonial that had always felt welcoming. Today it looked different, diminished by the absence of the woman who had turned it into a home. I expected cars lining the street, expected the bustle of pack members coming to pay respects. Instead, I found only Elijah's SUV and two vehicles I didn't recognize.
I parked and practically ran to the door, my anxiety cresting. Inside, the house was quiet, the silence broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant murmur of voices from the living room. I followed the sound, my heels clicking against the hardwood.
Roy was seated on the couch, his head in his hands. Elijah beside him, a hand on his friend's shoulder. Hazel stood behind them, her face a mask of controlled sorrow. Three other pack members stood nearby, men I recognized from border patrol but didn't know by name. They looked up as I entered, and the atmosphere shifted, formalizing.
"My Queen." The nearest man bowed, and the others followed suit, including Roy, who tried to stand before Elijah pressed him back down.
I crossed the room quickly, waving off the formalities. "Don't you dare, Roy. Please."
He looked up at me, and I saw the devastation there—the red-rimmed eyes, the hollow cheeks, the expression of a man who had watched his world end and couldn't process the silence that followed. "Adriana," he said, his voice cracking. "You came."
"Of course I came." I took the seat on his other side, close enough to touch, close enough to feel the tremor running through him. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
He nodded, a jerky movement, and fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. "She loved you," he said, the words barely audible. "She said you were the only queen who ever asked about her day. The only one who remembered her birthday."
The grief hit me then, a wave that threatened to pull me under. I reached for his hand, holding it between both of mine, offering what little comfort I could. "She was easy to love," I managed to say, though it felt like a boulder had lodged itself in my throat.
We sat there for a long moment, the silence broken only by Roy's occasional shuddering breath. Eventually, Elijah caught my eye and nodded toward the kitchen. I understood—give them space, let the men grieve together in their way. I squeezed Roy's hand once more and stood, my legs unsteady.
Hazel followed me into the kitchen, her movements automatic. She stood at the island, her back to me, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. I approached slowly, my hand hovering over her shoulder before settling gently.
"Hazel," I said softly.
She turned, and I saw the tracks of tears on her face, the way her hands trembled as she gripped the counter. "She was too young," Hazel whispered. "Too good for this. We spent so much on treatments, flew in specialists from three continents, and it still wasn't enough. It's not fair, Adriana. It's not fair."
I pulled her into my arms, feeling her collapse against me, her usual strength crumbling in the face of loss, her body shaking with the force of her crying. I held her, murmuring nonsense words, sharing the burden of sorrow that had settled over this house like a shroud.
"Roy needs you," I said when her tears began to slow. "The children will need you. You'll have to be strong for them, Hazel. Stronger than you feel."
She pulled back, wiping her face with a tissue from her pocket. "The children," she repeated, her voice hollow. "He sent them to his mother's. How do you tell a seven-year-old and a five-year-old that their mother isn't coming home?"
I thought of Lorain, of her innocent question this morning, of Lana's trusting eyes. "You don't," I said. "Not yet. Not until you're sure you can get through the words without breaking."
Hazel nodded, straightening her spine, pulling the mantle of authority back around her shoulders. "Thank you for coming," she said, and this time her voice was steadier. "I didn't think you'd make it. With the baby, and the twins—"
"Leo sent me," I interrupted. "He insisted. He's watching the girls."
Something like pride flickered across Hazel's grief-ravaged face. "That boy," she said. "He's going to be a good man. Despite everything."
"Because of everything," I corrected softly.
We stood together in the kitchen, two women bound by love and loss, waiting for the moment when the world would start turning again, knowing that when it did, nothing would ever be the same.