Chapter 368 Family Love
ADRIANA
The confession hung in the air. I said nothing, letting the words settle, watching as Hazel's face crumpled and rebuilt itself in the span of seconds.
"She knew," Hazel continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Marie knew. She told me, three days before she died. She said she'd known from the first time we met, that she'd seen it in the way I looked at him, the way I found excuses to be near him." She laughed, a broken sound. "She was kind about it. Can you imagine? She was dying, and she was kind to the woman who loved her husband."
A guard passed the balcony door, and I caught his attention, gesturing for him to bring me a drink. He nodded and disappeared.
"She asked me to take care of him," Hazel said, her words rushing now, tumbling over each other in their need to be spoken. "She asked me to take her place, to love her children, to make sure he didn't fall apart. How do I do that, Adriana? How do I accept that gift from a woman I resented for having what I wanted? How do I look him in the eye now, knowing that she knew, knowing that she blessed this thing I never asked for?"
The guard returned with a tumbler identical to Hazel's, the bourbon catching the light. I took it, feeling the weight of the glass, the cool condensation against my palm. I raised it to my lips, inhaling the sharp scent of alcohol and oak.
"Elijah doesn't like you drinking," Hazel said, watching me. "And what about Lana?"
I paused, the glass halfway to my mouth. "Lana stopped nursing three weeks ago," I said, lowering the drink. "She's eating solid foods now, growing so fast I can barely keep up." I handed the glass back to the guard. "Orange juice," I amended. "If I'm going to pretend to drink, I should at least pretend responsibly."
Hazel managed a wet laugh, the sound catching me off guard with its authenticity. "You always did know how to ruin a dramatic moment."
"Someone has to," I replied, accepting the juice from the returning guard. I waited until he'd retreated before continuing. "Hazel, you didn't kill her. You didn't cause her cancer. You loved a man who was married—that's not a crime, it's just pain. The timing is tragic, but the feeling itself is human."
"I should have stayed away," Hazel whispered. "I should have transferred to another territory, built a life elsewhere. Instead, I stayed close enough to torture myself, far enough to maintain the fiction."
"Would you have been happy elsewhere?" I asked.
She didn't answer. We stood in silence, watching the storm clouds roll closer, feeling the temperature drop as the wind intensified. Sometimes silence was the only appropriate response, the only comfort that didn't feel like an intrusion.
"I'm staying," Hazel said finally, her voice steady with decision. "After you leave tomorrow, I'm not going back. Roy needs help with the children, with the house, with the pack business he's been neglecting. I can provide that. I can be useful."
I nodded, unsurprised. "I expected as much. Take whatever time you need. The palace will manage without you."
She turned to me, her expression softening. "Thank you. For not judging me. For being here."
"Always," I promised.
We remained on the balcony until the first drops of rain began to fall, fat and cold against our skin. Then we retreated inside, to the warmth and the waiting.
Elijah and Roy returned as evening approached, the sky outside bruised purple with sunset. They walked through the front door, their body language relaxed in ways it hadn't been for days. I smelled them as they approached—traces of beer and bar food, but not the overwhelming stench of intoxication. They had nursed their drinks, then, had talked more than they'd imbibed.
Dinner was a quiet affair, the six of us around a table designed for twenty. Roy's children picked at their food, the youngest asking periodically when Mommy would be home, the eldest watching his father with eyes full of knowledge too heavy for his years. Hazel sat beside Roy, not touching him but present, a steady warmth at his elbow.
"I need to say something," Roy announced, setting down his fork. He looked around the table, meeting each of our eyes in turn. "I fought you on this. When you insisted on staying, on bringing your family into this chaos, I resisted. I was worried about appearances, about protocol, about what the Elders would say." He paused, his throat working. "I was wrong. Having you here—having this family filling these rooms, making noise, demanding attention—it has been the only thing keeping me from lying down and refusing to get up. Thank you. For ignoring me. For staying anyway."
Elijah reached across the table, clasping his friend's hand. "That's what family does," he said simply. "We ignore instructions. We overstay our welcome. We refuse to let you fall."
I watched them, these men who had built a brotherhood in blood and battle, and felt the prick of tears behind my eyes. Tomorrow we would return to the palace, to the protocols and politics of royalty. Tomorrow the guards would resume their posts, the servants would anticipate our needs, and the weight of the kingdom would settle back onto our shoulders.
But tonight, we were simply people—grieving, loving, holding each other together in the face of loss. And for this brief moment, that was enough.