Chapter 137
I felt a cold, horrible feeling, like the air itself had been sucked out of the world. I stared at the
ground where the reality of what I did crashed into me and it was massive and ugly, that my brain
refused to accept it.
The person lying there was not Kyle.
He was large and his body twisted on the dirt. There was so much blood. It was everywhere thick, dark, staining the dust. It was coming from his ears, his nose, spreading out around his head. And there was a terrible, deep gash across his stomach, bleeding out faster than I could even look at it.
My eyes followed the line of his shoulder, up to his neck, and then to his face.
The world stopped spinning.
It was Sanders. Astor’s father. My father–in–law.
“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no, no.”
I looked at my own hands. They were shaking violently, covered in a sticky red residue that felt heavier than stone. I had done this. I was trying to kill Kyle.
I kept shaking my head, backing away slowly, repeating that single, useless word.
Suddenly, Kyle’s hand clamped onto my shoulder, hard enough to hurt. He shook me out of the paralyzing horror.
“Stop your pathetic whimpering, Faith,” he said, his voice hard and utterly without feeling. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you? You’re just a little monster, just like me. We are Daddy–made
Monsters.”
“I’m not a monster!” I screamed, my voice raw. “It was a mistake! I would never hurt him!”
Kyle gave a short, nasty laugh. “Oh, it’s no mistake, little wolf. You were trying to kill me. You just ended up killing your mate’s father instead. Now tell me, what will you say to Astor?”
He leaned in close, his breath cold against my ear. “Everyone told you the White Wolf can destroy everything, right? But they forgot to tell you that I know exactly what White Wolves are capable of. And unfortunately for you, I am the only one who knows how to stop them. You are not as strong as you think, and you will never, ever be able to destroy me.”
Then, just like that, he was gone. It was like the air swallowed him whole and I was left alone with the body.
The terrible silence settled over the clearing. The shock was so complete that I couldn’t even feel
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the muscles in my legs. I fell to my knees in front of Sanders.
He was still. Too still.
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I knew I should check his pulse. I knew I should try to help. But I couldn’t move my hands. They were covered in blood, and every time I looked at them, I saw the gaping wound on his stomach, the mess around his face. I did this. Even if it wasn’t who I meant to hit, it was still me.
I just knelt there, staring at the horror I had caused, unable to breathe, unable to cry.
The sound of footsteps and frantic, gasping breath broke my trance. I forced my head to turn.
It was Astor.
He saw me first. Relief and deep worry were etched onto his face as he ran toward me. His wolf’s connection was a painful echo in my chest, he could feel my terror and my guilt.
But as he got closer, his eyes dropped lower. They landed on his father and he stopped dead. The worry vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, gut–wrenching trauma. He let out a sound -a high, desolate keen that scraped the lining of my ears. He didn’t look at me; he simply dropped
next to Sanders.
“Dad! Wake up! Please!” he screamed, his voice breaking into pieces.
Then, he finally looked up. His eyes, now wide and cold, swept over me. They saw my dress, stained crimson. They saw my hands, covered in the evidence of what happened.
He looked from the blood on my hands back to the blood around his father, and the horror became something else entirely. Something sharp and terrifying.
My world tilted. The power I used, the blood and the sheer weight of Astor’s despair, it was too much. The edges of the clearing went fuzzy, and the blackness swallowed me whole.
I woke up cold, sore, and with a terrible, pounding headache that felt like a sledgehammer hitting my skull. I was lying on the wooden floor of our bedroom.
The memory hit me hard, the body, the blood, Kyle’s cruel smile, Astor’s screaming face.
A choked sob fought its way out of my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I scrambled up and ran toward the bathroom, stumbling over my shaking feet.
I ripped off my dress and turned the shower on full blast. I needed to be clean. I needed the awful stickiness of the blood even the feeling of it was gone.
I scrubbed my skin until it was red and pink and blotchy. I didn’t feel the pain; I felt completely numb, disconnected from my own body. The memories wouldn’t wash away.
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I sat down hard on the cold marble floor of the shower, pulling my knees up to my chest. The hot water rained down on me, mixing with the flood of unstoppable tears. I didn’t know how long I sat there, sobbing until my body ached and my throat was raw.
Then, the water stopped.
I looked up, blinking through the haze of steam and tears. Astor was standing there, silent.
He opened the shower door and took the thick, soft gown from the rack. He didn’t speak. He gently wrapped it around my shaking body, turned off the water, and led me out to the bedroom.
His touch was careful but almost clinical and it felt like the touch of a stranger.
I sat on the edge of the bed, shivering, the tears still coming. I reached out, desperate to touch his
arm, to feel the connection that was our matebond and to beg him to hold me.
He flinched.
He pulled his arm away as if my skin would burn him.
“Stop,” he said. His voice was low, flat, and cold.
My heart shattered. “Astor, please,” I pleaded, reaching for him again. “I didn’t mean to! You know I
wouldn’t kill anyone! It was an accident, I was trying to save you-”
“I don’t know anything,” he cut me off, his eyes dark with despair. He ran a hand through his hair, looking at the ceiling as if trying to hold himself together. “You are very, very lucky that I brought you here first instead of throwing you straight into a cell Faith”
He looked back at me, his face vacant. “I have one question and I want you to be honest with me.”
I nodded frantically, waiting for the question that would either save me or destroy me.
“Did you kill my
father?”
I looked down at my hands. They were spotless now, pink and raw from scrubbing. But the image
of the blood was still there. I looked back up at him.
In my eyes, he saw the answer.
We were mated and we’re connected. The second I looked at him, he felt the guilt, the horror, the
paralyzing truth radiating from me.
The pain hit him like a physical blow. I felt it deep in me, there was a blinding rush of hurt and disappointment that was instantly replaced by a terrible, burning hatred.
“You” he roared.
The amint
no violant that liarlend book Un arahhad the heavy lamn from the bedside table
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and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and exploded into pieces.
“You did it! How?” His voice was hoarse, thick with tears he refused to shed. “How, Faith? Why did you kill him? Why did you take my father from me?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He moved toward me with a speed that felt predatory.
He grabbed my arm and not gently, but in a rough, punishing grip that made me cry out. He yanked me off the bed and started pulling me out of the room.
“Astor, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” I sobbed, stumbling to keep up with his furious pace.
He dragged me through the house and outside. Everyone was staring. Pack members stopped what they were doing and watched in horrified silence as their Alpha hauled his mate crying and half–dressed roughly across the grounds.
The walk was a blur of shame and pain. He didn’t stop, didn’t look at me, didn’t slow down until we reached the pack cells.
He stopped at the heavy steel door. I clung to his arm, begging. “Please, Astor, don’t! You know I loved him! I love you! Please!”
He didn’t speak. He just unlocked the door, yanked me forward, and threw me inside. I landed hard on the cold, wet stone floor.
I looked up at him, pleading silently, but he was already turning away. He didn’t spare me a single
glance.
