Transcription
The dead don't drink champagne. Mave Sullivan knows this. She knows this as surely as she knows the weight of her wedding ring in the jewelry box at home. As surely as she knows the exact shade of her daughter's eyes. As surely as she has known for seven years that her husband Elijah is dead.
Yet there he sits in seat 3A, very much alive, swirling golden bubbles in a crystal flute. The plane's engines roar into sudden deafening focus, then fade to nothing as blood rushes in her ears. The tray in her hands crashes against the beverage cart. It's him, not someone who resembles him. Him. The way his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly before he laughs. The birthmark just behind his left ear that she used to trace with her fingertip. Faith has inherited one in the exact same spot.
The narrow aisle of the plane stretches impossibly long, reality warping as her brain rejects what her eyes insist is true. "Mave." Her colleague's voice seems to come from underwater. "Helen." Her name is Helen, though right now Mave can barely remember her own name. "Mave, you've gone pale. What's wrong?" Her tongue feels swollen. What can she possibly say that the love of her life who was declared dead is sitting in first class sipping Dom Perignon? Helen grips her elbow. "Mave, you're scaring me. You're shaking like a leaf."
She forces her gaze from Elijah. It can't be Elijah, but it is. Sweat breaks out along her hairline. She's hallucinated him before, is the thing. Glimpsed his profile in crowds or caught his scent on passing strangers. In the early days of grief, she'd seen him everywhere, except it was never him. She takes a step forward as the man laughs. That laugh, richer than his speaking voice, rising from deep in his chest, always starting with a short intake of breath before it builds. The laugh that warmed their kitchen on Sunday mornings, that she felt vibrate against her lips when she kissed his throat. The laugh she thought their daughter would never know.
"I have to serve him," she whispers, voice cracking.
"What? No, you need to sit down before you collapse," Helen argues.
Mave shakes her head, finding strange clarity in the chaos of her mind. "I need to see him up close. I need to kill him, kiss him, scream until her throat bleeds." Each step toward him feels like walking through quicksand. Seven years of crying herself to sleep. Seven years of working double shifts to make ends meet. Seven years of watching Faith's eyes light up at every new photograph of her dead father. Why pretend to be dead? Why not just end things? This doesn't make any sense. Is Mave going crazy?
The woman beside him notices her approach. "More champagne, please," she says, her tone carrying the expectation of someone who's never heard no in her life. And then he looks up. Those eyes, dear God, those eyes, deep amber brown with distinctive flecks of gold near the pupil. Eyes she stared into as they made love, as they fought, as they whispered promises that apparently meant nothing. "Faith has those exact eyes." A wave of vertigo makes the cabin spin.
"More champagne, sir?" she manages, voice dull as his gaze meets hers. It slides over her face with polite disinterest, not a flicker of recognition, not a heartbeat of shock mirroring her own.
"Please," he says with a smile that doesn't reach his eye. Then, with a wink, he adds, "Don't be stingy with the poor gorgeous." The blonde beside him laughs, her fingers tightening possessively on his arm.
Something fractures inside Mave's chest. This casual flirtation from a man wearing her husband's face. It's obscene. Wrong in ways she doesn't have words for. She pours mechanically, champagne trembling over the rim of his glass as the plane hits minor turbulence. Or perhaps it's just her hands.
"Sorry," she manages, dabbing at the spill with a trembling napkin.
"No harm done," Elijah says. Their fingertips brush as she hands him the glass. Does he really feel nothing? Not even the faintest echo of what they were. He doesn't. He's already turned away, attention back on the blonde, his head bent toward her as though Mave is less than a ghost. The certainty that this is her husband collides with the absolute impossibility of his behavior, and the dissonance is physically painful. She retreats on legs she can no longer feel. Bile rising in her throat, bitter and burning.
Her husband is dead. She identified his wrecked car. She planned his funeral. She spent seven years trying to keep his memory alive for Faith. Yet here he sits alive, day drinking with another woman. Mave barely makes it to the tiny airplane bathroom before her knees give way. Faith's face swimming in her mind. Faith, who keeps Elijah's photo by her bed and kisses it good night. Faith, who just last week asked, "If daddy's watching over us from heaven, does he ever miss being able to hug us?" Violent tremors rack her body as two irreconcilable truths wage war. Her husband is dead. Her husband is in seat 3A. If it's truly him, then everything has been built on lies. If it's not him, then she's finally broken under the weight of a death she never recovered from. Which is worse. Mave isn't sure.
Chapter 1.
The plane lands with a jolt that Mave barely registers. She splashes cold water on her face. The shock of it bringing momentary clarity. She needs answers. Needs them like drowning lungs need air. Needs them for Faith. Who deserves to know if her father is still alive.
When she emerges, Helen takes one look at her face and whispers, "What happened?"
"Everyone deplaned. You know you're not supposed to stay in the bathroom while we land." Mave fixes her gaze on seat 3A, now empty. Her hands have stopped shaking. The initial shock has hardened into something colder, sharper.
"That man," she says, her voice low and dangerous even to her own ears. "The one that was sitting there. I need his name, his information, everything." Helen follows her gaze, confusion etched across her features.
"Why? Did he do something inappropriate?"
"Well," Mave replies, "Either I finally lost my mind completely or my dead husband has faked his own death. So, pretty inappropriate, yes."
Helen's eyebrows rise alarmingly high. "Mave, what are you talking about?"
God, she sounds insane. Mave realizes as she meets Helen's confused gaze. People don't come back from the dead. Except Elijah, apparently.
"Can you help me or not?" she insists.
"That's against policy. You know that," Helen says.
"Please," The word comes out raw, stripped of dignity. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."
Helen studies her for a long moment. "I'll see what I can find out, but you need to get off this plane before the cleaning crew arrives. Wait for me in the first class lounge." Mave nods, grateful. "Thank you."
The terminal buzzes with afternoon activity as she walks away from the plane on wobbly legs. A part of her yearns to run after Elijah right this instant. The other insists she needs proof, needs confirmation before she—before she what? Confronts a man who looked at her like a stranger. He hadn't recognized her. Not in the least. If Mave had one certainty, it was this.
The staff entrance to the lounge requires her ID badge. Inside, the hushed atmosphere and muted lighting provide blessed relief from the sensory overload of the terminal. She needs to call Alan. Alan was there the night of the accident. Alan identified the body. Alan will tell her she's losing her mind. And maybe, God, maybe that would be a relief compared to the alternative. She moves to the bank of phones along the back wall, away from curious eyes.
He picks up on the third ring. "Hello, it's me," she says, voice breaking despite her efforts.
"Mave, what's wrong? Is Faith okay?" Alan asks. Immediate concern fills his voice.
"She's fine. Mave presses her forehead against the cool wall beside the phone. "Look, Alan, I don't know how to tell you this, but—"
"Mave, you're scaring me," Alan interrupts. "Where are you?"
"Chicago, layover." She draws a ragged breath. "Listen to me, Alan. I saw Elijah."
A long silence stretches too long. "Did you hear me?" Mave insists.
"I heard you," Alan finally replies. His voice has changed, grown careful. "What? What do you mean you saw Elijah on my flight?"
"First class." The words tumble out frantic. "It was him, Alan. His eyes, his laugh, everything."
Another pause. "Mave." Allan hesitates. Mave thinks she hears him wet his lips. "Elijah is dead," he says eventually, casually. "You know that." May fights the urge to slam the phone down.
"I know what I saw," she insists. "I served him champagne. I was inches from his face."
"And what did he say?" Alan's tone sharpens slightly. This makes Mave freeze.
"Nothing." The admission feels like swallowing glass. "He didn't know me at all."
"All right, look. Mave." Alan sighs, the sound crackling through the connection. "You're working too hard. How much sleep did you get last night? The night before?"
"This isn't about sleep, Alan," she insists. "When was the last time you took a real break?" he insists. "Remember that trip we talked about taking Faith to Disneyland? Maybe it's time."
She slumps against the wall, suddenly bone tired. "I know what I saw," she repeats, but doubt creeps in. "This is the man I love, Alan," she says before catching herself. "Loved," she corrects. "You really think I wouldn't recognize him?" But deep down, doubt creeps in. What if Alan is right? Maybe the long hours, the constant travel, the stress of single motherhood have finally cracked something essential inside her.
"Mave." Allan sighs. "Remember last year when you thought you heard him calling your name in that restaurant?"
"This was different," Mave snaps. "Look, Alan, all I'm saying is, are you sure it was him?" She insists, feeling dizzy. "That night, the body you identified. Are you sure?"
"Are you sure, Mave?" Alan scolds gently. "Come on. Are you sure, Alan?" The line goes staticky with his hesitation. "The crash was bad, Mave. The injuries were significant, but yes, I'm sure. His father was there, too. Remember?" She squeezes her eyes shut. She hadn't viewed the body herself. Couldn't bear to see him that way, broken and still. She'd trusted Alan and Samuel West to handle the identification, the arrangements.
"Of course," she murmurs. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."
"Don't apologize," Alan says quickly. "Just take care of yourself, okay? For Faith's sake, if not your own."
Faith. The thought of her daughter centers her as it always does. "You're right," she concedes. "I think I'm just exhausted. Too many flights back to back."
"That's probably it," Alan says, relief evident in his voice. "Call me when you get home. Okay. I'll come over. We can talk more."
"Okay. Thanks, Alan." She hangs up, the plastic receiver slipping from suddenly nerveless fingers.
She's losing her mind. That has to be it. The grief counselor had warned her about this, how the mind can sometimes reject loss so completely that it creates elaborate scenarios of reunion. Elijah is gone. She's accepted that most days. But sometimes, like today, the wound feels as fresh as it did 5 years ago. She's accepted his death, but she's not over it, not over him, and sometimes it feels like she never will be.
She should get back to the plane. She's halfway to the door when Helen rushes in, slightly out of breath.
"There you are," she says, approaching with a folded paper in hand. "I checked the manifest like you asked."
Mave shakes her head. "It's okay. I just talked to a friend. I think I'm having some kind of stress reaction."
Helen's expression shifts. "Right. Well, the guy's name is Elijah Xavier West."
"Mave."
"What?" she whispers. The floor seems to drop from Mave's feet. That's her husband's name. Not similar, not close, exact.
"Let me see," she whispers, cold reality crashing back in waves. Helen hands over the paper, concern evident in her furrowed brow.
"He's headed to some fancy hotel downtown, according to his booking details," she explains, though Mave barely listens. She just convinced herself she was hallucinating, that her grief-addled mind had conjured a ghost. But hallucinations don't book first-class tickets under their real names, and they certainly don't book rooms at luxurious hotels.
"Helen," she says, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. "I need you to cover for me with the captain. Tell him I got sick. Food poisoning. Anything."
"What? But we have a turnaround in 70 minutes."
"I know, and I'm sorry." Mave clenches her fists, but "I need to find him."
Helen's gaze is penetrating. "What are you planning to do?"
"I don't know. Get answers." Determination hardens her voice. "Faith deserves answers."
"She's a good kid," Helen says with a small smile.
"She is," Mave agrees, a strangled laugh escaping her. "She's also currently convinced my best friend isn't human."
"What?" Helen blinks.
Mave waves a dismissive hand. "Nothing. Just a phase she's going through. She's convinced my friend Allan turns into a wolf at night."
"I have to go now," Mave says, feeling like they're getting off topic. "Will you cover for me?"
Helen hesitates, then nods. "All right," she squeezes her arm. "Go. I'll handle the captain." Mave nods once, then hurries from the lounge, purpose driving her forward. The hotel information on the manifest shows where her husband is headed. She'll start there. She'll find him. She'll get answers. Because if Elijah Savior West is alive, then everything else is a lie. And she's going to find out why.
Chapter 2.
The taxi costs more than Mave's monthly car payment. She doesn't care. Money, job security, rational thinking, all have been incinerated by the impossible truth burning through her veins. Her husband is alive. Rain pelts the cab's windows as it pulls up to a modern complex of glass and stone. The kind of place that charges extra for the privilege of breathing its rarified air. The kind of place Elijah always preferred. His tastes shaped by a lifetime of West family privilege.
Mave pays the driver, her mind replaying that moment on the plane in an excruciating loop. The casual wink, the lack of recognition, the hollowness that followed. It can't be him. Elijah loved her. She knows that. She's never doubted that. But then, why act like he'd never seen Mave before?
The lobby gleams with polished marble and soft lighting. A massive stone fireplace crackles at its center, surrounded by sleek leather seating where well-dressed guests sip colorful cocktails. Mave approaches the reception desk, suddenly conscious of her rumpled flight attendant uniform and the wild look she must have in her eyes.
"Good evening," the receptionist says, her name tag reading Amber. "Do you have a reservation with us?"
"No, I may have..." Now that she's here, the words feel absurd in her mouth. "I need to see one of your guests, Elijah West."
Amber's smile doesn't waver, but professional caution settles behind her eyes. "I'm sorry, but we don't provide information about our guests."
"I understand, but—" Mave leans forward, lowering her voice. "Could you at least call his room? Tell him M. Sullivan is here."
"I'm afraid not." The smile remains fixed, but her tone hardens slightly.
Desperation claws at Mave's throat. She reaches into her wallet and pulls out a worn photograph. Her hands tremble as she places it on the counter. "This is him," she says. "Have you seen him today?" The photo shows Elijah on their last anniversary, his head thrown back in laughter as Mave planted a surprise kiss on his cheek.
Amber glances at the photo, her expression careful. "Ma'am, I really can't."
"Please," Mave whispers. "He's my husband." Something in her voice, the raw, unfiltered pain, makes Amber hesitate. "I'm sorry, but—" A curse from across the lobby cuts her off.
Mave turns and the world stops spinning. Elijah stands near the elevator bank, checking his watch. He's changed since the flight, now wearing dark jeans and a gray cashmere sweater. The blonde is nowhere to be seen.
"That's him," Mave whispers more to herself than to Amber. She snatches the photo back, shoving it into her pocket as she moves across the lobby like a sleepwalker. The distance between her and her resurrected husband feels both infinite and non-existent.
Mave stops just behind him, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne. "Elijah," she says, her voice steadier than she feels. He turns, brow furrowed in mild confusion.
"Yes." His eyes scan her face and for one heartbreaking second, Mave thinks she sees something flicker behind them.
"We need to talk," she manages. She hadn't prepared for this moment. Hadn't planned what to say when face to face with her dead husband.
His expression shifts to mild surprise. "Oh," he says, recognition flashing across his face. "It's you."
"Mave gasps. "You remember me?" she breathes.
"Of course," Elijah shrugs. "The flight attendant from the plane." The relief vanishes as quickly as it came, leaving her hollow.
"The flight attendant?" she repeats flatly. "That's it. That's all you got?"
Elijah blinks at her. "I'm sorry. Was there anything else I should get?"
From behind them, Amber approaches cautiously. "Mr. West, is everything all right?"
"I think so," he replies, his tone bemused, though his eyes never leave Mave's face. "Is this woman bothering you?" Amber insists, sending Mave a look.
"What do you mean bothering him?" the latter erupts. "He pretended to be dead for the past seven years, and I'm bothering him."
Amber's eyes widen. "I'll call security," she says, already spinning towards her desk.
"Whoa, hold on," Elijah holds up a hand. "What do you mean pretended to be dead? I haven't been pretending anything. I've just been walking around like a very alive person."
The flippant response ignites something in Mave. This is so quintessentially Elijah. That slightly bratty smartass tone was his classic defense mechanism when cornered. One of many rich boy behaviors she'd cataloged. Like how he'd overtip for the slightest service flaw, or his barely hidden shock when he first saw her tiny apartment with its secondhand furniture, as if such living conditions were purely theoretical until that moment. "This is cozy," he'd said, attempting diplomacy as he surveyed her tiny studio. "You mean small," she'd replied. "I mean efficient," he'd corrected. "Like a submarine." She'd thrown a pillow at him and he'd caught it with ease, laughing. "What? It's a compliment. I like submarines. Very nautical."
The memory crashes against the present. This is him. This is undeniably, unequivocally Elijah from the arch of his eyebrow to the way he stands with his weight balanced slightly on his right foot.
"Where were you?" she demands, her voice breaking. "How could you do this to me?"
"Do what?" he asks, baffled. "And I've been plenty of places. You'd have to be more specific."
Before she can think, Mave's palm connects with his cheek in a sharp crack that echoes through the lobby. Pain immediately radiates up her arm. It's like slapping marble, but Elijah barely flinches. Only his eyes react, flashing momentarily from brown to a luminous gold as his pupils dilate. A split-second tell, gone almost before it appears, but Mave catches it. His eyes used to do that. She's never met anybody else with eyes that could do that. And she realizes with sudden clarity he'd never wanted to talk about it. Change topics whenever she mentioned his strange golden eyes. He'd been loving, charming, warm, but he'd been secretive, too. She remembers. Somehow her grief had conveniently made her forget about that these past seven years, that he'd been secretive. But now she wonders, "What had he been hiding from her?"
"I have no idea who you are," Elijah says, his voice lower now. "You must have me confused with someone else."
"Confused?" Mave laughs. "You think I wouldn't recognize my own husband?" Several guests turn to stare. Amber and another staff member exchange wide-eyed glances, caught between protocol and fascination with the unfolding drama.
"You think I wouldn't know if I'd gotten married?" Elijah counters, a sneer creeping into his tone.
Mave wants to shake him. "You're Elijah Xavier West," she begins.
"Yes, thank you. I know who I am," he interrupts.
"Son of Samuel and Diana West," she continues undeterred. "Born May 17th, 1960. Takes your coffee black, except on Sundays when you inexplicably want cream. You have a birthmark shaped like a butterfly on your lower back, which you call your 'butterfly stamp'." Elijah stares at her, the color draining from his face. "You hate cilantro and claim it tastes like soap. You sleep with the window open even in winter. You fold your socks instead of rolling them. And when you're startled," she adds, "your eyes flash gold like they did when I slapped you."
Around them, the lobby has gone silent, spectators riveted by the unfolding scene. "You never did explain that," Mave presses, sensing a crack in his facade. "Just like you never explained why you don't go to doctors or why you have the most insane metabolism I've ever seen. Why injuries that should take weeks to heal disappear overnight? Or why you can drink an entire bottle of scotch and not even slur?"
Elijah goes completely still, a predator's stillness that has nothing to do with the casual, charming man he presents to the world. "Give us a minute," he says, turning to Amber.
"Sir, she protests. "I should call—"
"It's fine," he cuts her off. "Thank you, Amber." He grasps Mave's elbow, his grip firm but not painful, and steers her toward a quiet alcove behind the fireplace. Once they're alone, he releases her, putting a careful distance between them.
"Who are you?" he asks, all pretense gone. The question breaks something in her. She almost expects to hear it physically snap. "You're really going to pretend not to know who I am?" Her voice is barely audible. For a moment, just a heartbeat. Uncertainty flickers across his face. Then his expression hardens.
"My name is Mave," she murmurs. He shows no reaction.
"Have you been stalking me?" he asks instead in a low, menacing tone. The question is so absurd, so completely backwards that Mave lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Stalking you? I buried you," she cries. "I scattered your ashes across the sea. I've spent seven years explaining to our daughter why her daddy isn't coming home."
"Our daughter," Elijah repeats unimpressed. "Now we have a daughter."
"Faith," Mave says. "She just turned seven last month." Elijah shakes his head and she sees it then, as clearly as if watching an old film. She remembers the moment she told him she was pregnant. The way his face had drained of color, the panic in his eyes. "Pregnant?" he'd echoed, his voice hollow. "But you're on the pill."
"It's not infallible," she'd argued, taken aback by his reaction. She'd expect surprise, perhaps a bit of nerves, but not—not this. Not shock so visceral you'd think she'd just announced a disaster of epic proportions. He'd paced their apartment, running his hands through his hair until it stood on end for at least a good hour afterwards. And then, "You said," finally, his voice strangely flat. "Excuse me," she'd whispered, stunned. "Mave, please." The look he'd sent her, desperate and raw, had made her shiver. "You have to trust me on this," he'd insisted. The fight that followed was their worst ever. She'd stormed out, spent the night at a friend's. When she returned the next day, determined to have a rational conversation, he'd been waiting with flowers and an apology, said he'd panicked, that he was sorry, that of course they could make it work. But something had changed. The easy confidence had vanished from his eyes, replaced by a haunted vigilance she couldn't explain. Suddenly, he wouldn't leave her side, his eyes trailing her everywhere. And he was always wary, tense like some unknown danger was looming. "I'm pregnant, not dying," she joked once when he'd insisted on carrying her up a small flight of stairs. He hadn't laughed. Instead, his expression had decomposed, and he'd looked like he'd been about to cry. The memory twists like a knife. "Was that why he'd left? Because of this pregnancy he irrationally feared."
"Yes," Mave thinks. "It has to be. 'You left because of Faith,' she accuses, the words tasting like poison. 'You said you were okay with it, but you weren't, were you?'"
"I don't know you," Elijah insists. But there's something different in his tone now. Cautious. Two security guards appear behind him, summoned by Amber despite his instructions.
"Sir, is there a problem here?"
"Yes," Mave says before Elijah can answer. "This jackass here abandoned his family and now he's pretending not to even know us."
"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the premises," the taller guard says firmly.
"Oh, whatever," she says, yanking her arm away when he reaches for her. "Not like I want to be here anyway. Not anymore." She's confused, Elijah tells the guards, his voice measured. "She needs help. A doctor, maybe."
"I'm not confused," Mave spits, truly angry now. Forget the tears. Forget the shock. She's incandescent with rage. "You're a coward, Elijah. And you know what? I'm actually glad you stayed away from my daughter. She deserves better than that."
Mave fumbles in her wallet, pulls out the photo of Faith she always carries. The school portrait taken 3 months ago. Faith's smile revealing her missing front tooth. "She looks just like you," Mave says, throwing the photo at him. "In case you ever wondered, now you won't have to come see for yourself." She turns and walks away, her spine rigid despite the storm raging inside her.
Chapter 3.
Elijah. Elijah doesn't move for several minutes after the woman storms out. The lobby swirls around him with nervous energy. Guests stealing glances, staff whispering. He can hear every word with crystal clarity. His enhanced senses picking up fragments of speculation and concern. The photograph in his hand weighs more than it should. A small girl with dark hair and unmistakable features stares back at him. She has his eyes and his mother's dimples. The resemblance is there, yet impossible to reconcile with the blank space in his memory where this woman should exist.
"Mr. West." Amber approaches cautiously. "Are you all right? Should I call someone?" He looks up, noting how her pulse quickens when their eyes meet. "It's an automatic response he's grown accustomed to. Humans react to a predator's presence, whether they understand what they're sensing or not."
"I'm fine," he says, his voice carrying just enough authority to end further questions. "Thank you for handling that so professionally." She flushes with pleasure at the praise. "Of course, sir. Will you be needing anything else tonight?"
"Privacy," he says simply, and she retreats without another word.
Elijah takes the elevator to his suite on the 12th floor, his mind churning. The woman's scent lingers in his memory, something floral and warm beneath the airline regulation perfume, tinged with determination and barely controlled panic. His wolf had stirred the moment she approached. She was attractive, he'll admit that. Tall, athletic build, striking features, and an assertiveness that most humans lack around him. Even furious and disheveled, there had been something magnetic about her presence.
Inside his suite, Elijah loosens his tie and pours himself three fingers of scotch from the well-stocked bar. He needs to think clearly, and alcohol helps quiet the wolf's restless energy. The photograph draws his attention again. He can't stop looking at it. The child, Faith, Mave had called her, could be his. But resemblance doesn't mean paternity, and he has no memory of the woman who claims to be her mother. Perhaps it had been a one-night stand he'd forgotten. The woman was attractive, very much his type, and her scent. But no, that didn't make sense. She'd claimed they were married. The details she'd rattled off about his personal habits, his family, his physical quirks, they were accurate, disturbingly so.
Elijah sets the photo on the coffee table and begins pacing. His enhanced hearing picks up conversations from neighboring rooms, the distant sound of traffic. The most troubling part isn't the woman's claims. It's what they represent. If she's telling the truth, she's human, completely, obviously human, and Elijah doesn't sleep with humans ever, not casually and certainly not seriously enough for marriage. The risks are too catastrophic. Human women don't survive bearing shifter children. The pregnancy alone usually kills them. And even if they somehow survive the birth, which is rare, they can't be allowed to raise a shifter child. One accidental bite during the child's first shift would be fatal. Shifter children need pack structure, need guidance from their own kind. And unfortunately, the shifter gene tends to be dominant. Meaning, if he is in fact Faith's father, the chances of her being a shifter are alarmingly high. Elijah wouldn't do that to someone. He wouldn't get a human pregnant and then abandon her to face those dangers alone. Yet, here's a photograph of a child who looks exactly like him, supposedly being raised by a human woman who claims he left her.
Elijah picks up the photo again, studying the little girl's face. If she's somehow his, if there's any chance that a human woman is raising a shifter child, his child, that woman could be in danger. The girl, too. When shifter children hit seven or eight, their wolf begins to stir. Without proper guidance, without understanding what's happening to them, the first shift can be violent, deadly, not just to the child, but to anyone nearby who tries to help. The thought sends his wolf into anxious circles beneath his skin.
He reaches for his phone and dials Nicole's extension. "I need you to look into someone," he says without preamble. "The flight attendant from earlier, she said her name was Mave."
"The woman who accosted you in the lobby?" Nicole asks. "Sir, she was clearly delusional."
"Just find her," he interrupts. "I need to know where she lives, where she works, everything you can dig up."
"May I ask why?"
"Her claims were obviously," he had a photograph. He picks up the picture again, unable to keep his eyes off the child's face. "A little girl who who might be mine."
Silence stretches across the line. Nicole has been his assistant for three years, his father's before that. She's seen enough pack politics and shifter complications to understand the implications. "I'll get right on it," she says finally.
Elijah stares at the little girl, grinning in the photo. If she's his, if she's been growing up without knowing her father exists. He continues pacing, his wolf prowling just beneath the surface. Faith. The name keeps echoing in his mind like something half remembered.
Chapter 4.
Two days of restless pacing have led Elijah here, standing across the street from an elementary school at 3:00 p.m., watching children spill from the building in a chaotic wave. Nicole had found the school easily enough. A few strategic phone calls to the airline, a check of employment records, and suddenly he had Mave Sullivan's address and her daughter's school. Mave Sullivan, 31, flight attendant for the past 4 years. Before that, she worked various service jobs in New York. She has a 7-year-old daughter named Faith, born in October 1991. Nicole had said no father listed on the birth certificate. The efficiency of it made him feel like a stalker, but he'd been past the point of caring about propriety since he first saw Faith's photograph.
His hands are shaking. But what if she really is his daughter? What if she's not? What if approaching her traumatizes a child who thinks her father is dead? What if walking away means abandoning his own flesh and blood? The school bell rings, sharp and final, and his enhanced hearing picks up the excited voices of children being released into the courtyard to wait for their parents. His wolf stirs restlessly beneath his skin, responding to his anxiety with a need to pace, to move, to do something other than stand here, frozen by indecision.
Then Faith emerges from the main doors. She gestures animatedly as she talks to her friends, drawing them into whatever story she's telling with natural charisma. Leadership qualities. His wolf observes with what feels disturbingly like pride. Elijah moves closer, staying behind the chainlink fence that separates the school property from the street. He tells himself he just needs to see her clearly to confirm what his heart already knows. The scent of dozens of children mingles in the air, making it difficult to isolate individual smells, but he's patient. He's been tracking things since he was old enough to shift.
Faith breaks away from the group, chasing after a ball that's rolled toward the fence. As she gets closer, the wind shifts, carrying her scent directly to him, and recognition slams into him with devastating certainty. It's unmistakably his bloodline. The same base scent that marks all the Wests like cedar and something wild and clean. There's no mistaking it. No room for doubt. This child carries his genetics as surely as if she'd been born with his name tattooed on her forehead. She's his. Absolutely, undeniably his. But she is also completely, purely human. No wolf, no trace of any supernatural ability. Elijah frowns. Shifter genes are dominant. Overwhelmingly so. A shifter father and human mother should produce a shifter child 99 times out of a 100. Yet here she is, his daughter, human. It defies everything he knows about the fundamental nature of what he is. But his nose doesn't lie, and neither does the recognition that burns in his chest like a brand. Faith is his. His daughter, who somehow, by some miracle he can't comprehend, escaped the burden of his nature. The relief that crashes over him is so intense it nearly brings him to his knees. She's safe. She'll never have to worry about losing control. She'll never have to choose between her human world and her wolf. She's just a normal human child. His normal human child.
He takes a step toward the fence before he can stop himself. She's right there. So close he could call her name. But then reality crashes back. What would he say? How do you explain to a 7-year-old that her world isn't what she thought it was? And more importantly, what place does he have in her life? She's human. His world is dangerous for humans. Even if Mave would allow him contact, what could he offer Faith except confusion and instability? Maybe the kindest thing he can do is walk away and let her live her normal human life. The decision sits in his chest like a stone, but he forces himself to turn away from the fence.
He's taken three steps toward his car when he hears it. "Daddy." The word stops him cold. He turns slowly, hardly daring to breathe. Faith stands pressed against the chainlink fence, her small hands wrapped around the metal links. Her eyes, his eyes, are wide with recognition and something that looks like wonder. "Daddy," she asks again, voice full of hope. The words hit like a punch. Emmy starts to speak, then stops. "It is you." The child's voice rises with excitement. "I knew it. I told Mommy I saw you in my dreams, but she said you were in heaven." She starts climbing the fence with the fearless determination that only children possess. Several adults near the school entrance notice the commotion, and Elijah can hear them calling for someone to get the child down before she hurts herself.
"I should leave," he thinks desperately. "I should walk away before this gets worse." But Faith is calling for him now. Her voice carrying across the playground as she struggles desperately with the fence. "Daddy, it's me, Faith." The anguish in her voice destroys him. She's so small, so determined, so absolutely certain that he belongs to her. A teacher tries to coax her down from the fence, but Faith is having precisely none of it. "That's my daddy," she points at Elijah with one small hand while clinging to the fence with the other. The teacher follows Faith's pointing finger and Elijah realizes he's completely exposed now. Half the school staff is staring at him and someone will call the police soon if he doesn't do something.
Faith makes the decision for him. With a final determined heave, she makes it over the fence and drops to the ground on his side. "Daddy." She launches herself at him without hesitation, and pure instinct makes him catch her. She wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face against his shoulder. And every protective instinct he never knew he possessed, roars to life. "Mine," his wolf declares fiercely. "She's so small in his arms, so warm and trusting, and absolutely certain that she belongs there."
"I knew you weren't really dead," she whispers against his ear. "I told Mommy you were coming back, but she didn't believe me."
Elijah closes his eyes and holds her tighter, his whole world reorganizing itself around this moment. "I'm here," he manages, his voice rough with emotion. "I'm here now." And as Elijah is still trying to process the impossibility of holding his human daughter, he catches another familiar scent on the afternoon breeze. One that makes his body go rigid with recognition even before he sees her. Mave.
Chapter 5.
Mave rounds the corner of the school building. At a near run, her face a mask of panic that transforms into fury the moment she spots him holding Faith.
"What do you think you're doing?" she demands, striding toward them. "Put her down now." The command in her voice makes his wolf bristle, but Elijah forces himself to remain calm.
Faith, still wrapped in his arms, turns toward her mother with bright eyes. "Mommy, look. Daddy came back."
Mave's face goes white, then red. "That is not your father," she says firmly, reaching for Faith. "Come here, baby."
"But, Mom," now Faith. The authority in Mave's tone brooks no argument. Faith reluctantly allows herself to be transferred from Elijah's arms to her mother's. But she keeps looking back at him with confusion and hurt.
"This isn't your daddy," Mave says, her voice gentler now, but still strained as she fixes Elijah with a glare that could melt steel. "He's just someone who looks like the pictures." The dismissal stings more than it should. Elijah takes a step forward, his protective instincts flaring.
"You said she was mine," he says quietly. "I couldn't just leave her here, not knowing if—"
"And why not?" Mave's voice rises. "That's exactly what you've been doing for the past 7 years, isn't it?"
"I didn't know about her," Elijah says bluntly. "How am I supposed to know? You never reached out."
"Because I thought you were dead," Mave explains, making Faith startle.
"You're scaring my daughter," Elijah snaps, reaching out despite himself. The words hit their mark. Mave's face flushes with anger, and she shifts Faith higher on her hip in a gesture that's purely protective. "Your daughter," she repeats, her voice dangerous. "Just two days ago, you wouldn't even believe she existed, and now she's your daughter. Have you lost your mind?"
Elijah grimaces. "Look, I'm sorry, but like I told you at the hotel, I have no memory of you, and it doesn't help that you've made up this entire relationship we never had."
Mave's jaw drops. "I haven't made up anything." The words come out sharp and bitter. "You were declared dead. If you don't believe me, ask your father." She frowns at that, suddenly looking troubled. Though not as troubled as Elijah feels. "My father," he repeats, confused.
Looking at Mave now, really looking at her, he can see why his wolf responded to her so strongly. She's magnificent in her anger. All fierce protectiveness and barely contained fury. But that only makes it more confusing. If they'd had some casual encounter, why can't he remember her? Before he can respond, she's turning away. Faith still in her arms. "Stay away from us," she throws over her shoulder. "I mean it."
His wolf snarls at the idea of being separated from his daughter. But Elijah forces himself to remain still. He can't just take Faith. Mave is her mother. And despite his concerns, he can see that she loves the child fiercely. But he's not giving up. Faith is his daughter, and he has rights, too, even if he can't remember how he got them. He watches Mave stride across the playground, Faith's arms wrapped around her neck. "I'll figure this out," he promises silently. "I'll find a way to be part of your life."
He's considering his options. Private investigators, legal counsel, gradual approaches through neutral parties when he catches a familiar scent on the wind. Another shifter. Elijah's head snaps up, scanning the area with predatory focus. There. Across the parking lot, mid-30s, sandy blonde hair, athletic build, the kind of clean-cut appearance that puts humans at ease while hiding the predator beneath. Elijah frowns, confused. Allan, his childhood friend and pack brother, is here. But why? Elijah hasn't called him. Hasn't even spoken to him since their brief conversation about territory disputes last week. Maybe Nicole told him.
Elijah raises his hand to wave Allan over, grateful for familiar support in this surreal situation. But then he realizes Allan isn't looking his way. In fact, Allan doesn't seem to have noticed him at all. He's only looking at Mave. Mave, who Allan reaches with easy familiarity, who he hugs, actually hugs, right before he also leans in to greet Faith with the casual affection of someone who's done this countless times before. He knows them, Elijah realizes, frowning. But how? And most importantly, how can he know them? No faith, and not realize she's part of his own Alpha's bloodline. He has realized. Elijah understands with sudden clarity. Allan knows exactly whose daughter Faith is, and he hasn't said a thing to Elijah.
Elijah takes a step toward them as Mave helps Faith into the car. His childhood friend knows his daughter, knows Mave, and he hasn't said a word. He starts walking more quickly. That's when Allan sees him. Allan's head turns. His eyes find Elijah's and then he hurries into the car and starts the engine with sudden panicked urgency. "Wait!" Elijah yells after him, breaking into a run. Faith notices, pressing her face to the rear window. She waves at him, confusion clear on her small features. Mave just shakes her head and gives him the finger. And Allan guns the car at an impossible speed, tires squealing as he drives away under Elijah's startled gaze.
Chapter 6.
"See?" Mave barks as Allan speeds through residential streets at dangerous speeds. "I told you it was him. But you weren't shocked to see Elijah alive, were you?" For the past 2 days, ever since her confrontation with Elijah at the hotel, Allan has been insisting it was just coincidence. Grief playing tricks on her mind. He'd been so reasonable, so convincing that she'd almost started to believe him again. Almost. But back there at the school, Alan hadn't looked surprised to see Elijah. He'd looked like a man caught in a lie.
"You were scared," she continues, her voice growing stronger with certainty. "You saw him and you ran. You ran because you knew he was alive."
"Mave." Alan starts, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
"No." She cuts him off. "You knew. You knew it was really him, didn't you?"
Alan's jaw works silently, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. In the back seat, Faith hums quietly to herself.
"You don't understand," Alan finally says, his voice strained.
"Stop the car, Alan, right now."
"Mave, listen to me."
"Stop the goddamn car." Allan jerks the wheel to the right, pulling into an empty parking lot with a screech of tires. He puts the car in park, but doesn't turn off the engine, his breathing harsh in the sudden silence.
"Yes," he says finally, the word dropped like a stone into still water. "I lied. But it was for your own good, Mave. For Faith's good."
"For my own good?" Her voice cracks. "Alan, I mourned him. I've been raising his daughter alone, thinking he was dead. And you?" She stops, emotion choking off her words.
"I know." His voice is barely above a whisper. "I know what it cost you."
"Then why?" The question comes out raw, desperate. "Why would you do that to me? To Faith?" She stares at his profile, at the man who's been her anchor for seven years. The man who held her while she cried on the anniversary of Elijah's death. Allan, who she trusted more than anyone else in the world. Allan, who's been lying to her face for years.
"I can explain," he says, finally turning to meet her eyes. "But not here, not with—" He glances back at Faith, who's still humming and playing with a small toy. "Can we drop her off at your mother's first, please?" The request sends fresh alarm through her.
The 10-minute drive to her mother's house passes in intense silence, broken only by Faith's chatter about her day and her excitement about seeing Daddy at school. Mave's mother, bless her, takes one look at Mave's face and agrees to keep Faith for the evening without asking questions.
Back in the car, the silence feels suffocating. "My place," Mave says when Alan hesitates at the end of her mother's driveway. "And then you're going to tell me everything, or I swear to God, Alan, I will never speak to you again." The threat hangs between them like a sword. Alan's been part of her life for so long that the idea of cutting him out feels like threatening to amputate a limb. But the betrayal burns in her chest, mixing with confusion, and a growing sense that nothing in her life is what she thought it was.
Her place feels too small when they walk in. The familiar space somehow changed by the weight of whatever Allan is about to tell her.
"Talk," Mave demands. Allan runs his hands through his hair. "Elijah isn't who you think he is," he says finally. "He put you in terrible danger, Mave. Both of you."
"What are you talking about? How?"
"It wouldn't make sense if I just explained it," Alan says, his voice strained. "I'd need to show you."
"Show me what?" Mave asks, backing away from him.
"Please," he says, moving toward her with his hands raised like he's approaching a spooked animal. "Just wait until I can make you understand. It will all make sense then."
"What's going on?" She asks, the question directed more at herself than at him. "I don't know what to believe anymore."
"You can trust me," Alan says quietly. "You always have. That hasn't changed." But it has changed. The foundation of their friendship, built on shared grief and his steadfast support, has been revealed as a lie. How can she trust anything else? He says, "Still, he's Alan."
"Then tell me," she says, her voice barely steady.
Alan starts unbuttoning his shirt. "What are you doing?" Mave takes another step back, alarm flaring.
"Trust me," he says, pulling the shirt over his head. "I need you to see this."
"Allan, stop." But he's already reaching for his belt, stripping out of his clothes with efficient movements. "What the hell are you?"
"Look at me," he says, now completely naked and seemingly unconcerned by her shock. "Look me in the eyes, Mave." She wants to look.
away. Wants to demand he put his clothes back on and explain himself like a rational person. But there's something in his voice, something desperate and urgent that keeps her frozen in place.
"Just watch," he says, "and try not to scream." The change starts in his eyes. Then his face begins to elongate, his jaw pushing forward as his teeth sharpen into fangs. Mave's brain refuses to process what she's seeing. This is impossible. People don't just— Allan drops to his hands and knees as his spine arches and stretches. Fur erupts across his skin in a wave of sandy brown and gray. His limbs reshape themselves with wet organic sounds that make her stomach lurch. Within moments, where Allan knelt, a massive wolf now crouches.
Chapter 7.
Elijah's hands shake as he dials his father's private number on the oversized cell phone. One of those new Motorola models. It feels like a brick against his ear. But right now, he needs answers more than convenience.
"Samuel West," his father's voice comes through the speaker, crisp and as authoritative as ever.
"It's me," Elijah says without preamble. "We need to talk."
"Elijah, where the hell are you? You were supposed to be at the Harrove funeral an hour ago. The pack is asking questions."
"Forget the funeral," Elijah snaps. "I want to know why Allan is hanging around a human woman who claims I'm supposed to be dead."
The silence on the other end stretches so long that Elijah wonders if the call has dropped.
"How did you find out?" his father asks eventually.
Elijah gapes. "You knew," he murmurs. "You [ __ ] knew, son."
"Don't," Elijah says. "Don't you dare."
"I ran into her by accident. She was shocked to see me alive."
Another sigh. "So, you saw Mave then. You know her?"
Elijah's grip tightens on the phone. "No thanks to you," Samuel replies, his tone hardening. "You never bothered to introduce us properly."
Elijah's mind reels. "She knew things about me, intimate things. She claimed we were married."
"It's true," Samuel admits. "You were married in secret against pack law and against my explicit orders."
"What?" The word comes out strangled. "How could you not tell me that?"
"How could I not tell you?" Samuel's voice rises. "How could you not tell me you were dating a human woman? You knew I'd forbid it."
"I can do what I want," Elijah shoots back, feeling defensive despite not remembering Mave or their relationship. "I'm a grown man."
"You're pack above all, boy," Samuel roars. "And I'm your alpha. You broke pack law." His tone quiets down. "My heir," his father sighs. "Dating a human? Marrying her in secret? How could you?"
Elijah staggers backward. "I told you if you went through with it, I'd banish you from the pack and never allow you back. You'd get nothing. No inheritance, no family fortune, no protection. Nothing. And you went and did it anyway," Samuel continues, his voice bitter. "You left us, the pack, your mother, all for this girl."
Elijah's mind reels. The pack, being an heir, the family fortune. That's his entire identity. Everything he's ever known about himself. If he'd been willing to give up everything for Mave, willing to defy his father. I must have really loved her, he thinks.
Elijah's chest tightens with a pain he doesn't understand. Somewhere in his missing memories is a love so powerful it made him choose a human woman over everything he'd ever known. And it's gone. Stolen from him as surely as if someone had cut out a piece of his heart.
"Father," Elijah says, his voice hollow with grief for something he can't remember losing. "I need you to tell me exactly what happened because I don't remember any of this."
"I don't know," his father admits. "You were in a car accident. Allan was with you. He found you and rescued you. Said you were fine physically, but somehow you'd lost all your memories of her."
"So you decided not to tell me about Mave," Elijah says, the betrayal cutting deep.
"Because it was a miracle," his father's voice gained strength. "It was like you'd never met her. You remembered everything else. Pack events, business deals, birthdays, conversations we'd had six months ago, the day before, everything except her. But that makes no sense." Elijah thinks he is a shifter. Even if he'd been in an accident severe enough to cause memory loss, he should have recovered by now.
"I thought you'd remember eventually," Samuel continues. "In fact, we were certain you would. But I thought if you came back to us, to the pack in the meantime, perhaps you'd realize the error of your ways, you'd understand your place was here, despite your memories of Mave coming back. But your memories never came."
"So you told her I died?" Elijah asks, horror and shame washing over him in waves. Mave, the woman he'd loved enough to abandon everything for, had been left to believe he was dead. Left to grieve alone while carrying his child.
"Yes." The simple admission destroys something inside him.
"How could you?" he screams into the phone, his voice breaking. "I'll never forgive you for this. You hear me?"
"Oh, come on," Samuel snaps back. "You know the law. She's human. You're not right for her anyway. She's better off without you, and you know it."
"Like this is about her," Elijah yells. "As if you care for one second about her when you left her to grieve and fend for our child alone."
"What?" Samuel's voice cuts through Elijah's tirade. "What are you talking about? You couldn't even have known Faith wouldn't turn out a shifter. What were you planning to have her kidnapped if she were? Is that why you have Allan tailing her?"
Elijah scoffs, his horror growing in case Faith turns. "Wait a minute. Wait a minute," Samuel interrupts. "Are you saying the girl was pregnant?"
"Oh, come off it, Dad," Elijah snaps before realizing his father has gone completely quiet. And Samuel West is never quiet.
"You didn't know about Faith?" Elijah asks, his voice dropping to a whisper. On the other end of the line, he hears his mother's voice rising in the background, his father talking to her in hushed, urgent tones.
"There was a baby," Samuel repeats, his tone blank with shock.
Elijah pinches the bridge of his nose. "Don't you dare try and pretend like you care for one second."
"Listen to me." His mother's voice suddenly fills the line as she takes the phone from Samuel. "Allan has been watching Mave for us for years. We didn't want— Well, we thought we owed her that at least. Protection. Allan offered."
"Oh, how generous of you, mother," Elijah snaps back.
"Shut it," his mother says sharply. "I'm trying to tell you that unlike us, Allan has been hanging around with Mave for years. He has to know about— about the baby," she whispers in a horrified tone.
"She's not a baby anymore, mother. She's seven," Elijah bites back. But in the back of his mind, the implications hit like dominoes falling. Allan kept his parents secret from him. Told him nothing about Mave being alive and grieving. But Allan also kept Faith's existence secret from his parents. For years, Allan has been the only one who knew all the pieces of this puzzle. He's been playing all of us, Elijah realizes, his voice barely above a whisper.
Elijah remembers Allan's face at the school parking lot. Not surprised at seeing him, but terror at being caught and the way he'd fled, taking Faith and Mave with him like a man running from exposure. But why?
"Diana asks. "What could Allan possibly gain from?"
"I don't know," Elijah admits. "But he saw me today, mother, and he ran. He took my daughter and drove away like his life depended on it."
The phone line crackles with static as the implications sink in. "I have to go," Elijah says. "I have to find them." He hangs up without waiting for a response, his hands shaking as he processes everything he's learned. Allan, his childhood friend, his pack brother, the man he'd trusted above all others, has been orchestrating this entire situation for 7 years. The question that terrifies him is simple. Why?
Chapter 8.
Allan transforms back into his human form with the same wet organic sounds that had made Mave's stomach lurch the first time.
"Jesus Christ," she mutters, running her hands through her hair as Allan reaches for his clothes. "Faith was right. Oh my god, my seven-year-old knew before I did." She thinks of all the times Faith had insisted Uncle Allan was actually a wolf in disguise. How she'd called him a liar when he denied it with that patient smile adults use with imaginative children.
"I'm sorry for not telling you," Allan says, pulling his shirt over his head. "We're not supposed to tell humans about what we are."
"We?" Mave's voice comes out sharper than she intends.
"Who's 'we'?" Allan sits on the edge of her coffee table facing her.
"Shifters. There are more of us than you'd think. Families, communities spread across the world. We organize ourselves into packs."
"Packs," Mave repeats, testing the word. "Like actual wolves."
"Exactly like wolves," Allan nods. "Each pack has an alpha who leads, makes decisions for the group, enforces our laws. My alpha, Samuel West, has forbidden me to—"
"Wait," Mave interrupts, her mind reeling. "Are you telling me Elijah is like— like you?"
"He is," Allan says. "And there's something in his tone that makes her stomach clench. "Which is why I'm risking everything telling you this secret, Mave. Because you need to understand the gravity of the crime he committed when he got you pregnant."
"What?" Mave recoils. "It's illegal for werewolves."
"Shifters," Allan corrects. "And no, it's not illegal for shifters to sleep with humans. Not exactly. It's illegal for shifters to have children with humans, especially human women, because a human very rarely survives bearing a shifter child."
Mave blinks, processing this information. The exhaustion during her pregnancy, the way Elijah had hovered over her with barely concealed panic.
"Getting pregnant from Elijah should have killed you, Mave," Allan continues relentlessly. "And even if it hadn't, if Faith had turned out to be a shifter, you would not have been allowed to raise her."
"Excuse me?" Mave screeches.
"Because a bite from a shifter kills humans," Allan explains. "And the risk of a child biting you is— well, high."
The pieces click together with devastating clarity. Elijah's reaction when she told him about the pregnancy, not joy, but horror. The way his face had drained of color, his desperate insistence that she couldn't keep the baby.
"That lying scumbag," she exclaims, fury boiling over. "He lied to me this entire time. He never told me."
"Exactly," Allan says, his voice rising with vindication. "He started a relationship with you against orders and then made the mistake of getting you pregnant."
"Well, in his defense, it's not his fault I forgot to take my pill once," Mave says, feeling reluctantly defensive despite her anger. "Okay, twice, maybe three times."
Allan shakes his head. "How can you defend him? Do you have any idea the danger he put you in?"
The question hits her like a slap. "Is that why he pretended to be dead all these years?" she asks. "Because he committed a crime?"
"No." The voice comes from behind them, low and furious.
Mave spins around to see Elijah standing in her doorway, his eyes blazing with anger.
He came here, she thinks, startled. "I've never pretended to be dead," he says, stepping in. "Something happened to me. Some sort of accident and I somehow lost my memory of you and Faith. My father decided it would be better if you thought I was dead and he—" Elijah points an accusing finger at Allan. "—helped him convince you. Meanwhile, never telling my father you were pregnant with our child."
Mave gapes at both men, doing her best to process all of this. Memory loss. His father deciding she should think he's dead. Allan helping to convince her. The betrayal she's feeling is so complete, so overwhelming that she can barely speak. But if Elijah lost his memory of her in some kind of accident, then his appearance at the hotel, his confusion at the school, his presence here now, it all means something different than she thought.
"How did you find us?" she asks.
"I tracked you," Elijah says, giving Allan a menacing look. "Step away from her."
Allan moves protectively in front of Mave. And suddenly both men are shouting at each other.
"You've been lying to me for seven years," Elijah roars, "keeping me away from my family!"
"Your family?" Allan shouts back. "You put her in danger. You were selfish, reckless. You always do what you want without thinking about the consequences."
"Consequences?" Elijah's voice is deadly quiet now. "You want to talk about consequences? You let my daughter grow up without her father. What kind of consequences are those, Allan?"
"I was protecting them," Allan insists. "From you, from the danger you represent."
"How could you not think of the consequences where Mave was concerned?" Allan shouts, his face red with fury. "Just approach her like this. Take what you want."
"I would never."
"Oh, I see how it is," Elijah interrupts, his voice cutting through Allan's tirade like a blade. "Meanwhile, you never had the courage to approach her at all. But you wanted to, didn't you, Allan?"
Allan's mouth snaps shut, his face going pale.
"You loved her," Elijah concludes, his voice deadly quiet. "That's what this is about. You loved her, and unlike me, you didn't approach her."
Mave stares at both men, her mind racing. Allan, who's been her rock for years? Who held her while she cried?
"Allan," she says quietly. "Is this true?"
Allan looks at her with anguish in his eyes. For a moment, it looks like he's going to deny it. But then, "Yes," he admits. "It's true. I saw you first and I loved you first. But I knew the rules. And most importantly, I would never have done that to you."
"Is that why you had my memory erased?" Elijah demands. "In this supposed accident?"
"No," Allan screams. "You had your own memory erased."
Both Mave and Elijah stare at him in stunned silence.
"What?" Mave breathes.
Allan looks cornered. "You were growing weaker because of the pregnancy," he says, voice full of resentment. "Elijah was desperate to save you, but it was too little, too late."
Mave remembers now the bone-deep exhaustion, sleeping 16 hours a day, Elijah's constant worry that she'd attributed to first-time father nerves.
"There was nothing we could do," Allan continues. "We asked everyone and eventually Elijah went to see one of the rare humans to ever survive giving birth to a shifter child, a woman named Cassandra Hargrove. She advised him to meet with a magician who has the power to grant any wish but for a price."
"What kind of price?" Mave asks, though she's beginning to suspect she already knows.
Allan bites his lip. "He and I went to see the magician, a man called Adrien. He granted Elijah's wish to ensure Faith would be human and you would survive the pregnancy. But in doing so, he lost my memories of Mave."
"Elijah finishes, his voice hollow with understanding.
Allan nods. "And I asked you," Elijah says slowly, not trusting his father. "I asked my good friend Allan to tell me everything and bring me back to Mave. But you didn't."
Allan turns to Mave instead of answering Elijah. "Because he didn't deserve you. He put you in danger. He almost killed you. I've loved you since the first moment I saw you, Mave. I just wanted what's best for you."
The words should be romantic. Should make her feel cherished. Instead, they make her feel sick.
"Then why didn't you make the wish?" she asks quietly.
Allan recoils. "What?"
"You claim to want what's best for me," Mave says, her voice growing stronger. "What's best for me is for my daughter to grow up with her father by her side. Surely you know that. Surely if you love me, you know that's all I ever wanted."
Allan goes pale. "Why didn't you make the wish?" Mave presses.
"Faith and I would have been fine, and Elijah would have been with us, and you would have lost your memories of me."
"Maybe not," Allan admits reluctantly. "The price is what you love most."
Mave smiles grimly. "Well then," she says, her voice cutting. "If you're not sure that's me, then you can't claim you loved me as much as he did." She points to Elijah. And before Allan can reply, she adds, "I don't fault you for not making the wish. You don't have to do that for me. I'm not your wife. I'm not your family. Faith isn't yours."
Allan tries to interrupt weakly. "But you could have spared me the grief," she says, her voice breaking. "You could have told Elijah the truth. You say you did that out of love, but that's [ __ ] and you know it."
Alan reaches for her, desperation in his eyes, but Elijah throws himself forward, restraining him. "Stay away from her," Elijah snarls.
Mave meets Allan's eyes, her heart shattered not by his love, but by his betrayal. For seven years, she's raised their daughter alone, while her father was kept away by the very person she trusted most. She never wants anything more to do with him.
Chapter 10.
Three months pass like a dream twisted into something Mave can't quite name. Faith, who has spent seven years clinging to photographs and stories, now has the real thing. A father who looks at her with wonder in his eyes, as if he can't believe something so perfect could exist.
"Higher, Daddy. Higher," she squeals, her legs pumping as Elijah pushes her on the park swing.
"Not too high," Mave calls out. He catches her eye across the playground and immediately adjusts his push. He does that, respects her boundaries, never questions, never challenges. That's the problem, isn't it? He's still him. The man who knows intuitively when she's in a bad mood, who can't cook to save his life, but tries anyway. The same man, but with a hole where she used to be. Sometimes she catches him watching her with something that might be interest, probably attraction, but it isn't love. Not the love that made him sacrifice everything.
"Mom, did you see how high I went?" Faith calls.
"I saw, baby."
Later, she insists on showing Elijah her new Hello Kitty notebook, the one he bought her last weekend. She flips through the pages, showing him drawings he's already praised, stories he's already read, as if presenting them for the first time. And Elijah responds with the same enthusiasm, the same focus, as if nothing in the world matters more.
A knock at the door distracts Mave. "I'll get it." There's no one there when she opens it, just a small envelope on the welcome mat. Her name is written on the front in a familiar handwriting that makes her stomach clench. Allan. She glances back to make sure Elijah and Faith are still absorbed in the notebook before slipping the envelope into her pocket. She doesn't need Elijah's protective anger right now. Not when she's barely holding herself together.
Later, after Faith is in bed and Elijah has finally, reluctantly said good night, she opens the envelope with trembling hands. The note inside is brief.
Mave, you were right. I didn't love you the way you deserved. I'll fix everything. I don't expect your forgiveness, but I hope someday you'll understand. This letter was always meant for you. I'm sorry I kept it from you for so long, Alan.
A second, older envelope falls out, yellowed slightly with age. Her name is written on it in handwriting she would recognize anywhere. Elijah's handwriting.
Mave's hands shake so badly she can barely open it.
Freckles. Before you, I was a shadow moving through a world I didn't belong in. I had everything and nothing at once, and none of it mattered until that afternoon when you knelt beside my broken down car. Grease smudged across your cheek, refusing to tell me your name because rich boys like me were nothing but trouble. You were right about that. Before you, I was half alive. After tonight, I will be again. By now, Allan will have told you everything. What I am, what my family is. I should have told you from the beginning. You deserved the truth before you gave me your heart. Before we built the only thing in my life that ever truly mattered. I have spent hours searching for the perfect words. The explanation that would make sense of why I kept this from you. But there are no perfect words. The simple truth is that I was afraid. From the moment I met you, when my world narrowed to the constellation of freckles across your nose, and the way you laughed like you were surprised by your own joy, I knew I would tear down heaven and earth to keep you. I told myself I'd tell you when the time was right. Then I told myself I couldn't risk losing you by revealing what I am. Then it was too late. I knew you'd never forgive the deception. You hate liars and trust is a currency you don't spend easily. I knew all this and I still chose fear over honesty. Now you're carrying our child and it's killing you, Mave. Every day you grow weaker and there's nothing the doctors can do because they don't understand what's happening. I've searched everywhere for a solution. Asked everyone who might know and found only one answer. One with a price I never imagined having to pay. As I write this, you're sleeping so deeply you won't wake until this is fixed. The magician was brutally clear. Our daughter can be human. You can survive. But the price is what I love most in this world. You. After tonight, I won't remember you. I won't remember how your hair smells like rain, or how you cry at dog food commercials and pretend you don't. I'll forget the sound of your laughter, the feeling of your hand in mine. All of it gone. I will be nothing without these memories, freckles. But I'm giving them up freely because a world where you exist, even one where you hate me, is infinitely better than one where you don't. You might never forgive me for the lies. You might never look at me the same way again, but you'll be alive and our daughter will be safe. And that's enough. It has to be enough. I will find my way back to you, M Sullivan. I may not remember your name or your face or the feeling of your lips against mine, but my soul will know yours. And if someday you can find it in your heart to let me love you again, to relearn the contours of your heart, to rediscover the rhythm of your breath. I will spend every moment making up for what I've lost, for what I've taken from us both. I hope you'll let me, but I'll understand if you can't. Forever yours, even when I don't know it. Elijah.
Tears stream down M's face, dropping onto the paper and blurring the ink. She presses a hand to her mouth to stifle the sobs that threaten to tear from her chest.
Epilogue.
Days pass and the letter burns a hole in Mave's pocket. She can't bring herself to show it to Elijah. Can't find the right moment, the right words. He watches Mave when he thinks she won't notice with a look that's increasingly less like curiosity and more like hunger. But still, she keeps her distance. The casual touches that might evolve into something more are met with subtle withdrawal because she doesn't think she can start over. She doesn't think she could stand to lose him a second time.
Then one night, Faith is showing Elijah her newest treasures over dinner.
"And this is where I'm going to write all my wolf stories," Faith explains, flipping to a fresh page. "Because wolves are the best animals, like you, Dad."
Elijah smiles fondly. "I'm glad you think so, Princess." His gaze drifts up, meeting Mave's across the table, and his smile lingers warm. And suddenly, his expression freezes, his glass slipping from his fingers.
"Elijah?" Mave sits forward. He stares at her, his face draining of color, eyes wide and unfocused.
"Dad?" Faith's voice waivers with concern. "Are you okay?"
Elijah doesn't respond, just keeps staring at Mave with an intensity that makes her skin prickle. "What's wrong?" she asks, rising from her chair. She moves around the table, hesitating just a moment before touching his arm. The first deliberate contact she's initiated since his return. He blinks rapidly, focus returning to his eyes as they lock onto hers.
"What is it?" Mave asks again. He tries to speak, but no words come. His mouth opens and closes, his eyes never leaving her face. And just when she wonders if she should call him a doctor, he whispers, "Freckles!"
Mave's breath catches in her throat. "What did you just say?" The nickname, her nickname, hangs in the air between them. There's something different in his gaze now. Something that makes her heart race with recognition. Mave shakes her head, afraid to believe it.
"Elijah." He reaches for her, hand trembling, then hesitates. Slowly, with aching care, he touches a strand of her hair, twisting it gently between his fingers. The gesture is so achingly familiar, the same way he'd touch her hair on their first date, in bed, in the drowsy mornings when they'd wake tangled together.
"It's not pink anymore," he says, voice rough with emotion, tears filling his eyes.
"Mave begins to cry, remembering the pink hair she'd had when they'd been together. "What is it? What's happening?" Faith asks, looking between them in confusion.
"I like it," Elijah says, still holding the strand of her hair. "I always liked your natural color." Guilt and shame cross his features and he drops the strand of hair like it burns him. He opens his mouth and Mave knows. She knows he's about to apologize. It's the same expression he wore whenever he felt he'd overstepped, whenever he worried he'd hurt her. The same expression he'd had the day she told him she was pregnant.
Before he can speak, Mave leans forward and presses her lips to his. The kiss is desperate. Seven years of longing poured into a single moment of contact. His arms wrap around her immediately, pulling her closer, holding her like he'll never let go again. Faith squeals, clapping her hands in delight. When they finally break apart, both breathing hard, tears streaming down their faces. Mave cups his face in her hands. She stares into the eyes that have haunted her dreams for seven years. Sees the love and recognition shining there and knows that somehow, against all odds, he's come back to her.
"Your father is home," she tells Faith, her eyes never leaving Elijah's. "He's finally home."
Thank you for listening to The Alpha's Forgotten Bride by Lily Robert, aka yours truly. If you enjoyed it and want more of this story, I've got exciting news. I've just launched my Patreon and there's 30 minutes of bonus content waiting for you there. You'll also get exclusive stories in the future. It's a great way to support me as a creator while getting more of what you love. You'll find the link in the description and the pinned comment below. No pressure, of course, just happy you're here. See you in the next.