Chapter 4 - Alex

Holly Boland. 

A name that had lingered in the deepest corners of my mind for a decade. “Haunted” wasn’t quite the right term—it was too much of a shadowy word, conjuring images of dark corridors and restless spirits. No, she haunts me like a bittersweet memory that tugs at your soul. She was meant to be mine, a thought that twists in my stomach like a knife. I could easily surrender to the murky waters of regret—wallowing in the what-ifs and could-have-beens—but I refuse to let myself drown in that despair.

If only I had dared to go to her when the truth hit me. Yet, even then, there were no guarantees of a glorious happily ever after. I’ve immersed myself in more paranormal romance novels than most men my age. Hell, I even started a book club that boasts ranked members from packs from every corner of the globe. So, I was acutely aware that rejected mates are woven into the fabric of our world, often leading to heartache rather than reunion. 

Holly wasn’t from Bloodmoon, where the law of rejection demands a weighty justification. I knew nothing about Ironfur or their customs. What I did know was her status, rooted deep within the hierarchy, being tied to the ranked families and specifically as cousins to their Beta. If Holly chose to reject me, her pack would rally behind her, leaving me in the same lonely place but with a gaping, invisible chasm in my heart. So, I chose to stay silent to avoid that risk.

For ten long years, I clung to that cowardice. But now, with Holly’s return imminent, my heart raced with the possibility of crossing paths once more. The Goddess was intricately weaving our fates together, and the strands of destiny drew us closer. I had to believe in that cosmic design and trust the Goddess’s plan. It was time to rise and shed my fear. Yet, how could I orchestrate a meeting that felt so elusive?

As André says, “The Goddess guides us on our paths. But we all have to put in the work to find our destinies.” This chance was a gift, and I couldn’t merely sit back, waiting for the Goddess to deliver Holly into my arms. She had brought Holly to Bloodmoon, which was nothing short of a miracle, but I wished the heavy burden of grief didn’t accompany it. 

I had contemplated attending the memorial for David and Loretta, but deep down, it felt senseless. My motives would be selfish. I yearned for a fleeting glimpse of the woman who had invaded my thoughts for so long. From snippets of hushed conversations around the packhouse, I gathered it was to be an intimate service, and Holly, understandably, didn’t want to face anyone who would remind her of that fateful night when Nigel’s life was cruelly snatched away. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I would fall into that category. After all, I was the one who held her tightly as her world crumbled around her, and it seemed far more likely that she would see me as the embodiment of her profound sorrow rather than the man who offered her solace in her darkest hour. 

“Dad, why are we taking this way home?” Tristan asked from the back seat of my truck.

“I just felt like taking the scenic route. This will take us past the orchard that belonged to the couple who recently passed away. We won’t be attending their service, so I thought this way we could pay our respects as we drive by,” I explained, glancing at my son in the rearview mirror.

“Oh, that makes sense. The packhouse was buzzing about that couple. Were they someone important? I’ve never heard of them,” Tristan inquired.

“Well, the couple themselves weren’t well known. Their son, Nigel Boland, was. He died before you were born, so it’s okay if you don’t…” I began to explain, but he interrupted me.

“The hero of Silverclaw. I’ve heard of him. Jamil’s middle name is in his honor. He saved Luna Isis during the attack on Aunt Aurelia and Uncle Logan’s wedding,” Tristan replied with a nod.

“Yes, Nigel Boland, the hero of Silverclaw, was the couple’s son,” I affirmed, not surprised that Tristan’s generation would know about him.

“Okay,” Tristan said, returning his focus to the window with his shamrock-colored eyes. “Since we’ll get home late, can we stop at Screen Door for dinner? I want chicken and waffles.”

“Why would we be late?” I asked, still looking at him in the rearview mirror.

“Because you’re going to stop to help the pretty lady who’s kicking the tire of her car because it’s flat up ahead,” Tristan smirked, nodding his chin toward the side of the road.

I furrowed my brow, my focus intensifying as I navigated the winding road ahead. Gradually, I eased off the accelerator, my instincts guiding me as I blinked and signaled to pull over—just as my son had predicted. There she was, exactly as he described: a stunning woman, her exasperation evident as she kicked the side of her car in frustration. The rear driver’s side tire was flat, a problem that seemed to drain the warmth from the sun-soaked evening.

Although I would have stopped regardless—it’s in my nature to lend a helping hand, especially working at my dad’s auto shop—the true reason I felt compelled to pull over was a magnetic pull towards her. As I positioned my truck behind her gray Volkswagen Jetta, the soft glow of my headlights illuminated the scene. The gentle evening breeze tousled her dark brown hair, momentarily sweeping it away from her face, and I saw her profile. It was striking, an enchanting silhouette against the backdrop of the setting sun, one I knew I wouldn’t soon forget.

Holly.

My heart felt like it was in my throat, and I struggled to breathe as I gripped the wheel, staring at Holly. It was as if no time had passed; she was just as beautiful as the first day I met her. I looked at her, trying to decide if she was real. She wore white canvas sneakers on her feet, dark blue jeans that hugged her curves, and a red flannel shirt unbuttoned to reveal a simple black tee that accentuated the swell of her breasts. I licked my lips; my mouth felt drier than the desert. After ten years, this woman’s beauty still left me in awe.

“Are you gonna get out or stare?” Tristan asked.

His words brought me back to reality. I needed to get out of the truck; I was about to talk to Holly for the first time in a decade. I gulped, my hand resting on the door as her head turned and her gray-blue eyes locked onto mine. I wasn’t sure if she would recognize me. While she may not have changed much in ten years, I certainly had. I wasn’t the same skinny eighteen-year-old kid she once knew. My build hadn’t changed drastically, but I had gained muscle from years of training with the Bloodmoon wolves. I had also grown something of a beard—more scruffy than anything—yet it at least helped me avoid looking like a baby-faced boy playing cowboy.

I picked up my black Stetson hat from the seat next to me and placed it on my head as I stepped out of the truck. If the pull of the bond was strong enough to make me stop, it felt a million times stronger now that I was standing outside. Every cell in my body buzzed with anticipation, and each step of my boots brought me closer to her. My eyes were focused on hers, searching for any sign of recognition—whether it was an understanding of who I am or who I mean to her.

Holly stood before me, her face a mask of neutrality that betrayed no hint of her inner thoughts. As I approached, I halted just inches away from the gleaming bumper of her car, careful to give her the space she needed. The last thing I wanted was to startle her; I yearned for our reunion to be a positive occasion for both of us.

I caught a subtle movement that piqued my interest — her nostrils flared as the gentle breeze carried my familiar scent toward her. My heart raced at the thought: would she recognize the fragrance that was uniquely mine? And more importantly, would she be open to me being her second chance mate?

The tension only grew thicker the longer the silence lingered between us. I couldn’t read Holly’s expression, but I knew my feelings. I was too scared to speak; I feared she would run off faster if I said anything than the young Palomino filly I worked with at the ranch. At that moment, the palomino reminded me a lot of Holly—both were unsure if they could trust me and were guarded. The silence was finally broken when the rear window of her car rolled down, and a little boy with dark brown hair and eyes popped his head out.

“Mom? Is everything okay? Who’s he?” the boy, Samuel, asked.

It had to be her son, Samuel. He was the same age as my boy, but I could see Nigel’s features in his face. How much pain must that bring Holly? To see Nigel’s face every day in their son? Or perhaps it served as a comfort. I was fortunate that Tristan looked so much like me and not at all like Claire. That way, I never had to be reminded of the woman who left us.

Holly’s expression shifted as her son cautiously peeked his head out of the car window, his curious eyes scanning the surroundings. She turned her head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him, the corners of her mouth tightening in an unspoken mixture of concern and protectiveness. Although I couldn’t decipher the nature of their silent conversation, something was clearly being said in their family link.  Samuel nodded subtly, suggesting he understood far more than his innocent demeanor let on. He carefully rolled the window up a fraction, creating a barrier while ensuring he could listen to the unfolding scene outside.

As I observed this intimate moment, I pondered Holly’s perception of me. I was left uncertain—did she see me as a friend, her mate, or perhaps even an adversary? Her body language offered a telling clue; she stepped forward, deliberately blocking my line of sight to her son. The protective instinct radiating from her was palpable, suggesting that she regarded me as an outsider, a potential threat to the safety and well-being of her child. My heart raced a little at the realization that, in her eyes, I was an interloper in this very private world they shared.

“Evening, Holly. And you must be Samuel,” I said with a smile, taking off my hat as I greeted them. I’m Alex Whitland. I knew your mom a long time ago,” I introduced myself, hoping this would ease Holly’s concerns about me being a threat.

A flicker of recognition danced in Holly’s eyes when she heard my name, but it faded almost as quickly as it appeared. I couldn’t help but notice the subtle changes in her expression. Had I changed so much that she didn’t recognize me, or maybe she had forgotten me altogether? I wasn’t sure which was worse. Scratch that—being forgotten was far worse. I didn’t want to be a fleeting image in her recollections of Bloodmoon, a ghostly presence that left no mark. The idea of being someone she dismissed entirely filled me with dread. The weight of that night hung between us, a silent reminder that I could be either an insignificant shadow in her life or a painful face she chose to erase from her thoughts.