CHAPTER 2

In Elijah’s world, grief meant a wolf on its knees, howling into the night until its throat turned raw. It meant shredded earth under claws and breath that burned like fire. It meant bones cracking beneath the weight of a pain that refused to sit quietly.

That was how wolves grieved.

Elijah did not howl. He sat in a beige basement beneath a church he did not believe in and drank thin coffee from a paper cup. He listened to humans talk about the people they had lost while his own grief lay inside him like a stone.

Dr. Chen was speaking again. Her voice carried the gentle rhythm of a teacher who had said the same words many times and still meant them.

“Grief can change shape,” she said. “Some days it feels sharp. On some days, it feels distant. On other days it feels like nothing at all, and that nothingness can be frightening.”

He watched her mouth move. The words reached his ears and went nowhere.

Margaret nodded and clutched a fresh tissue. Sarah rubbed her eyes. Robert stared straight ahead with a posture that looked almost military. The young woman beside him, thin and red haired, kept her gaze on the floor. She had not spoken at any of the sessions. Her silence felt like another person in the room.

Elijah’s hands rested on his knees, fingers relaxed, shoulders straight.

The wolf inside him was not relaxed.

Something scratched lightly beneath his skin. It felt like claws tracing bone. The wolf was not fully awake, but it was watching.

Earlier that evening, a boy had walked through the parking lot with a soccer ball under one arm. His father had rested a hand on his shoulder as they passed Elijah’s car. The boy had looked up with complete trust in his eyes.

Elijah had felt an unexpected ache that pressed against his ribs until he had to look away.

He still did not know if that ache belonged to grief or instinct. It probably belonged to both.

“Elijah,” Dr. Chen said, and her voice cut through his thoughts, “do you believe that healing is possible for you?”

He raised his head. He saw nine pairs of hollow, yet curious eyes turn toward him.

“No,” he said.

The word was simple and flat. It landed in the center of the circle.

Dr. Chen’s expression did not change. “Would you be willing to share why?” she asked.

He leaned back slightly. The folding chair creaked beneath his weight. “Because there is nothing left to heal,” he replied. “Elena was everything. The bond was real. It was not a metaphor or a romantic phrase. It was physical, spiritual even. When it broke, it did not leave pieces. It left nothing.”

Margaret frowned. “You say that as if you mean something different when you talk about a bond.”

He paused. He had said too much.

“It does not matter,” he said.

Robert spoke for the first time that night. “You said the accident was six months ago,” he said quietly. “That is recent.”

For a human, it was recent. For an alpha, six months without a mate felt like fifty years inside a body that refused to die.

“Yes,” Elijah said.

“That is not enough time to know what is possible,” Robert said.

Elijah did not answer. The wolf inside him flicked its ear and turned away.

Dr. Chen nodded. “Thank you for sharing that much,” she said. “Even if it feels like very little to you, it is still something.”

He stayed until the end of the session.

When the others left, their footsteps faded up the stairs. Dr. Chen moved slowly around the coffee station, rinsing the pot and wiping the table. She often stayed behind, almost as if she were giving the room a chance to exhale.

Elijah stood near the doorway with his arms folded. He did not move to leave.

“You are quieter than usual,” she said, still facing the sink.

He considered that. “I have never been loud,” he answered.

“Not with your mouth,” she replied. She turned to face him. “Your silence is loud.”

He said nothing.

She set the pot down and dried her hands on a towel. “Grief often looks like noise in the beginning,” she said. “After a while, it can feel like numbness. That does not mean it left. It only means it changed shape.”

He watched her for a heartbeat, then turned away.

Outside, the air felt cooler than it had when he arrived. He walked to his car and stood beside it for a moment, looking down the quiet street. Nothing moved except a stray leaf that the wind nudged across the asphalt.

Grief was supposed to be loud.

For him, it was as silent as a locked room.

On Thursday, he arrived exactly two minutes before the start, just as he always did. He preferred to slip into the circle once most people were already seated. It avoided small talk. People rarely knew what to say to a man whose name appeared in financial articles and on building plaques, especially when that man sat in a grief group chair.

He stepped into the room.

Margaret sat in her usual chair with her handbag at her feet. Sarah stared at her folded hands. Robert spoke quietly with the red haired woman beside him. The man named Curtis stood near the back wall instead of joining the circle.

Elijah’s chair was empty. The chair beside his was also empty.

He sat, and the wood groaned beneath him. The space next to him felt like a pause in a sentence.

Dr. Chen began the session, and the stories began again. Memories of hospital corridors, birthdays that passed, anniversaries that hurt. He let the words wash past him.

He felt restless. Inside his chest, the wolf paced in a slow circle.

Then the door opened with a sharp noise that made Sarah flinch and drop her tissue.

A man walked in as if he had taken a wrong turn out of some other life.

He wore a black leather jacket and torn jeans. A backpack hung carelessly from one shoulder. His hair was a wild mess of dark curls that framed a face built for attention. His skin held a warm brown tone and his eyes scanned the room with open interest.

He took in the circle of chairs, took in the tissues, looked in the direction of the coffeepot and the old carpet.

He smiled.

“Oh,” he said. “I found the Sad Circle.”

Dr. Chen rose from her seat. “Are you here for the grief support group?” she asked.

The man walked further into the room without hesitation. His presence shifted the air, as if he carried his own weather system.

“I hope so,” he said. “It would be awkward if this was a birthday party.”

A few people stared at him in open shock.

Elijah felt something in his chest tighten. His wolf lifted its head with sudden interest.

The stranger’s gaze moved around the circle. When his eyes reached Elijah’s, they paused. For a moment, it felt as if the rest of the room faded. The man’s smile tilted, not entirely kind, not entirely cruel, but very alive.

Then he moved directly to the empty chair beside Elijah and dropped into it.

The contact of his thigh against Elijah’s shook something loose.

Dr. Chen raised her hand slightly, as if she were trying to regain control of the scene. “We usually ask new participants to sign in and fill out a form before the session,” she said. “What is your name?”

“Jaxon,” he said as he slid his backpack to the floor. “Jaxon Reed.”

His voice carried the easy rhythm of someone used to performing.

“And are you grieving someone, Jaxon?” Dr. Chen asked.

He leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head, completely at ease. “I am grieving life,” he said. “Does that count?”

Margaret made a sharp sound that might have been a scoff.

“This is a support group,” she said. “We are here because we lost people we cared about.”

He turned his head and gave her a bright, unapologetic smile. “I care about myself,” he said. “I used to be someone else, but he died. I miss him crazy.”

Dr. Chen’s mouth tightened, but her voice stayed measured. “Jaxon, we do ask that everyone here be honest,” she said. “Most people who join us are grieving specific losses.”

“I am being honest,” he replied easily. “I just tell the truth in a way that makes people think I am joking. It is a terrible habit.”

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Elijah felt heat crawl slowly up the back of his neck. His wolf moved forward until it sat pressed against his ribs, ears pricked.

Jaxon tilted his head toward him. “Hi, neighbor,” he whispered. “You look like you hate this as much as I do.”

“Do not speak to me,” Elijah said quietly.

Jaxon’s smile widened. “You are fun already.”

Dr. Chen cleared her throat. “You are welcome to stay and observe if you do not feel ready to share,” she said. “However, I need you to treat this space with respect. Everyone here carries something heavy.”

Jaxon nodded as if she had given him a role rather than a warning. “Understood,” he said. “I can be respectful. Sometimes.”

The group tried to continue.

Margaret told a story about her daughter’s last holiday. Robert talked about the way the house sounded at night. Sarah tried to speak and broke halfway through the sentence.

Through all, Jaxon sat with his leg bouncing and his fingers tapping against his knee. His energy buzzed against Elijah’s skin.

Eventually, Dr. Chen made the mistake of turning toward him.

“Jaxon, would you like to share anything tonight?” she asked.

His eyes lit up in a way that would have terrified a more cautious woman.

“Oh, grief,” he said with a soft laugh. “I do not really do grief. Grief is for people who still believe things matter.”

The silence that followed felt sharp.

Margaret stared at him with open anger. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “How did you even get into this group?”

He looked at her calmly. “I lied,” he said.

The sound that passed through the circle was half hiss, half gasp.

Elijah did not move. His wolf did.

The beast surged forward and pressed hard against his chest, paws braced. Its attention locked on the man sitting beside him.

Jaxon shrugged. “I saw a sign about a grief support group and thought it sounded like a place where no one would expect me to be fine. So I pretended I had the right kind of pain so I could sit in a circle and breathe without putting on a show.”

Dr. Chen’s eyes sharpened. “Are you saying you have not lost anyone?” she asked.

For a moment, something in his expression shifted. The smile dropped slightly. His jaw flexed.

“I lost the person I pretended to be for a long time,” he said. “He died slowly. It was a very messy breakup. I am still not sure who is left now that he is gone.”

No one spoke.

Elijah watched his hands instead of his face. They did not tremble, but they did not rest.

“That is still grief,” Robert said quietly.

Jaxon did not respond.

Margaret stood abruptly. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “This place is supposed to be sacred.”

Jaxon looked at her with tired eyes. “If it is sacred, maybe talk like something sacred is listening,” he said.

She walked out, clutching her purse like a shield.

Dr. Chen took a slow breath. “Let us take a short break,” she said.

Chairs scraped back. People moved toward the coffeepot and the door in stiff lines. The air crackled with discomfort.

Jaxon did not stand up.

Elijah did.

He stepped into the hallway. For a moment he simply stood there, hand on the frame, breath shallow. The wolf inside him paced in tight circles.

"What is he?"

The question licked through his thoughts with the wolf’s voice.

Elijah knew only one thing.

That for the first time in six months, the emptiness inside him felt crowded.