Chapter 4

Dryann heard the howl and woke instantly. He had always been a light sleeper, as a hunter, you had to be. But this howl… it wasn’t the usual cry of territory or dominance. This was agony. The kind that mixed pain with fury, sharpened by the edge of revenge.

“I really hate these creatures,” Dan muttered from beside him. His husband had risen too, eyes narrowed at the window.

Dryann glanced at him, trying to soften his own voice. “I wonder what could’ve caused that much pain…”

Dan scoffed. He had never cared for werewolves, never believed they deserved to exist. Many in their clan felt the same, especially the High Commander, Dryann’s uncle, Blane. Extinction—that was their answer.

“C’mon, go back to bed. I’ll do a quick stakeout,” Dryann said, pulling on his boots. “We both know what pained wolves are capable of….especially their Alphas.”

Dan stepped closer to the window. “Come back early.”

“Sure thing.”

With that, Dryann grabbed his gear and vanished into the night.

Meanwhile, Alpha Mason was already on the move. His private jet was being readied for Phoenix, Arizona.

His mind wouldn’t settle. What will my son look like? Did Clara tell him what he was? Does he even know? Will he hate me? The questions gnawed at him, circling endlessly.

Amaretti, his wife, had held his hands, whispering, “Everything will be fine.” But Mason wasn’t sure. The young man’s voice over the phone had not sounded like someone ready to embrace him.

Maxton, meanwhile, had done as his mother wished. Clara had always loved the sea. She used to say she was born a free bird until the day she had him, that was when she chose to stay grounded. Her last request had been simple: scatter my ashes on the waves.

And he did. With trembling hands, he let her ashes fall into the sea, whispering his goodbye as the tide swallowed the last of her. After that, he felt hollow. Alone.

He was still packing her things when the knock came.

Standing in the doorway was a man larger than life, a presence that filled the room. Mason Trawling. Beside him stood a delicate woman in her fifties, and behind them, a wall of silent, broad-shouldered guards.

“Hi,” Mason said quietly, extending his hand. “I’m Trawling. And this is my wife, Amaretti.”

Maxton only nodded, stepping aside to let them in. He wasn’t ready to hear what the old man felt. Not yet. Mason’s eyes looked like carved stone, but underneath,  etched deep—was grief.

“Hi, I’m Maxton,” he murmured, shaking Amaretti’s hand instead. The moment their palms touched, his vision flared—her memories rushed into him. She had already prepared a room for him, worried about how to make him feel welcome. She was both sad and hopeful. It almost broke him.

At least she wanted him.

“Amaretti,” she said warmly, folding his hand between hers.

Mason followed Maxton into the room Clara had once filled. Everything screamed of her….the paintings on the wall, the ceramic wolf howling at the moon, even the faint trace of cinnamon rolls she used to bake every weekend.

His wolf whimpered inside him. The scent of blood lingered here, too.

Finally, Mason asked the question he had been dreading. “How… how did she die?”

“She was shot.” Maxton’s voice was flat, but his eyes burned. “Twice. They ripped her apart with bullets.”

Amaretti gasped, pressing her hand against the wall as though to steady herself. “My lord…” she whispered.

Mason let out a groan, deep and raw, forcing back tears. He should have tried harder. He should never have stopped searching. His gaze shifted to his son. Maxton’s gray eyes—his mother’s eyes, were the only thing holding him together.

“I’m so sorry, my son. I—”

“Don’t,” Maxton cut him off, voice sharp. “Don’t call me that.”

Mason froze.

“I’ve lived my whole life without a father, Mr. Trawling,” Maxton said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“I didn’t know I had a son,” Mason whispered.

“You know…” Maxton stepped closer, his anger finally spilling over. “Maybe if you had tried harder…just maybe, my mom would still be alive.”

“I tried,” Mason rasped. “God knows, I tried.”

“You should’ve tried harder!” Maxton’s voice cracked, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Do you know what it’s like watching your mother die? The man who shot her—he smiled. He savored it. He chased her like prey. She begged. She bled. And he looked her in the eye as he pulled the second trigger.” His voice broke completely. “And now she’s gone. And you—” his words dropped to a whisper, raw with grief, “—you weren’t there.”

Mason’s chest caved inward. His son’s pain shredded him more than any blade could.

“I only have one family,” Maxton said, voice shaking. “And you’re not in it.”

Then he turned and stormed upstairs.

Amaretti’s heart ached for them both. She touched Mason’s arm gently. “My lord… let me go to him.”

Mason only nodded. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning.

She followed Maxton upstairs.

“Maxton,” she called softly.

He sat on the floor beside his bed, shoulders slumped, looking more like a boy than a man. Haunted. Broken.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said quietly, not lifting his eyes. “I shouldn’t have lashed out like that—”

“No, child.” She crossed the room, her voice gentle. “None of this is your fault. Your grief is understandable.” She paused, searching his face. “But believe me when I say—your father never stopped looking for Clara. He loved her. He searched for her.”

Maxton’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer.

Amaretti lowered her voice, her eyes warm and steady. “He was tied down with duties and chains of responsibility that were never truly his choice. But he never stopped loving her. Or you.”