was he enough

“Was he enough?” I asked again.

My voice barely sounded like mine anymore. It was thin, stretched raw, like something pulled too far and left to tear.

Dorian did not answer right away.

He stood there in the doorway, tall and immaculate, his presence filling the room without warmth. His eyes moved once more to the bed, to the still form in my arms, and then back to my face as if calculating the inconvenience of this moment.

“Selene,” he said, measured and controlled. “You are not thinking clearly.”

A sound tore out of my chest. It might have been a laugh. It might have been a sob.

“I asked you a question,” I said. “Was he enough?”

Dorian exhaled slowly, like a man running out of patience. “This is not the place for accusations.”

I stared at him.

Accusations.

I looked down at Rowen’s face. Peaceful. Too peaceful. His lashes rested against his cheeks like he was sleeping after a long day of trying too hard to be brave.

“You did not answer him,” I said quietly. “You did not answer him when he asked if he was good enough for you.”

Dorian’s jaw tightened. “I did not know he was dying.”

“He was dying for years,” I said. My voice rose despite myself. “Every time you chose your meetings. Every time you stayed away. Every time you decided he was an inconvenience instead of your son.”

“That is enough,” Dorian snapped.

“No,” I said. “It is not.”

The healer shifted behind me. I felt her fear like a whisper against my back, but I did not turn. I could not look away from him. From the man who shared my bond and shattered my child.

“You knew,” I continued. “You were told. You were warned. You were begged. And still you stayed away.”

“I provided everything he needed,” Dorian said sharply. “He had the best healers. The best care. This pack’s resources were at his disposal.”

“He needed you,” I screamed.

The word ripped through the ward, raw and broken.

“He needed his father,” I said. “He waited for you. He asked for you. He believed you would come.”

Dorian’s eyes flickered, just slightly. Annoyance. Discomfort. Still no grief.

“I cannot be everywhere,” he said. “I have responsibilities.”

I looked at him then, really looked at him.

At the man who stood before his dead child and spoke of responsibility.

Something inside me snapped.

I took a step forward, then another, until I was standing right in front of him. I lowered Rowen carefully onto the bed, smoothing his hair one last time, pressing my lips to his forehead.

“I am so sorry,” I whispered. “I am so sorry, my love.”

Then I turned back to Dorian.

“You killed my child,” I said.

His eyes hardened. “That is an unacceptable thing to say.”

“What kind of father does that to his child?” I demanded. “What kind of man hears his son is dying and decides a contract matters more?”

“You are hysterical,” he said. “Grief does strange things.”

Something feral surged through me. My wolf rose, furious and unrestrained, slamming against my ribs like a storm desperate to break free.

“You are heartless,” I said.

I struck him.

My hands hit his chest, once, then again, not measured, not controlled. I did not care where my fists landed. I only knew that standing still was impossible.

“You killed him,” I cried, hitting him again. “You killed my child.”

Dorian staggered back a step, more surprised than hurt. “Stop this,” he barked. “You are making a scene.”

“I watched him die,” I screamed. “I watched him ask for you. I watched him wonder what he did wrong.”

My hands kept moving, my body shaking with sobs as my wolf roared inside me, rage and grief blending into something unbearable.

“You were never there,” I shouted. “Not when he was born. Not when he was sick. Not when he needed you.”

He grabbed my wrists, his grip firm. “Enough,” he said. “This ends now.”

I wrenched free, striking his chest again, tears blinding me. “Do not touch me,” I screamed. “Do not touch me after what you did.”

His voice dropped, cold and dangerous. “You are embarrassing yourself.”

The word shattered me.

I laughed, hysterical and broken. “Embarrassing?” I repeated. “Our son is dead, and you are worried about appearances.”

I stumbled back toward the bed, my knees threatening to give out. I looked at Rowen again, my chest aching so badly I thought it might tear open.

“He was gentle,” I whispered. “He was kind. He tried so hard.”

Dorian straightened his jacket, smoothing it down like this was a meeting gone poorly. “We will arrange the funeral rites,” he said. “Privately. There is no need for unnecessary attention.”

I turned slowly.

“You will not decide anything,” I said. “You lost that right.”

His eyes narrowed. “You forget your place.”

“My place was beside my son,” I said. “Where were you?”

Silence stretched between us.

Then footsteps echoed from the hallway.

Heels. Unhurried. Familiar.

The door opened.

Marisol stepped into the ward.