Chapter 8 What We Carry Alone
WHAT WE CARRY ALONE
DANIEL
The maps spread across my office desk looked like battle plans because that's what they were.
Territory boundaries marked in red, patrol routes in blue, weak points along the perimeter highlighted in yellow.
Evan stood across from me, Nate at his side, both of them studying the layout with the kind of focus that suggested they understood exactly what I was asking.
“I need you to take over patrol coordination,” I said, tapping the northern boundary. “Luke and Maren have been running it, but I need them freed up for reconnaissance. Which means you're stepping into tactical command.”
Evan's expression didn't change, but I felt the tension spike through our bond. Not fear. Calculation. Weighing responsibility against capability, the way I'd taught him.
“How many wolves?” he asked.
“Eight on rotation. Three-hour shifts, always in pairs. You'll coordinate with Luke on handoff, but after that it's yours.” I looked at him, held his gaze. “Questions?”
“Coverage gaps.” Evan pointed to the eastern section, where the forest pressed thickest. “If we're running pairs on three-hour rotations, we've got a sixteen-minute window here during shift change where coverage drops. That's exploitable.”
He was right. And the fact that he'd spotted it immediately while I'd been staring at these maps for two days made something complicated twist in my chest. Pride and fear tangled together.
“So fix it,” I said. “That's your job now. Find the gap, close it, make sure no one dies because we got sloppy.”
Evan studied the map, fingers tracing routes, lips moving as he calculated timing and distance. Nate watched him with the kind of quiet attention that spoke of intimate knowledge, of knowing exactly how Evan's mind worked when he was problem-solving.
“Stagger the shifts,” Evan said finally. “Instead of clean three-hour blocks, offset by thirty minutes. First pair starts at six, second at six-thirty. Creates overlap during transition, eliminates the gap.”
“Good.” I marked the change on the master schedule. “What else?”
“Communication protocol. If something happens during a shift, who do they report to? You? Me? Both?”
“You, unless I'm unreachable. Then Luke.” I watched him process that, watched the weight of command settle onto shoulders that were still learning how to carry it. “You're not just coordinating anymore, Evan. You're making calls. Real calls. People's lives depend on you getting it right.”
The silence stretched. Nate shifted slightly closer to Evan. Not obvious, just a subtle closing of distance that spoke of support. Of presence. My son noticed, and some of the tension bled from his posture.
“I can do this,” Evan said quietly.
“I know you can.” And I did. But knowing didn't make it easier to hand him responsibility that could get him killed.
“But Evan. You make a mistake, you own it.
You don't hide it, don't minimize it, don't make excuses. You bring it to me immediately so we can fix it before it becomes catastrophic. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“Good.” I rolled up the maps, handed them to him. “Start tonight. Luke's expecting you at eighteen hundred hours for briefing.”
Evan took the maps, and I watched something shift in his expression.
Boy becoming man, heir becoming Alpha. It happened every time I pushed him, every time I trusted him with pieces of the pack's survival.
Claire would have been proud. Would have seen our son stepping into leadership and known she'd raised someone worth following.
“Dad.” Evan's voice pulled me back. “I won't let you down.”
“I know.” The words came out rough. “Now get out of here. Both of you. Go do something that doesn't involve logistics and death.”
Nate grinned. Quick and bright, the kind of smile that suggested he knew exactly what they'd be doing. “Yes sir, Alpha sir.”
“Smart ass.” But I was smiling too, watching them leave, watching the way Evan's hand found Nate's as they walked out. The casual intimacy of it. The certainty. The way my son had found someone who made carrying weight feel less like drowning.
The door closed behind them, and I was alone with maps and responsibilities and the constant low-grade fear that I was making mistakes that would cost lives.
The forest pressed against my windows, patient and watchful. Always watching. Always waiting for us to slip.
I poured whiskey I wouldn't drink and tried to convince myself I was doing enough.
Michael's house sat at the edge of pack territory, close enough that I could feel it through the wards, far enough that getting there took longer than I liked.
I'd been pacing my office for an hour after the attack, after I'd carried him back to his porch and made sure he could stand on his own, after I'd watched him disappear inside with blood still drying on his arm and stubborn independence in every line of his body.
The porch light was on. Good sign. The door was unlocked. Bad sign.
I knocked anyway, waited three seconds, then pushed it open because patience had never been my strong suit and I needed to see him with my own eyes.
“Michael?”
“Kitchen.”
His voice was rough. Tired in ways that had nothing to do with sleep. I followed the sound and found him sitting at the table. A cup of coffee sat in front of him, steam rising.
He looked up when I walked in, and something in his expression flickered. Surprise, maybe. Or the complicated relief that came from not wanting to be alone but not knowing how to ask for company.
“Thought you'd be asleep,” I said.
“Thought you'd be running the territory.” He gestured at the chair across from him. “Coffee's fresh if you want some.”
I didn't want coffee. I wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled for being stupid enough to go to the Moon Clearing alone at night. I wanted to wrap myself around him until I was sure nothing else could touch him. I wanted things that didn't make sense and wouldn't help either of us.
I sat down instead. Tried to keep my voice level.
“You scared the hell out of me.”
Michael's jaw tightened. “I didn't ask you to come rescue me.”
“No. You just went to a sacred clearing in the middle of the night without telling anyone, got ambushed by five rogues, and almost died.” I felt my control slipping, felt the anger I'd been banking since the moment I'd sensed the wards breach rise up like bile. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that I wanted to talk to my dead wife.” His voice came out sharp. Raw. “Is that a crime now? Do I need permission from the Alpha to grieve?”
“That's not what I'm saying.”
“Then what are you saying? Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you're pissed at me for having feelings in an inconvenient location.”
“I'm pissed at you for almost getting killed!” The words came out louder than I meant them. I saw Michael flinch, forced myself to pull back, to breathe. “Five rogues, Michael. Five. You took down two of them, which is pretty impressive, but if I'd been thirty seconds later...”
“You weren't.”
“But I could have been.” I leaned forward, hands flat on the table, needing him to understand.
“I felt the wards breach. Felt it like someone had punched a hole through my chest. And I ran, Michael.
Ran faster than I've run in years because I knew it was you, knew you were in danger, knew that if I didn't get there in time...”
I stopped. Couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't give voice to the terror that had driven me through the forest with my heart in my throat and my wolf howling for blood.
Michael was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer. “I didn't know you could feel that. Through the wards.”
“I can feel a lot of things through the wards.” I met his eyes, let him see the truth underneath the anger. “You could have died. In the same clearing where we burned Anna. And I would have been too late to save you.”
Something broke in Michael's expression. The stubbornness cracked, revealing the exhaustion and grief underneath.
“I just wanted to talk to her,” he said quietly. “Wanted to ask if it was okay. If moving forward meant leaving her behind.” He laughed, hollow and hurting. “Pretty stupid, right? Going to a haunted clearing to have a conversation with a ghost.”
“Not stupid.” I reached across the table, covered his hand with mine. His fingers were cold. “I did the same thing after Claire died. Spent hours in the room where she passed, just... talking. Waiting for an answer that never came.”
“Did it help?”
“No. Yes. I don't know.” I turned his hand over, traced the lines of his palm with my thumb. “But I wasn't alone. I had the pack. I had Evan, even when he was too young to understand. You've been doing this by yourself, and that's on me. I should have been here.”
“You're here now.”
I looked at Michael, at the shadows under his eyes and the grief carved into his features, and felt something shift in my chest. Something that had been locked away for fifteen years, slowly working itself loose.
“I'm here now,” I agreed. “And I'm not leaving until I know you're okay.”
“Daniel...”
“Don't argue with me. You're not winning this one.” I stood, moved around the table, pulled him to his feet before he could protest. I steered him toward the couch, pushed him down onto the cushions with gentle insistence. “Stay. I'm making you food.”
“You don't have to.”
“I know I don't have to.” I paused in the kitchen doorway, looked back at him. “I want to.”
His expression did something complicated. Softened around the edges, warmed in ways that made my chest tight. “You're very bossy.”
I started opening cabinets, looking for something that could become a meal. “And you're very stubborn. So I guess we're even.”