Chapter 17
Leo
Time didn't heal wounds. Time just infected them.
I was technically alive. My heart beat (slower now, a sluggish, depressed rhythm). My lungs took in oxygen. I ate the protein shakes the Council handlers put in front of me. I lifted the weights in the facility gym until my muscles screamed.
The "Rehabilitation Facility" was a polite name for a high-end prison. It was a sprawling compound in the Colorado mountains, hidden by pine trees and electric fences. It was populated by "problem" Alphas—shifters who had lost control, who had broken laws, or who, like me, had become inconvenient.
My days were a grey loop.
0600: Wake up. Stare at the white ceiling. Remember her face.
0700: Breakfast. Tasteless oatmeal. Remember her cooking.
0800: Therapy. A man in a lab coat asking me if I felt "aggressive."
1000: Physical Training. Run until I puked.
1800: Dinner.
2000: Lockdown.
I was a model prisoner. I didn't fight. I didn't growl. I didn't shift. The Wolf was silent, curled into a ball of misery in the back of my mind. He mourned her more than I did. He whimpered in my dreams.
Mate. Gone. Pup. Gone.
Today was different.
Today was Draft Day.
I wasn't supposed to know. We weren't allowed phones or internet. But the guards talked. And Thorne—Elias Thorne, my jailer—had come to see me this morning.
"Big day, Leo," he had said, leaning against the door of my room. "The first round starts in an hour. Your name is still on the list. The damage control worked. The teams think you're in 'voluntary rehab for exhaustion'. Very noble. Very redeemable."
"I don't care," I said, doing pushups on the floor.
"You should," Thorne said. "If you get drafted, the Council might reconsider your placement. A high-profile NHL player is useful. A washed-up college kid is... disposable."
He dropped a remote on the bed.
"Watch. Or don't. It's your funeral."
He left.
I finished my set. I stood up, sweat dripping off my nose.
I looked at the remote.
I shouldn't turn it on. It was a window into a life I had forfeited. A life that felt like a dream I had once had.
But I picked it up.
I turned on the TV mounted in the corner.
ESPN. The Draft floor. Men in suits pacing nervously. Prospects sitting at tables with their families, looking terrified and hopeful.
I scanned the crowd.
I saw Silas. He was sitting with his parents, looking sharp in a blue suit. But he wasn't smiling. He looked... grim. He kept checking his phone.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
The Commissioner walked up to the podium.
"With the first overall pick in the NHL Draft, the Montreal Canadiens select..."
It wasn't me. It was a kid from Sweden.
Second pick. Third pick.
My name wasn't called.
I didn't feel disappointed. I felt numb. This was expected. I was a risk. A liability.
Then, the Detroit Red Wings were on the clock. Pick number six.
The camera panned to their table. The GM was on the phone. He looked serious. He nodded.
The Commissioner walked back to the podium.
"With the sixth overall pick, the Detroit Red Wings select... from Blackwood Mountain University... Center, Leo Vance."
The room in Colorado was silent.
On the screen, the crowd cheered politely. The camera searched for me in the stands. It didn't find me.
Instead, they showed a graphic of my stats. Goals. Assists. Penalty minutes.
And then, the commentators started talking.
"Interesting pick for Detroit. Vance is a powerhouse, no doubt. A physical specimen. But the questions about his character linger. He's not here tonight—personal reasons, we're told. You have to wonder if the Red Wings know something we don't."
"He's a gamble," the other commentator agreed. "High risk, high reward. If he can keep his head on straight, he's a franchise player. If he can't... well, we've seen talent self-destruct before."
I turned off the TV.
I had done it. I was drafted. Top ten. Millions of dollars. The dream I had worked for since I was four years old. My father's dream.
I stared at the blank screen.
I felt... nothing.
Actually, that was a lie. I felt sick.
I had won. I had the contract. I had the safety net.
But I didn't have her.
I looked down at my hands. They were shaking.
I remembered the night in the diner. Plan B. Us. I remembered the cabin. We'll be terrified together.
I had traded "Us" for a jersey I wasn't even there to put on.
I stood up and walked to the small window. It was barred, overlooking the exercise yard.
"I won," I whispered to the glass.
It sounded like a confession.
Two Hours Later.
The door to my room opened.
Thorne walked in. He was smiling.
"Congratulations, Leo. Detroit. Original Six. Very prestigious."
"When do I leave?" I asked dully.
"Soon," Thorne said. "The lawyers are finalizing the release papers. You'll be assigned a Council handler who will travel with you. You'll have strict protocols. Medication. Curfews. But you'll be playing hockey."
He placed a folder on the desk.
"There is, however, one loose end."
My head snapped up. "Maya?"
"Ms. Sterling has dropped out of Blackwood," Thorne said casually. "She left Oakhaven three weeks ago."
"Where is she?" I demanded, taking a step forward.
"We don't know," Thorne admitted, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "She's... vanished. She didn't go to her parents. She didn't go to her friend's house in Burlington. She emptied her bank account and disappeared."
Panic, sharp and agonizing, clawed at my throat.
"She's pregnant," I growled. "She needs medical care. She needs..."
"She needs to not be found," Thorne interrupted. "Which is good for you. No loose ends. No paternity suits."
He tapped the folder.
"However, we did intercept a letter. It was mailed to The Hive yesterday. Addressed to you."
He slid an envelope across the desk. It was white. Cheap. No return address.
"We opened it, of course," Thorne said. "Standard protocol. It's... sentimental drivel. But we thought you should have it. Closure, and all that."
He turned to leave.
"Read it, Leo. Then burn it. Tomorrow, you're a Red Wing. Maya Sterling doesn't exist anymore."
The door clicked shut. The lock engaged.
I stared at the envelope.
My name was written on the front in familiar, cramped handwriting. Leo Vance.
My hands were shaking so bad I tore the envelope opening it.
A single sheet of notebook paper fell out. And a photograph.
I picked up the photo first.
It was an ultrasound.
A grainy, black and white image of a grey blur. But there, in the center, was a tiny, distinct shape. A heartbeat.
And written in the corner of the ultrasound, in white marker: 10 Weeks. Healthy.
I choked back a sob. Ten weeks. It was real. It was growing.
I unfolded the letter.
Leo,
I don't know if you'll ever get this. I assume your new "handlers" screen your mail. But I had to write it. For me. Not for you.
I saw the news. About the Draft. Congratulations. You got what you wanted. You're a machine now. A professional.
I hope it keeps you warm at night.
I'm writing to tell you that you were wrong. About everything.
You said I was empty. You said I was a liability. You said I was broken.
I believed you for about three days. I sat in a motel room and cried until I threw up. I hated you. I hated myself.
But then I heard the heartbeat.
I went to a clinic in a town you've never heard of. I saw the baby. And I realized something.
You aren't a monster because of your blood, Leo. You're a monster because you're a coward.
You ran away because it was easier to break my heart than to trust me with your darkness. You chose the safe path. The lonely path.
Well, I'm choosing the hard path.
I'm keeping the baby. And I'm going to raise him (yes, it's a boy, you were right) to be everything you aren't. Brave. Honest. Loyal.
He won't know your name. He won't know his father was a hockey star who traded love for a contract.
He'll just know he is loved.
Don't look for us. Please. If there is any part of you that actually cared—any part of the man I held at the cabin—let us go.
Goodbye, Wolf.
- M
I finished reading.
The paper crumpled in my fist.
He won't know your name.
The sentence shattered me.
I fell to my knees on the hard floor. The ultrasound fluttered down beside me.
I had won. I had saved her future.
But I had lost my soul.
I looked at the ultrasound. My son.
A boy. A shifter boy. Growing up without a pack. Without a father to teach him how to control the Wolf. Without protection.
Thorne said she had vanished. That she was safe.
But Thorne was wrong. A lone female with a shifter child wasn't safe. The North Shore pack knew about her. They knew she was carrying my heir. If they found her...
"No," I whispered.
The numbness broke. The grey fog that had smothered me for three weeks evaporated, replaced by a red-hot, searing clarity.
I wasn't a Red Wing. I wasn't a machine.
I was a Father. And I was a Mate.
And I had made a terrible, catastrophic mistake.
I stood up.
I looked at the door. Reinforced steel. Electronic lock.
I looked at the window. Barred. Second floor.
I looked at the TV, still silent in the corner.
The Draft was over. The handlers would be coming soon to prep me for transport to Detroit.
I had one chance.
I walked to the bed and stripped the sheets. I twisted them into a rope. Not to climb down—to strangle.
I went to the door and waited.
I closed my eyes and reached for the Wolf.
Are you there?
A low, rumbling growl answered me from the depths of my mind. It was angry. It was hurt. But it was listening.
She needs us, I told the Wolf. The pup needs us. We have to go.
The growl turned into a roar.
I felt the shift ripple under my skin. My bones cracked. My muscles expanded. My vision sharpened into gold.
I didn't shift fully. I couldn't fit in the room if I did. But I let the power flood my human form. My claws extended. My canines lengthened.
I heard footsteps in the hall.
"Open 894," a guard said. "Transport is here."
The lock clicked. The handle turned.
The door opened.
I didn't wait.
I launched myself at the guard.
I hit him with the force of a freight train. He flew back into the wall, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Thorne was standing behind him. His eyes widened. He reached for his weapon.
Too late.
I was on him. I slammed him into the floor, my hand—my clawed hand—around his throat.
"Where is she?" I roared, spit flying into his face.
"Leo, stop!" Thorne choked. "You'll ruin everything!"
"I don't care about the contract!" I screamed. "Where. Is. She?"
"I don't know!" Thorne gasped, turning purple. "She used a fake name! She took a bus! We lost her in Boston!"
Boston.
It was a start.
I squeezed harder, just enough to make his eyes roll back.
"If you send anyone after me," I hissed, "I will kill them. And then I will come back for you."
I slammed his head against the concrete. He went limp.
I stood up. The alarm started blaring. Red lights flashed.
I ran.
I ran through the corridors of the facility. Guards shouted. Shots were fired. I felt a bullet graze my shoulder, but I didn't stop. I couldn't feel pain. I could only feel the pull of the bond.
I burst out of the side exit into the exercise yard.
The fence was twelve feet high, topped with razor wire.
I didn't slow down. I shifted.
Mid-stride, I tore out of my human clothes and became the Midnight Wolf. Massive. Black. Terrifying.
I hit the fence with a leap that defied physics. My claws dug into the chain link. I scrambled over the razor wire, tearing my fur, bleeding, but free.
I landed in the snow on the other side. The forest stretched out before me.
I howled.
It wasn't a mournful howl. It was a promise.
I'm coming.
I turned north. Toward Boston. Toward her.
I was done being noble. I was done being a machine.
I was going to get my family back. Or I was going to die trying.