Chapter 17
Marshall
Groveling was harder than I'd expected. Especially when she deserved so much more than apologies.
I sat in my rental car outside Rita's Diner at six in the morning, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles had gone white. The leather felt slick under my palms, betraying the nervous sweat that had been building since I'd jolted awake at four AM in my hotel room.
The sun was rising over Crescent Bay harbor, painting the water in shades of gold and pink that reminded me of Annalise's cheeks when she blushed.
Fishing boats were heading out for the day's catch, their engines puttering steadily as they navigated between the moored pleasure craft.
The sound was hypnotic, peaceful in a way that made my chest ache with longing.
Everything about this place was what Annalise had never had with the pack since I scented her—tranquil, welcoming, real.
She's in there, Ranger said quietly, his voice heavy with the same longing that sat like a stone in my stomach. Our mate is in there, and she doesn't want to see us.
I could see her through the diner's windows, moving with practiced efficiency between tables that weren't yet occupied by customers.
Even at this distance, the protective curve of her hands around her belly was visible, a constant reminder of what I'd thrown away.
She wore a simple blue dress that accommodated her pregnancy, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that swayed as she worked.
She looked... content. The realization hit me, making me lean forward against the steering wheel. Not happy, exactly, but settled. Like someone who'd found where they belonged.
My phone buzzed with a text from Jackson: Pack meeting at 3 PM. Need you here. Dial in if you are not coming in person.
I stared at the message for a long moment, then deleted it without responding. The pack had survived without me for two days. They could survive another. What was the point of a Beta if I couldn’t delegate occasionally?
The diner's neon "OPEN" sign flickered, casting red and blue reflections on the wet pavement from last night's rain. I could smell the salt air through my partially open window, mixed with the distant aroma of coffee and bacon from the diner's kitchen.
We have to try, Ranger said with desperate determination. We have to show her we've changed.
But had I changed? Yesterday's conversation had stripped away every illusion I'd had about myself, about what I'd done to her. The way she'd looked at me—not with hatred, but with something worse. The cold assessment of someone who'd moved beyond the hurt I'd caused.
I forced myself to get out of the car, my legs unsteady on the wet pavement.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the cry of seagulls and the distant sound of waves against the harbor wall.
My hands shook as I pushed them into my jacket pockets, and I had to take several deep breaths before I could make myself walk toward the diner.
The bell above the door chimed as I entered, the sound cheerful and welcoming in a way that made my throat tighten. The comfortable chatter of early morning regulars died abruptly, and I felt the weight of hostile eyes following my every movement.
A man in a fishing vest lowered his coffee cup with deliberate slowness, his weathered face hard as granite. An elderly woman at the counter swiveled on her stool to get a better look at me, her expression suggesting I was something unpleasant she'd found on the bottom of her shoe.
These people knew who I was. Maybe not the supernatural details, but they knew I was the man who'd hurt Annalise. Who'd driven her away from home while she was pregnant.
Annalise looked up from the coffee pot she was refilling, and I saw her entire body go rigid. Her free hand moved instinctively to her belly, and I watched her chest rise and fall as she took a careful breath.
"We're closed," said the older woman behind the counter, despite the open sign on the door and the obvious customers. She stood with her arms crossed, her gray hair pulled back in a severe bun that emphasized the sharp angles of her face. Every line of her compact body radiated protective fury.
"Okay," My voice came out rougher than I'd intended, and I had to clear my throat before continuing. "I was hoping I could speak with Annalise. Just for a moment."
"She's working." Rita's tone could have frozen the harbor. "And you're not welcome here."
I'd expected this—the hostility, the protective barrier these people had built around her. It's what I should have done years ago.
"Rita." Annalise's voice was quiet but carried clearly across the suddenly silent diner. "It's okay. I can spare him a few minutes."
She set down the coffee pot with careful precision, her movements deliberate and controlled.
As she walked toward me, I noticed the way her hand rested on the small of her back, the slight waddle that hadn't been there when I'd known her, visible proof of the pregnancy I'd rejected, the child I'd called a bastard.
My son. Our son. The heir I'd thrown away before he was even born.
Look what we did to her, Ranger said, his mental voice thick with anguish. Look how we made her suffer.
"Five minutes," she said, echoing yesterday's limit. Her green eyes were unreadable, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself ready to flee. "Outside."
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and followed her through a side door onto a small patio area. The morning sun was warm on my face, but I felt cold inside, hollow with the magnitude of what I needed to say and my certainty that words would never be enough.
She stood with her back to the harbor, her arms wrapped around herself in a gesture that was part self-protection, part warmth against the morning breeze.
The wind caught strands of her hair that had escaped her ponytail, and I had to clench my fists to keep from reaching out to tuck them behind her ear.
"I've been thinking about what you said yesterday." The words felt inadequate, too small for the enormity of what lay between us. My throat felt raw, like I'd been screaming, though I'd barely spoken above a whisper.
"And?" She didn't look at me, instead focusing on the harbor where fishing boats were disappearing into the morning haze.
"You were right." I took a shuddering breath, trying to find words that might begin to bridge the chasm I'd created. "I was careless with you. I was arrogant and selfish, and I treated you like an obligation instead of—"
"Instead of what?" She turned to face me, and I saw something flicker in her eyes. Not hope—I didn't deserve that. But maybe the faintest possibility of listening.
"Instead of the gift you were. Instead of the miracle that you were.
" My voice cracked on the words, and I had to swallow hard before continuing.
"I convinced myself I was being practical.
That I could manage my needs while waiting for you to be ready, then seamlessly transition into being the devoted mate you deserved. "
A seagull landed on the patio railing, its sharp cry cutting through the morning air. Annalise watched it for a moment, her hand absently rubbing circles on her belly where I could see our baby moving restlessly.
"I thought I was protecting you," I continued, the words scraping against my throat like broken glass. "But I was really protecting myself from having to deal with the reality of what it meant to have a mate who was a child."
"And what reality was that?" Her voice was steady, but I could see her pulse fluttering in her throat.
"That I should have waited. Really waited.
Not just physically, but emotionally. I should have been building a relationship with you, getting to know you, showing you that you mattered.
" I had to stop, my chest tight with the weight of my failures.
"Instead, I treated you like a future obligation while I entertained myself with women who meant nothing to me. "
"They meant everything to me." Her voice was barely audible over the sound of waves against the harbor wall. "Every woman you brought home, every night you spent with someone else, every time you ignored me to focus on them. They were everything to me."
I could picture it perfectly—thirteen-year-old Annalise watching me laugh with Scarlett, sixteen-year-old Annalise having wine deliberately spilt on her by Veronica, seventeen-year-old Annalise serving dinner to me and whatever she-wolf I'd brought home that night, her hands trembling as she set down plates and tried to pretend her heart wasn't breaking.
"I know that now." My hands shook as I ran them through my hair, a nervous gesture that felt inadequate against the magnitude of my regret. "I know that I spent four years systematically destroying your self-worth while telling myself I was being responsible."
"What changed?" The question came out as barely more than a whisper. "What made you finally understand?"
"Losing you." The admission felt like ripping my chest open. "Losing our son. Sitting in that empty office for weeks, realizing that everything I'd thought was important—the pack, my rights as an Alpha, my pride—none of it mattered without you."
She was quiet for a long moment, her green eyes studying my face like she was trying to read something written there. The baby kicked, and I watched her wince slightly, her hand moving to the spot where his foot had connected with her ribs.
"It took losing me to make you value me?" The question was delivered without anger, which somehow made it worse.
"Yes." The word tasted like ashes in my mouth. "And that's on me. I should have valued you from the beginning. I should have treated you like the precious gift you were instead of an inconvenience to be managed."
A fishing boat horn sounded in the distance, low and mournful. The seagull on the railing took flight, its wings catching the morning light as it soared over the water.