Chapter 17 #2
"I started therapy." The words came out in a rush, like I was afraid she'd cut me off before I could finish. "After I realized what I'd done. I'm working with a healer who specializes in Alpha psychology, trying to understand why I thought I could control everyone's feelings like pack logistics."
"And what have you learned?" There was something in her voice—not softness, but maybe the faintest crack in her armor.
"That I was terrified." My chest felt tight, like I couldn't get enough air.
"Terrified of the responsibility, terrified of failing you, terrified of not being good enough.
So I put off dealing with any of it until I thought we needed to.
I told myself I was protecting you, but I was protecting myself from having to grow up. "
"You were nineteen." For the first time, I heard something that might have been understanding in her voice. "You were just a kid yourself."
"So were you. But you were willing to love me anyway.
You were willing to wait, to hope, to believe that I'd eventually see what was right in front of me.
" My voice broke completely, and I had to take several shuddering breaths before I could continue.
"And instead of treasuring that, I took it for granted. "
"Yes." The word was simple, matter-of-fact. "You did."
The honesty of it, the lack of anger or accusation, was worse than if she'd screamed at me. It spoke of someone who'd moved beyond rage into acceptance, who'd processed the hurt and come out stronger on the other side.
"I've made changes to the pack." I found myself speaking faster, desperate to show her that something good had come from this destruction.
"Real changes. I fired everyone who participated in the harassment campaign against you.
Scarlett, Veronica, Tiffany—they're all gone.
I've instituted new policies about how unmated wolves are to be treated, about respect and dignity for all pack members. "
"Good." She rubbed her belly again, and I caught a glimpse of a tiny foot pressing against the fabric of her dress. "They should have been gone years ago."
"I know. I should have protected you from them. I should have seen what they were doing and stopped it." The words felt like they were being dragged out of my chest. "Instead, I enabled it by treating you like you didn't matter."
She was quiet for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the fishing boats were now just specks in the distance. The morning was warming up, and I could see sweat beading on her forehead despite the cool breeze from the water.
"Why should I believe you've changed?" The question was delivered without heat, clinical in its assessment.
"Yesterday, you came here expecting me to be grateful that you'd finally decided to want me back.
You talked about your rights, your heir, what the pack needed.
How do I know this isn't just another manipulation? "
The accusation hit home because it was true. Even now, part of me was calculating, trying to figure out what to say to get the result I wanted. The realization made me sick.
"Because I'm not asking you to come back." The words came out hoarse, scraped raw from my throat. "I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm not asking you to give me another chance. I'm just asking you to let me prove that I can be better."
"What does that mean?"
"It means exactly what you asked yesterday - respecting your boundaries, accepting that you've built a life here that makes you happy.
" I gestured toward the diner, where I could see faces pressed against the windows once again, watching to make sure she was safe, just like yesterday.
"It means being grateful for whatever relationship you're willing to let me have with our son, even if it's not what I had pictured. "
"And if I say I don't want you in his life at all?"
The thought was agony, a physical pain that made me double over slightly. But I forced myself to stand straight, to meet her eyes. "Then I'll accept that. Because his well-being and your peace of mind are more important than what I want."
"You'd walk away?"
"If that's what was best for you and him, yes." The words tasted like silver in my veins, but I meant them. "But I'm hoping you'll give me the chance to earn something more."
She studied my face for what felt like an eternity, her eyes searching for something—truth, maybe, or sincerity. The baby kicked again, and she pressed her hand to her side with a soft "oh" of surprise.
"What do you want, Marshall?" The question was simple, but I could hear the weight behind it.
"I want to be a father." My voice cracked on the words. "I want to be part of our son’s life, to teach him about his heritage, to make sure he knows he's loved and wanted. I want to support you in whatever way you'll let me, even if it's just financial."
"And us? Is there an us in this picture of yours?"
The question I'd been dreading. The one that would determine everything.
"I love you. I want to earn your forgiveness.
" The admission felt like bleeding out in public.
"I want to prove that I can be the man you deserved all along.
I want to show you that I understand what love means—not ownership, not possession, but partnership and respect and putting someone else's needs above your own. "
"If I can't forgive you? If I can't ever trust you again?"
"Then I'll accept that too." The words came out as barely more than a whisper. "Because you don't owe me forgiveness. You don't owe me anything. But I owe you everything—a lifetime of making up for what I did."
The bell above the diner door chimed, and Rita appeared in the doorway. Her gray hair was escaping its bun in the morning humidity, and her apron was dusted with flour from whatever she'd been preparing in the kitchen.
"Five minutes are up," she said, her voice carrying the authority of someone who'd been looking after people for decades. "Annalise has work to do."
"Of course." I stepped back immediately, my hands already rising in a gesture of surrender. "I'm sorry for taking up your time."
"Wait." Annalise's voice stopped me mid-turn. "Rita, could you give us another minute?"
The older woman's eyes narrowed, her protective instincts warring with respect for Annalise's autonomy. "One minute. Then you get in here and eat something before the breakfast rush starts."
After Rita disappeared back inside with obvious reluctance, Annalise turned to me. The morning sun caught the copper highlights in her dark hair, and for a moment she looked so much like the girl I'd first claimed at thirteen that my chest ached with longing.
"I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest."
"Anything."
"If I hadn't gotten pregnant, would you have continued treating me the same way? Would you have kept ignoring me, entertaining yourself with other women, putting off dealing with your feelings until my eighteenth birthday?"
The question was brutal in its honesty, cutting straight to the heart of who I'd been. I wanted to lie, to tell her I would have been better, that I would have realized how badly I was hurting her. But she deserved the truth, even if it destroyed any chance I had.
"Probably." The word came out as a croak. "I'd like to think I would have realized how badly I was hurting you, but honestly? I was so focused on my timeline, my comfort, that I probably would have kept treating you like an obligation until your birthday."
She nodded slowly, like I'd confirmed something she'd already known. "Thank you for being honest."
"Does that mean there's no hope for us?"
"It means I need time to think. And I need to see if your actions match your words." She placed both hands on her belly, and I watched our son move restlessly inside her. "I'm not doing this for you, Marshall. I'm doing this for him. He deserves to know his father."
"I understand."
"Do you?" Her eyes searched my face, no doubt looking for signs of the old arrogance, the old assumptions. "Because I meant what I said yesterday. If you hurt me again, if you pressure me or try to force this, I'll disappear. I'll take our son, and you'll never see us again."
"I understand." The words came out steady despite the chaos raging inside me. "I'll respect your boundaries."
She studied me for another long moment, then nodded. "There's a community center meeting tonight at seven. Local businesses, town planning, that sort of thing. If you want to understand what my life is like here, you should come."
"You want me to come?"
"I want you to understand that this isn't just a place I'm hiding—it's my home.
These people are my family." She gestured toward the diner, where I could see curious faces still pressed against the windows.
"If you want to be part of our son's life, you need to understand that this is his home too. "
"I'll be there."
She nodded and walked back toward the diner, her hand on her lower back again. I watched her go, noting the way she moved—careful but not fragile, protective of the life she carried but not afraid.
Just before she reached the door, she paused and looked back at me. "Marshall?"
"Yes?"
"Don't make me regret this."
Then she was gone, disappearing into the warmth and safety of the diner, leaving me standing on the patio with something that felt dangerously close to hope blooming in my chest.
She's giving us a chance, Ranger said with quiet wonder. After everything we did, she's giving us a chance.
"A small one," I corrected, my voice hoarse from the conversation. "We have to prove we deserve it."
We will. We have to.