Chapter 12
ZACK
Daisy sat on the stool with her guitar, almost as big as her, brow furrowed in fierce concentration.
“Wait,” I said gently, crouching in front of her. “Try this.”
I reached out and carefully nudged her fingers into place, adjusting the angle of her wrist. Her hand hovered over the strings, uncertain.
“Does it hurt?” I asked.
She shook her head. “A little.”
“That means you’re doing it right,” I said solemnly, earning a few giggles from the other kids. “Okay. Now strum.”
She did. The sound that came out was questionable. A thin, wobbly noise that barely resembled the chord we were aiming for.
The kids froze, watching my face.
I tilted my head, thoughtful. “Hmm. That chord is supposed to sound like this.”
I strummed my own guitar and then immediately followed it by singing the note in an impossibly high falsetto, stretching it out until my voice cracked on purpose.
The room exploded with laughter.
Daisy’s eyes went wide before she started laughing too, nearly dropping her pick. “That’s not what it sounds like!”
“Exactly,” I said, grinning. “So now we try again.”
She adjusted her fingers, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth, and strummed once more. This time, the chord rang out a little cleaner.
“There it is. See? You’ve got it.”
She beamed. Around us, the rest of the kids started noodling on their guitars, half of them trying to imitate the ridiculous noise I’d made, the other half asking if I could do it again.
I refused, on principle. My dignity could only take so much.
I glanced at the clock on the wall and clapped my hands. “Alright, rock stars. That’s time for today.”
A collective groan went up, but they obediently started packing up.
“Good job today,” I called over my shoulder. “Seriously. You’re all getting better.”
That earned me a few proud smiles and one overly enthusiastic fist pump.
I headed toward the back to grab their snacks and juice boxes, then paused.
I found myself glancing toward the front of the shop. Through the glass, I could see the street outside.
People walking past with shopping bags, a couple holding hands, someone jogging by with earbuds in.
Normal, busy people. No one stood waiting.
I told myself it was stupid to notice. That it meant nothing.
Still, over the past couple of weeks, it hadn’t been unusual to look up and see Mark out there, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, pretending he wasn’t watching the door, waiting for me to step through it.
It had been two days since the incident at the dress rehearsal. Two days since I’d stared at my dad’s guitar, broken on the stage floor, and felt like someone had reached inside my chest and squeezed.
At the time, I hadn’t been able to move. Everything had gone quiet, as if the world had tilted and I was still trying to catch up.
I hadn’t known what to say; I’d just stood there, staring.
It hadn’t been about the guitar itself. Not really.
The guitar was old, and it had already lived a long life. But it had been his.
When I was a kid, my dad used to sit me on his lap with that guitar balanced awkwardly between us. His big, warm hands would guide mine, showing me where to press.
He’d hum along while I strummed, his voice low and steady, until my head grew heavy and I’d fall asleep against his chest.
That guitar had taught me music. It had taught me comfort.
Seeing it broken felt like losing him all over again. But the guitar could be fixed, and everything important was still there.
If I ran my fingers along the neck, I could still feel the grooves my dad’s hands had worn into the wood over years of playing. The stickers we’d pasted on together when I was bored on tour still clung to the back, crooked and faded.
Even the strap was unharmed. His old one, the one that still smelled faintly of him.
And yet, I’d reacted so harshly with Mark. I hadn’t even answered any of his calls or messages.
I had this bad habit of putting things off, telling myself I’d reply in another hour, then day. Convincing myself it was fine because I’d already waited long enough.
And then, suddenly, too much time had passed, and it felt easier to leave things unsaid than to admit I’d waited at all.
I hated that about myself. I didn’t want that to be how this ended. Not with Mark.
I exhaled slowly, a decision settling in my chest. I’d go over to his place later today. Say it in person.
Tell him I’d overreacted, that I should’ve talked to him instead of shutting him out.
And if he was willing, if I hadn’t already screwed this up beyond repair, I’d ask him to get coffee with me.
Something simple. Something that meant we were still okay.
I gathered the kids back into a loose semicircle and handed out their juice boxes and snacks.
“Finish those up,” I said, smiling at them. “Your parents will be here any minute.”
Once everyone was ready, I ushered them toward the front of the shop.
A few parents were already waiting outside, chatting quietly. I unlocked the cupboard near the entrance and started pulling out jackets, calling names as I handed them over.
One by one, I let parents inside, the shop filling with familiar voices and polite hellos.
“Mrs. Lim,” I said as Daisy bounded over to her mom, jacket half-on and guitar case bumping against her leg. “She nailed her transitions today. Her fingers are finally settling into place.”
Daisy puffed up proudly. “Zack sang the note!”
Mrs. Lim laughed. “Did he?”
“Regrettably,” I said. “But it worked.”
She smiled, thanking me as she helped Daisy into her coat. As they headed for the door, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, parents glancing sideways, murmurs threading through the room.
I frowned and followed their gaze.
Mark stood just outside the shop, hovering near the window like he wasn’t sure he was allowed any closer.
When he noticed me looking, he carefully set the guitar case he was carrying against the wall before giving me a small, awkward wave.
A couple of parents shifted immediately. One man tugged his son closer, whispering to his wife. Another pair exchanged low, questioning glances.
“How long has he been coming around here?”
“Does he interact with the kids?”
“Why would the shop even allow someone like him—”
My jaw clenched. Someone like him.
The words didn’t make sense. I was a shifter too. So was Mrs. Crest, the music shop owner’s wife, the one who also helps run the store.
The whole town knew that. What exactly did they think they were being protected from?
I took a step forward, heat rising in my chest, ready to say something sharp—
“Bye, Zack!” one of the kids called, waving both his hands.
“Thank you for the snacks!” another chimed in.
That stopped me short. I smiled back automatically, waving in return, and by the time I looked up again, Mark had stepped inside.
He didn’t hesitate. Shoulders squared, expression open, he positioned himself where everyone could see him.
“I want to apologize,” he said, voice steady but careful. “To all of you.” The room quieted.
“What happened at the rehearsal the other day was my fault,” he continued. “It was reckless, and it shouldn’t have happened. It doesn’t represent this pack, or what we stand for.”
A man near the door, George, tightened his grip on his son’s shoulder. “There’s a reason the rule exists,” he said flatly.
Mark nodded. “I know.”
The rule had been drilled into all of us who grew up in Pecan Pines. No pack business in town. No confrontations, no violence, especially anything that could spill over to humans or escalate beyond control.
Mrs. Lim stepped in, frowning. “George, what exactly happened?”
George launched into his version immediately, painting an almost cinematic picture of the so-called chaos at the festival grounds.
By the time he finished, the shop felt too small. Mrs. Lim looked uncertain, eyes moving between George, Mark, and me. I swallowed, pulse loud in my ears.
“I was there,” another mother said suddenly, cutting in before anyone else could respond. “I don’t know what you’re on about, George, but he barely even connected. He tripped more than anything. That other singer wasn’t even hurt.”
A ripple of murmurs followed.
Someone else snorted. “Honestly, the bigger crime was that guy was wearing a T-shirt in this weather. Did no one tell him what winter’s like in Pecan Pines?”
A few people chuckled despite themselves. I let out a slow breath, tension easing just a fraction. George, unfortunately, wasn’t done.
“That’s not the point,” he said sharply. “The rule exists for a reason. Have you all forgotten what happened before?”
The room quieted again.
“There were brawls,” he went on, voice dropping. “Small fights at first. Then another pack got involved. A full-on fight in the middle of town. Civilians were hurt!”
My stomach tightened. Everyone in Pecan Pines knew that story.
Mrs. Lim pressed her lips together, eyes flicking between Mark and George. When she spoke, her voice was careful. “That was almost twenty years ago. Things have changed.”
But I didn’t miss the way her hand tightened on Daisy’s shoulder as she said it.
George stepped forward. “And what about that bookshop? Just over a year ago. Thrashed. Thank goodness no one was hurt, but who knows what else could’ve happened?”
A few parents nodded slowly. Others looked uncomfortable.
I’d had enough. I stepped fully into the space between Mark and the parents.
“That’s exactly why things are different now,” I said. “Cooper isn’t the alpha from back then. You’ve all met him. You’ve seen what he’s done since taking over.”
A few heads turned toward me. “He’s put rules in place. Enforced them. He works with the town council, the sheriff. People you trust. He doesn’t ignore incidents like this. He handles them.”
I glanced at Mark, then back at the group. “And he already has.”
For a moment, no one spoke. I held my ground, hoping it would be enough.