Chapter 14 Hunter
Hunter
The front door clicks shut behind me, and the silence that greets me isn't the heavy, suffocating kind I've grown used to over the past year. It's different. Softer somehow, filled with the gentle hum of life instead of the echo of everything we've lost.
I drop my keys on the entry table, rolling my shoulders to try and work out the knots that have taken up permanent residence there.
The construction site was a disaster today.
Nothing dangerous, just the kind of clusterfuck that happens when three different subcontractors all show up at the same time expecting to use the same space.
I'd spent four hours mediating arguments, redrawing schedules, and making phone calls to suppliers who were suddenly claiming they never received our orders.
My head is pounding. My feet hurt. All I want is a shower, food, and maybe ten hours of uninterrupted sleep that I know I won't actually get.
But when I round the corner into the living room, I stop dead in my tracks.
The TV is on, some animated movie playing with the volume turned low.
But nobody's watching it. Instead, I find Amelia asleep on the couch with both kids draped across her like puppies seeking warmth.
Isaac is sprawled across her lap, his head on her stomach, one arm flung out dramatically while the other clutches his favorite truck even in sleep.
Riley is curled into Amelia's side, her long dark hair spilling across Amelia's shoulder, one small hand fisted in the fabric of Amelia's shirt like she's afraid to let go.
And Amelia. God, Amelia looks so peaceful it makes my chest ache.
Her head is tilted back against the couch cushions, lips slightly parted, her breathing deep and even.
One arm is wrapped around Riley, the other hand resting on Isaac's back, and even in sleep she's holding them close, protecting them.
I should move. Should wake them up and get the kids to their actual beds where they'll sleep better. Should probably wake Amelia too and send her home to Dylan's place where she can rest properly instead of on our lumpy couch.
But I can't make myself move. I just stand there in the doorway, my briefcase still in my hand, staring at the three of them like they're something precious and fragile that might disappear if I look away.
My chest feels too tight, emotions warring inside me with the kind of intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
Grief hits first, sharp and familiar. This should be Evie.
Evie should be the one on this couch with our kids curled up against her, safe and loved and home.
Evie should be here to see Riley's latest drawings, to hear Isaac's mangled jokes, to make sure they know every single day how fiercely they're loved.
But she's not here. She's never going to be here again. And that reality still feels like a punch to the gut even a year later, even on the days when I think I'm finally starting to accept it.
Except underneath the grief, threading through it like gold through quartz, is something else. Something that feels dangerously close to hope.
Because Amelia is here. She's here on our couch with our kids, and they're sleeping peacefully against her like they trust her completely.
Like they know on some fundamental level that she'll keep them safe.
And the house smells like whatever she cooked for dinner, something with garlic and tomatoes that makes my stomach growl despite the guilt churning in my gut.
The guilt is the worst part. It sits heavy in my chest, pressing down on my lungs, whispering that I'm a terrible person for feeling anything other than grief.
That it's too soon, too fast, too wrong to want someone who isn't Evie.
That my baby sister has only been gone a year and I'm already looking at another woman with want written all over my face.
"Evie would want this," I whisper to the empty room, to the ghost of my sister who I swear I can still feel sometimes hovering at the edges of my awareness. "She'd want them happy. She'd want us whole."
The words sound true even if they don't quite erase the guilt. Evie loved fiercely and completely. She would have wanted her children cared for, her Alphas healing, her family finding their way back to joy. She wouldn't have wanted us frozen in grief forever, trapped in the moment we lost her.
But knowing what she would have wanted doesn't make it easier to let myself feel this.
To acknowledge that when Amelia smiles at me over breakfast, something in my chest loosens.
That when she tucks the kids in at night with such obvious love, I have to leave the room before I do something stupid like pull her into my arms and never let go.
I set my briefcase down carefully, quietly, and move toward the couch.
Isaac first. I slide my hands under his small body, trying not to jostle him too much as I lift him against my chest. He makes a small sound of protest, his face scrunching up, but then he recognizes my scent and settles immediately, his head dropping to my shoulder with complete trust.
My son. My nephew. The beautiful boy my sister left behind.
I carry him upstairs slowly, cradling him like the precious gift he is.
His room is a disaster of toys and books and art projects in various stages of completion, but his bed is made, sheets pulled tight with the kind of care that tells me Amelia did it.
I lay him down gently, tucking his blanket around him and making sure his truck is within reach if he wakes up looking for it.
He doesn't stir. Just burrows deeper into his pillow, one small hand curling under his cheek.
I press a kiss to his forehead, breathing in his little boy scent, baby shampoo and graham crackers and something uniquely Isaac. "Love you, buddy," I whisper, even though he can't hear me.
Riley is next. She's harder to extract from Amelia without waking her, tangled up as she is with her fist still clutching Amelia's shirt.
I work carefully, gently prying her fingers loose and lifting her into my arms. She's getting so big.
Six years old and already so fierce, so stubborn, so much like her mother it sometimes steals my breath.
She stirs as I carry her upstairs, her eyes cracking open just enough to register my face. "Dad?" Her voice is thick with sleep, confused.
"Just taking you to bed, sweetheart. Go back to sleep."
"Is Mia okay?" Even half-asleep, she's worried about Amelia. The bond between them has grown so strong over the past few weeks, and watching it develop has been both beautiful and terrifying.
"She's fine. She fell asleep on the couch too. I'll take care of her."
Riley nods, satisfied with that answer, and lets her eyes drift closed again.
I settle her into her bed, pulling her favorite blanket up to her chin and smoothing her hair back from her face.
She looks so much like Evie it makes my throat tight.
The same delicate features, the same stubborn set to her jaw even in sleep.
"Your mama would be so proud of you," I whisper, my voice cracking on the words. "So proud of the girl you're becoming."
I stand there for too long, watching her sleep, letting myself feel the full weight of what we've lost and what we're trying to build from the wreckage. Then I force myself to leave, to pull the door closed behind me with a soft click.
Amelia is still asleep on the couch when I get back downstairs.
Without the kids draped across her, she looks smaller somehow.
More vulnerable. Her braid has come partially undone, strands of brown hair falling across her face.
There's a crease on her cheek from where it was pressed against the couch cushion.
She's beautiful. The thought hits me with uncomfortable intensity. Not in the flashy, obvious way that turns heads on the street, but in a quieter way. The kind of beauty that sneaks up on you, that grows more profound the longer you look.
I should leave her here to sleep. Should cover her with a blanket and let her rest. But the couch really is terrible, and she's going to wake up with her neck killing her if she stays like this all night.
And the selfish part of me, the part I'm trying very hard not to examine too closely, wants an excuse to touch her.
To hold her, even if it's just to carry her to a proper bed.
I crouch down beside the couch, reaching out to touch her shoulder gently. "Amelia," I say softly. "Hey, wake up."
She doesn't respond, just makes a small sound and turns her face further into the cushion.
I try again, a little louder. "Amelia. Come on, sweetheart, you can't sleep here all night."
The endearment slips out before I can stop it, and I freeze, waiting for her to wake up and call me on it. But she just shifts slightly, her eyes still firmly closed.
Looks like we're doing this the hard way.
I slide one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and lift her as carefully as I can.
She's lighter than I expected, or maybe I'm just running on enough adrenaline that everything feels easy.
She makes another small sound as I adjust my grip, her head lolling against my shoulder, but she doesn't wake.
Carrying her through the house feels surreal.
Like I've stepped into some alternate version of my life where this is normal, where I'm allowed to hold her like this without guilt gnawing at my insides.
Her scent wraps around me, rose and something sweeter underneath, not quite masked by whatever blockers she uses.
It makes something in my chest pull tight, my Alpha instincts perking up in ways I've been trying very hard to ignore.