34. Celeste’s Unraveling Past #2
"Read the next one," Cole says when River finishes the first letter. His voice is gravel and glass, but determined. "We need to know what she couldn't tell us."
River reaches for the next bundle, and I settle in closer to Austin and Luna, my heart heavy with the weight of secrets revealed too late and love that transcends death.
Outside, December wind rattles the windows, but here in this nursery filled with sawdust and sorrow and unexpected grace, we're about to meet Celeste again through the words she left behind.
Luna pats the letter with one chubby hand, and I swear I feel something shift in the air—like approval, like blessing, like a mother's ghost saying yes, finally, let them know who I really was.
Let them forgive themselves for not being able to save me.
I wonder if the bundle of letters feels heavier in River's hands, or maybe it's just the weight of anticipation pressing down on all of us.
Luna has settled against Austin's chest, somehow sensing this is a moment for quiet, though her little fingers still reach occasionally for the papers that smell like her mother's secrets.
"This one's dated two weeks after she arrived," River says, unfolding the aged paper with careful fingers. The afternoon light has shifted, painting golden stripes across the nursery floor where we sit like children at story time, if children's stories came with this much grief.
"'I can't stop thinking about that first night,'" River reads, his voice finding the rhythm of Celeste's words.
"'The storm was so violent I thought my car would flip.
Every lightning strike felt like him finding me, like the sky itself was angry I'd dared to run.
When I saw your porch light through the rain, I almost didn't stop.
What right did I have to bring my darkness to someone else's door? '"
River pauses, swallowing hard, then continues.
"'But Cole answered like he'd been waiting for me.
Not just that night, but all his life. He took one look at me—soaked, shaking, probably half-feral with fear—and said 'You're safe now' with such certainty I almost believed him.
He didn't know me, didn't know what I was running from, but he stood in that doorway like he could hold back the whole storm if it tried to follow me inside. '"
I glance at Cole, watching his hands clench and unclench where they rest on his thighs. His jaw works like he's fighting words that want to escape, and I shift slightly closer, letting my knee touch his in silent support. He doesn't pull away.
"'He made me tea,'" River continues reading.
"'Said his mother used to say that all problems looked smaller through steam from a proper cup.
His hands were so gentle, setting the mug in front of me, never moving too fast or getting too close.
Like he knew without being told that I'd been taught to fear quick movements and reaching hands. '"
"She noticed everything," Cole says roughly. "Even that first night, terrified and exhausted, she was cataloging exits and reading body language and—" He stops, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I should have known then she was running from something serious."
"You gave her what she needed," I say softly. "Safety first, questions later."
River shuffles to the next letter, dated a month later.
"'The horses know I'm broken,'" he reads.
"'River says that's nonsense, that they just recognize someone who understands what it's like to be scared.
But I see how they settle when I'm in the barn, how even that half-wild mare in stall seven will take carrots from my hand now.
River watches from the corners, pretending to fix tack or measure feed, but I know he's making sure I'm okay.
He moves like water, all smooth motion and careful distance, never making me feel trapped even in enclosed spaces. '"
River's voice catches on his own name, and I watch him blink rapidly. "She helped me gentle that mare. Said broken things recognized each other, knew how to be patient with the healing process."
The next letter makes Maverick shift uncomfortably before River even starts reading.
"'I found the new locks this morning. Maverick must have installed them during the night—I never heard a thing.
Two deadbolts on my bedroom door, the kind that lock from inside.
A chain too, positioned where I can reach it easily.
He didn't say anything, didn't make a production of it.
Just left the keys on my dresser with a note: 'Your space. Your control.' I cried for an hour.'"
Maverick's looking at the floor, shoulders rigid with tension. "She'd been checking the windows obsessively. Testing the doors. I could see her jumping every time the house settled."
"So you gave her control," Austin says softly. "Without making her ask."
"Everyone deserves to feel safe in their own room," Maverick mutters, but I hear the pain underneath the practicality.
River finds another letter, this one with Austin's name prominently mentioned.
"'Austin makes tea at 2 AM like it's perfectly normal to find someone crying in the kitchen.
He never asks why I'm awake—just puts the kettle on and pulls out the chamomile.
Last night he told me about his rotation in the burn unit, how he learned that healing isn't linear.
'Some days you progress, some days you just survive,' he said.
'Both are victories.' I wanted to tell him then about the bruises that took months to fade, about the words that left scars no one could see.
Instead, I just drank my tea and let him refill my cup three times without comment. '"
Austin presses his face into Luna's hair, and I can see his shoulders shaking slightly.
Luna pats his cheek with one tiny hand, offering baby comfort with innocent grace.
The parallel to my own late-night kitchen encounters with Austin isn't lost on me—how many times has he sat with me, offering tea and quiet company while I battled demons he didn't fully understand?
"There are photos," River says, setting aside the letters to reach for the small stack of Polaroids. The rubber band disintegrates as he touches it, perished with age, and the photos fan out across the floor like memories made manifest.
The first shows Celeste by the stables, smiling at something off-camera.
Her dark hair catches the light, and even in the faded photo, I can see the careful way she holds herself—ready to run if needed.
But there's peace in her expression too, the kind that comes from finally feeling safe enough to lower your guard.
"I took that one," River says quietly. "She'd just gotten the mare to eat from her hand for the first time."
Another photo: Celeste in the kitchen with Austin, both of them flour-dusted and laughing. A mixing bowl sits between them, and Luna's baby quilt is visible in the background—they must have been baking while planning for her arrival.
"Mavi's birthday cake," Austin identifies, voice thick. "She insisted on making it from scratch. Said store-bought didn't show proper appreciation."
There's one of her on the porch swing with Cole, wrapped in what looks like his flannel shirt.
Another with Maverick, both of them focused on something he's showing her on a laptop—probably the security system he was installing.
Each image shows a woman slowly coming back to life, finding her place in this makeshift family.
I trace my finger over her face in the photos, this woman whose path I'm following in ways I never anticipated. Luna makes a grab for one, and Austin lets her touch it gently, watching as she pats her mother's face with innocent recognition.
"Read the last one," Cole says gruffly. "The one at the bottom."
River retrieves a letter that's been folded and refolded so many times the creases are soft as cloth. His hands tremble as he opens it, and I can see it's longer than the others, covered in Celeste's careful script.
"'My beloved pack,'" River begins, then has to stop, clearing his throat.
"'I know that's not what we are officially.
Four alphas and an omega without bonds or ceremonies or any of the traditional markers.
But in my heart, you became my pack the moment you chose protection over possession, kindness over control. '"
My own throat tightens at the words, at how perfectly they capture what I've found here too.
River continues, voice growing stronger: "'I'm pregnant.
I found out this morning, and I've spent all day walking the property, trying to find the right words.
This child—our child, because I already think of her as ours—will know a different life than I did.
She'll know that strength comes in many forms. That gentleness is not weakness. That love doesn't require ownership.'"
"She knew it was a girl?" Maverick asks, voice rough. "She never told us she knew."
"'I'm scared,'" River continues reading.
"'Not of you, never of you. But of what I might bring to your door.
Of who might come looking. Of whether I'm selfish for wanting this child to know the safety you've given me.
But then I watch you all—Cole standing guard without realizing it, River teaching patience through horses, Maverick creating security that feels like care, Austin healing with tea and quiet words—and I know.
This child will be loved. Will be protected.
Will grow up knowing that real alphas build safe spaces instead of cages. '"
Luna babbles something that sounds almost like words, reaching for the letter with determined hands.
This time River lets her have it, watching as she crumples the edge with baby enthusiasm.
Somehow it feels right—Celeste's daughter claiming her mother's words, making them real and present instead of just memory.