47. Everett
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
EVERETT
T he world Everett knew was crumbling to ash around him.
He stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching his brother bleed to death. On the other altar, the Vampire— Bastian’s Vampire—was so pale, her skin looked nearly translucent. Tears streaked her pretty face, her lashes fluttering as she fought to stay awake, but she never took her eyes off Bastian.
And Bastian stared back, his golden Wolf’s eyes unwavering as the two of them slipped toward death.
Everett didn’t understand it. He didn’t know how Bastian could love such a soulless creature , one who feasted on the blood of others to survive. She was a Vampire —a Wolf’s worst enemy.
And yet… she wasn’t soulless, was she? She couldn’t be, because that was love shining in her eyes. Isolde looked at Bastian in the same way Everett remembered his mother looking at Anselm when he was small. Soulless creatures didn’t know how to love.
Selene was soulless, though. Everett knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. Maybe she loved his father in her own twisted way, but she’d never looked at him with that sparkling love in her eyes.
More than that, though, Everett knew it because he’d watched his father’s soul die for her.
Love was supposed to heal souls, not destroy them.
It was supposed to bring people to life, make them bright and vibrant and whole , like it had for Bastian.
Everett had seen it when he and Isolde sat together at the banquet at Lake Hall, murmuring to one another with their heads bent together.
Bastian’s eyes had danced with a light that had been missing since he’d been turned.
He’d been quick to smile, his shoulders loose, every part of him exuding warmth and life.
His father had never looked like that with Selene. Every time he returned from Bloodhaven, his fur stained with the blood of whoever he’d killed, his eyes were a little duller. He looked a little smaller, a little more hollow—a shell of the big, formidable Wolf he’d been in Everett’s youth.
Everett hadn’t known this night would end in death.
Anselm had given him orders—orders Everett now realized really came from Selene—and he’d followed them blindly. Find Bastian. Bring him to the stone circle in the northern woods when the moon rises. If you harm him, I’ll flay you alive.
Anselm had said nothing of sacrifice—of his and Selene’s plans to murder Bastian.
All these months, since Everett followed his father to Bloodhaven on a night where the moon wasn’t full and watched him tear a barmaid limb from limb, they’d told him nothing.
Even after that night when he’d stopped Isolde from catching Anselm, all they’d said was that there was a ritual, that they’d do it soon, and all would be well.
All the while, Everett had been too busy hating Bastian for leaving him alone at Lake Hall and running right into the arms of a Vampire, just like Anselm had, to see what was really going on. He’d been so consumed by his anger that he’d tried to kill Isolde. He’d almost killed Bastian.
What he’d done to Bastian—to his own brother —in that cellar was unforgivable. Wolf law dictated that the Punishment was owed to Bastian for deserting the pack, but Everett had taken it too far. He’d been cruel. He’d made it personal.
He fucking hated himself for it.
All he’d wanted for months was to protect his father—to save him from being slaughtered when the other Vampires found out he’d violated the Pact, and from losing whatever remained of his soul to the beast Selene had made of him.
He’d thought he didn’t care if he lost his own soul in the process, but this …
Though he hadn’t killed anyone, attacking those villagers on the night of the last full moon had fractured his soul. Punishing Bastian had shattered it into pieces.
Standing back and watching his brother die at their father’s hands would burn it away to ash.
Bastian had been his best friend since that day Anselm brought him home.
He’d been nothing but bones and hollow cheeks and those warm brown eyes, smaller than Everett even though Bastian was two years older.
Ten years later, he’d been taller than Everett, faster, stronger.
He was steadier, more level-headed. Far better suited to lead the pack than Everett was.
But Bastian had never made Everett feel bad about it. He’d just been there, supporting him quietly, and though it was Everett’s duty, Bastian never balked at shouldering some of the weight when being the heir to the pack became too much.
Everett hadn’t meant what he’d said that day at Bastian’s forge—that he hadn’t become family until Anselm made him a Wolf. He’d always been family. Always would be.
It was an impossible choice: his father or his brother.
But Anselm’s soul was dying, if not already dead. Bastian’s was alive and burning alongside Isolde’s.
Everett knew with absolute certainty that his own soul was doomed, that those shattered pieces would soon be nothing but dust on the wind.
But maybe, even without a soul, he could find forgiveness.
Everett made his choice.