Page 86 of Chained By the Alpha (Claimed Duet #1)
· Cleo ·
The heavy clank of the prison door closes behind me with a finality that echoes down the sterile hallway.
Each step I take, the sound of my shoes against the concrete is loud, contrasting with the muffled voices and distant clatters drifting through the air.
This place is a reminder of consequences, of lines crossed and lives altered.
My heart beats with a mix of dread and sadness as I approach the visiting area.
I didn’t just lose my father—I lost the idea of who I thought he was.
I grieve two parts of him; the Alpha I thought he was and the father he should have been.
He sits on the other side of the reinforced glass, a shadow of the man he once was. His hair is more salt than pepper now, and the lines on his face are etched deeper by regret—or perhaps resignation. He looks up, and when his eyes meet mine, there’s a flicker of something that might be remorse.
I pick up the phone, the cool plastic familiar and unwelcome in my hand. “Hi, Dad,” I start, my voice steady despite the turmoil churning inside me.
“Cleo,” he replies, his voice cracking slightly. “You look… You look good, happy.” His eyes scan my face, taking in the changes.
“I am happy,” I affirm, for him and for myself. “I’ve been cleaning up the mess you left behind. It’s been tough. The pack is starting to thrive again.”
He nods slowly, the weight of his choices pressing down on him. “I never wanted…” he starts, trailing off, the excuses too feeble to voice.
“You wanted power, Dad. It blinded you,” I say, not to wound but to state the truth we both need to hear. “You lost sight of what was important. You hurt a lot of people.”
“I know, Cleo. I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotions he probably doesn’t fully understand. “For everything—especially for what I did to you and your mother.”
The mention of her brings a sharp pang to my heart. “Mom deserved better,” I say, the words tight with grief.
“I’ll regret that for the rest of my life,” he replies, and for a moment, the sincerity in his voice bridges the chasm of years and pain between us.
I take a deep breath, letting the ache of the past mingle with the resolve of the present. “I have to go,” I say, more gently than I feel. “I have responsibilities now. We have a pack meeting tonight.”
“Of course,” he agrees quickly. “I’m proud of you, Cleo. Truly.” I nod, unsure how to respond. His words no longer hold the same meaning. “Can you try to convince Linda to come see me?” he pleads.
I know Linda hasn’t spoken to him. She lost her daughter, her mate, and her life—all in the same day.
Yet she’s doing okay. She visits Lydia every weekend, never missing a visit.
She’s been helping me comb through the documents and the mess my father left behind.
She no longer lives in my mother’s house.
Still, she’s pack. I couldn’t toss her out.
She’s trying to be a better person, and that’s something.
“I will try.” He nods and sucks in a breath.
“Goodbye, Dad.” I hang up before he can see the tears threatening to spill over. They are for the father I once thought I knew, for the family we can never be.
Leaving the cold confines of the prison, I drive to the cemetery where my mother rests.
The headstone is simple, elegant, a testament to the life she lived and the legacy she left.
I kneel, placing fresh flowers against the cool marble.
The inscription is a whisper of memory: Beloved mother, and Luna.
The air is filled with the scent of blooming flowers and fresh earth, a reminder that life persists, even in the face of loss. I trace the letters of her name, feeling the connection that has never waned.
Warm hands encircle my swelling belly, a touch that sparks joy in the shadow of grief.
“I thought I would find you here,” he whispers, his breath a gentle caress against my ear. I lean back into his embrace, comforted by his presence. “Just talking to Mom,” I say softly.
He kisses the top of my head, his hands smoothing over the curve of our future, where our little girl grows. “What do you think she would say?”
“She’d be happy,” I answer, smiling through tears. “Proud of where we are, what we’ve become, and that her pack is back in its rightful hands.”
“And what we’re about to be,” he adds, joy palpable as his hands move over my baby bump.
Parents. Mates. Alphas.
Together, we stand and look down at the grave. Our daughter, Clara, will know her grandmother’s legacy. She will grow up strong, loved, and with every opportunity we can give her.
“Come on,” Zayn says gently, helping me to my feet. “Let’s go home.”
Hand in hand, we walk through the cemetery. Behind us, the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, a beautiful end to a day. As we reach the car, I pause, glancing back at the grave one last time.
The future is uncertain. I’m not afraid as we drive away, the setting sun ahead of us. With Zayn by my side and our daughter on the way, I’m ready for whatever comes next—I’m excited for it.
The end.