Page 378 of Claimed By the Rival Alpha

Five years had passed since Night killed Troy and we rescued the feral boys. Since then, I had performed the memory ritual on each of them and was now counseling those who wanted help with their recovery. Many of those kids still lived as a group on Panacea, in the cabins we’d built for them.

I’d had my son, Remus, four years ago. He was a beautiful little boy with thick auburn hair and eyes as emerald as his father’s. Already, he was the timid opposite of his sister, who lived up to her fiery name. He clung to my dress when he went out with me and was very sensitive. Whenever Night gave him a stern look, the waterworks started. He stayed strong in front of his son, but privately, I knew it devastated my poor mate whenever he made our son cry. According to Lance, that was how Night had acted when he was Remy’s age. Maybe that explained where Remy had gotten it from.

Tavi and Dom had a baby boy who was nine months younger than Ember. They named him Lucian after the father Dom and I shared. And then she ended up having twin girls, Mila and Olivia, just weeks after I had Remy. They were growing up asclose friends, even though we spent most of our time on Kings’ land and Dom and Tavi were on Wargs’ land.

Lately, when they played, the girls had a tendency to convince Remy to fall in with whatever mischief or adventure they had planned. The silly boy didn’t seem to mind it, even though he was clearly being dragged along.

“If either of them break his heart,” Night liked to threaten his beta, “it’s you and me in the ring, Dominic.”

“Fine.” Dom always shrugged. “But ifhebreaks either of their hearts?” He would shake his head. “I’m taking bothyouandyour son to the mat.”

Conversations like that usually devolved into them challenging each other to a race or a test of strength that was decided by Ember or Lucian, who always ended up declaring their respective father the winner. Tavi and I pretended to ignore them.

Pax had recently turned fourteen, and he was already showing a lot of promise as a fighter and a hunter for the pack. However, he was also interested in the plays that a small group of Wargs and Kings put on every so often, and he often complained to me about how it was tough dividing his time between the troupe and his training. He had started making his friends call him “Sir Paxton” because it sounded more dignified, more knightly. Tavi and I couldn’t help but laugh. We fully intended to make fun of him for that when he was older.

Samuel finished catching up on his schooling and started living in Colville, selling his art pieces to the residents. He visited as often as he could, but he preferred the constant noise of the cityto the quiet of the forest. Trevor lived with him. He was doing a lot better, and he liked being with his oldest friend.

Our relationships with the Garou and Camas Packs had only grown stronger. We started having quarterly meetings with them and the leadership from packs we’d invited along to discuss everything from territory disputes, to trade, to aid requests. When business was finished, the meetings usually turned into parties where everyone mingled and caught up. After successfully merging the Kings and Wargs, this coalition was my proudest accomplishment.

We didn’t discriminate on pack size or values as long as those values weren’t harmful or abusive. We gained new packs fairly regularly, and sometimes Night and I facilitated the merging of smaller packs into one because of our experience.

Anytime there was a heated disagreement, which happened whenever we discussed topics we were passionate about, Oakley mediated. He was proud of his ability to defuse tension with only a few words, and he enjoyed being the calm voice of reason. He never lost control, even when he was called out for his sexism. Yes, he’d made a ton of progress since that long-ago attack on his pack, but he struggled to let go of some of the traditions. Despite his shortcomings, he was a comforting presence to have around when discussions devolved into arguments.

In the end, we were doing what Troy and Gregor never could: creating a united front of wolf packs. Unlike them, we worked for it without relying on fear or violence to get what we wanted.

With the packs’ increased interaction, inter-pack relationships began. My mom, for example, had started dating again, and because of that, she had a never-ending supply of juicy and occasionally scandalous stories. That was new territory for bothof us, but she seemed happy, and that was all that mattered to me.

Violet officially became the historian. She was about as involved in research and recording tradition as Stan was with medicine. They were workaholics, those two, but whenever we got the chance to speak to them, they always seemed blissfully busy and in love with each other. From what I understood, they weren’t planning to have a claiming ceremony.

Samara and Oakley had made strides in mending their relationship. He understood that he’d hurt her deeply and was trying to make it up to her. Samara was slowly opening up to him, but it was too little too late. That was why Night and I were gutted when we heard of Oakley’s death just after the fifth anniversary of Troy's death. Outside of the meetings, we’d spent time with him at least once a month, and over the last year, he had looked weaker and weaker every time we saw him. Still, he’d been so optimistic and strong, we thought we’d have at least another decade with him.

On the day of the funeral, we left Jasper, Frankie, and Tara in charge of the packs while Lance and the four of us went to his funeral. Our pups were with my mom and Violet.

Traveling to the Camas Pack was quiet, as our minds were filled with heavy memories. When we arrived, the mood of the Camas compound was similarly somber. We gathered with the wolves from his pack, along with the Garou and other packs in our coalition.

We all stood in a circle around Oakley’s coffin. The wood was unfinished, and the grain of the light wood flowed seamlessly together like it had been pulled from the trunk of a large oak tree.

Wolf tradition dictated that a funeral was meant to be held on the east corner of the pack, with the sun setting at the audience’s backs. Doing this was meant to ensure that the spirit of the deceased passed into the ether easily. The coffin was burned at the conclusion of the ceremony. According to Camas tradition, the oldest son usually made the coffin. Oakley didn’t have sons, and that tradition, like many others, would probably be phased out or made more inclusive for women.

Samara, as the oldest daughter, had made her father’s coffin. She stood by it like a sentinel.

Dawn stood next to her with her hand on her shoulder. She and Aiden from our pack had gotten together, and as far as I knew, it was a good match. Next to them were Alpha Leo and his beta Cat. So many things had changed for them. A third of the kids who were once feral had joined their motley pack, boosting their numbers. Everyone who knew them had endured the will-they/won’t-they bit they put on for the last several years. Oakley had always been the most outspokenly annoyed about it. Fortunately, he’d lived to attend their claiming ceremony.

The Camas elders thanked us for attending and began the rites. “Oakley was as strong as the tree for which he was named. No, he was stronger. He was a man full of wisdom and a drive to improve. Some said he was too quick to forgive, to desire peace, but most would say that was one of his biggest strengths. ”

Tears slipped down my cheeks. I leaned against Night, who rubbed my shoulders. I sniffled and glanced across the circle at Samara. Her face was bone-dry, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t grieving. Far from it. Actually, she had personally invited us five to the funeral. With tears in her eyes, she’d said, “He would have liked for you to be there. You two were his greatest teachers,and he worried that he wouldn’t have enough time to learn everything he could from you.”

Never in a million years had I believed I would hear anyone say something like that about me. And every time I remembered those words, I burst into sobs.

When the elders finished their rites, they passed the lit torch to Birchen. With tears in his eyes, he spoke the words that passed control of the pack to him, then let the flames lick across Oakley’s body and coffin.

Though he was taking on the alpha role now, I had a feeling that Samara planned on being the alpha when Birchen was ready to step down, tradition be damned. She didn’t say this directly, but she had asked Night and me a lot of questions about leadership, and she and Lance had been training together for over a year now. When I looked at Samara now, the fire from her father’s pyre reflecting in her eyes, I knew she was willing to fight for the right if necessary.

As that thought entered my mind, I saw something amazing. In the curling slate gray where the flames burned the brightest, I saw a wolf made from smoke and embers leap from the coffin and float up to the sky. It lasted longer than the normal smoke, but in seconds, it dissipated with a twinkle in the light of the setting sun.

I stopped breathing until Lance took my hand and squeezed. He’d seen it, too, though it seemed no one else had. It must have been because of our pack mother blood. I wondered how our powers would continue to grow as we aged.

Though death was here and on our minds, so, too, was hope. The sight of the wolf was more than a good omen—it proved that thefuture burned as brightly as Oakley’s pyre. I knew he would be watching over us with the spirits of our loved ones. I knew we were going to be all right.