Page 44 of Conall (The Sunburst Pack #3)

Gregory’s eyes met hers one final time, and for a moment she saw the father who had rescued her from foster care, who had taught her to survive in a dangerous world. But that man had been consumed by ambition and ideology, leaving only the shell of someone who had once cared about her welfare.

You could have been magnificent, he whispered, blood frothing at his mouth. My perfect creation. My legacy.

I am magnificent, Nadine said quietly. Just not in the way you wanted.

And without another word, Gregory Torrance, Vincent’s former enforcer and architect of the Prometheus Group conspiracy, died as he had lived—surrounded by violence he had helped create.

But this time, the violence served justice rather than ambition.

The laboratory fell silent except for the sound of the three remaining wolf shifters still breathing heavily from their exertions.

Nadine stood over Gregory’s body, feeling hollow rather than triumphant. She had expected satisfaction from finally confronting the man who had manipulated her entire life. Instead, she felt only the heavy recognition that some family bonds could only be severed through violence.

Nadine stared down at the man who had been her father, her teacher, her protector—and ultimately her greatest enemy. Blood pooled beneath his still form, and she found herself cataloging details with the clinical detachment he had instilled in her.

The scar along his left temple from a training accident when she was twelve. The calloused hands that had shown her how to field-dress a wound, how to read animal tracks, how to survive in a world that wanted to destroy her.

The silver threading through his dark hair that she’d never noticed before, evidence of years carrying burdens she was only beginning to understand.

This is what I wanted , she told herself. Justice. An end to his schemes.

But her chest felt carved out, emptied by a grief that made no logical sense.

Gregory Torrance had been a monster who’d manipulated her from childhood, who’d orchestrated the deaths of innocent people, who’d planned to reprogram her into a puppet and have her kill her mate. She should feel relief. Victory. The satisfaction of a mission completed.

Instead, she felt seven years old again, watching Gregory teach her to start a campfire with wet matches because emergencies don’t wait for perfect conditions.

She remembered the pride in his voice when she’d successfully tracked her first deer, the gentle patience when she’d cried over a wounded bird they couldn’t save, the fierce protectiveness when other shifters had questioned why he was raising a child who wasn’t blood-related.

Had any of that been real? Or had she been an investment from the very beginning, a long-term project designed to serve his larger ambitions?

Nadine. Conall’s voice was gentle. Through the mate bond, she felt his concern, his recognition of the complex emotions tearing through her.

I’m fine, she said automatically.

No, you’re not. Quinton’s voice surprised her—matter-of-fact but not unkind. The three of us just killed the only father you’ve ever known. Being fine would make you a sociopath.

The unexpected understanding from Conall’s twin nearly broke her composure. She’d expected judgment, suspicion, continued hostility. Not empathy.

He wasn’t my father, she said, but her voice cracked on the words. Not really. I was just another asset to him. A weapon he trained and pointed at his enemies.

Maybe, Conall said, moving closer. But that doesn’t change what he meant to you.

The tears came without warning—hot, bitter drops she tried desperately to wipe away.

She’d learned early that crying was a luxury she couldn’t afford, that showing vulnerability invited exploitation.

Gregory had taught her that lesson through countless exercises designed to build emotional resilience.

Even now, he’s controlling my responses , she thought with fresh anguish. Even in death, I’m still following his programming .

I loved him, she whispered. For eighteen years, I loved him.

I would have died for him. Would have killed for him.

And he— Her voice broke completely. He was already dead to me the moment I learned the truth, but I couldn’t stop hoping that somewhere underneath all the lies, there was still the man who taught me to be strong.

The sobs came harder now, suppressed grief and rage and confusion pouring out in the sterile laboratory where she’d finally confronted the truth about her past.

She cried for the father who had never existed, for the childhood built on foundations of deception, for the innocent people who had died because of Gregory’s ambitions.

She cried for the girl who had believed that strength meant isolation, that love was weakness, that family loyalty trumped moral considerations. For the woman who had spent her time hunting innocent people based on lies fed to her by the man she’d trusted most.

Conall’s arms came around her without hesitation, pulling her against his chest while she fell apart.

Through the mate bond, she felt his own pain—not just empathy for her loss, but genuine grief for the man Gregory could have been. The father who might have existed if ambition hadn’t consumed everything decent in him.

It’s okay, Conall murmured against her hair. It’s okay to mourn him. The love you felt was real, even if he wasn’t worthy of it.

I should hate him, she said between sobs. After everything he did, everything he planned to do—I should be glad he’s dead.

Maybe, Quinton said, his voice unexpectedly gentle. But you’re not him. You get to feel complicated things about complicated people.

The observation cut through her spiral of self-recrimination.

Quinton was right—her ability to grieve for Gregory, even knowing what he’d become, was proof that his conditioning hadn’t taken hold completely.

The capacity for complex emotions, for love that transcended logic, was exactly what Gregory had tried to eliminate from her personality.

The worst part, she said, her voice steadying slightly, is that I still remember the good times. Still remember believing he loved me. And I don’t know how to reconcile that with what I learned about who he really was.

Maybe you don’t have to, Conall suggested. Maybe the Gregory who raised you and the Gregory who became a monster were both real. People are capable of change—sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse.

She pulled back to look at him, seeing understanding in his dark eyes. How do you know?

Because I saw what Vincent’s reign did to good people.

He paused, smiling a little. Remember, I grew up around Gregory too.

I don’t think he ever acted around us like he did around you—but I saw plenty of pack members I’d known my whole life become cruel and paranoid under Vincent’s influence.

Some of them found their way back to who they used to be.

Others… He shrugged sadly. Others got lost in the darkness and never found their way out.

Maybe Gregory started as someone who genuinely wanted to protect shifter communities, Quinton added.

Maybe he really did love you, at least in the beginning.

But somewhere along the way, he convinced himself that the ends justified any means.

That preserving shifter culture was worth sacrificing individual shifters.

The possibility offered Nadine a framework for understanding that didn’t require her to dismiss either her memories or the evidence of Gregory’s crimes.

Perhaps the father who had rescued her from foster care and the monster who had manipulated multiple packs were both authentic versions of the same person—separated by years of choices that had gradually eroded his morality.

I wanted him to be redeemable, she said. Even after finding the storage unit, even after learning about the Prometheus Group—part of me hoped that when I confronted him, he’d remember what it felt like to be my father instead of Vincent’s enforcer.

Some people can’t find their way back, Conall said quietly. That doesn’t mean they were never worth loving. It just means they made choices that led them too far into the darkness.

Nadine nodded, wiping away the last of her tears.

The grief would linger—probably for years, processed in the quiet moments when she wasn’t focused on survival or missions or the complex demands of pack politics.

But the crushing pain of her conflicted emotions had lifted slightly, replaced by a sadness that felt clean rather than toxic.

We should search the facility, she said, her voice stronger now. Find whatever intelligence we can about the Prometheus Group’s other operations.

Are you sure you’re ready for that? Quinton asked, genuine concern in his voice.

Nadine stared down at Gregory’s body one last time, memorizing the face that had shaped her childhood before forcing herself to look away.

I’m ready, she said. He’s gone, but his work isn’t. The people he manipulated, the assets he placed, the other facilities—all of that still needs to be dealt with.

She moved toward the computer terminals but paused when Conall caught her hand.

For what it’s worth, he said quietly, I think the man who raised you would be proud of who you’ve become. Not the weapon he tried to create, but the woman who chose to protect people instead of controlling them.

The words hit deeper than she’d expected, offering a kind of closure she hadn’t known she needed. Maybe Gregory Torrance the father would have been proud of her choices, even if Gregory Torrance the operative had seen them as betrayal.

Thank you, she said simply.

Then she turned to the terminals and began the work of dismantling the conspiracy that had cost her everything she’d thought she knew about her past—and given her everything she’d never dared hope for in her future.