Page 40 of Forget Me Not (The Shifters of Timberfall #1)

Syve

The drive to the Yerovi house felt years longer than it should have. Her eyes lingered on the bed of the truck in the rear-view mirror more than the road ahead of her. By the time she pulled into the driveway, she was a trembling mess with tears streaking down her face.

On wobbly legs, she walked to the door—only for it to swing open before she could even raise her hand to knock.

Bastien’s welcoming smile fell when he saw her face. Without hesitation he slung his arms around her, pulling her in tight to his good side.

“What happened?” he demanded, already on the offense, even though he couldn’t have been out of bed for very long .

“I-I need Cyrus,” she stammered, burrowing her face into his neck.

She wished she could spare him the pain he was about to endure.

Bastien barked Cyrus’ name without question. When heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs, she backed away, leading Bas by the hand down the driveway.

Cyrus stepped up beside Bastien just as they reached the truck bed. Neither man moved—Syve wasn’t even sure they breathed for a long, heavy minute.

Cyrus was the first to break the silence, reaching in to place a hand on the pelt that she’d hastily thrown in the truck while she made her escape. A choked sound came from the usually jovial man who then delicately lifted the pelt from the metal bed.

After sharing a quick look, Bastien jerked his head in a quick nod, answering some silent question. Syve watched as Cyrus carried what remained of his best friend along the side of the house and through the back gate.

“We should go get Mama,” Syve whispered, tightening her hold on Bastien’s hand and getting another small nod in response. She led the way into the house, aiming for the kitchen when Del came skipping down the stairs.

“Syve! Wait, what’s wrong?”

“Del, can you get Mama and bring her out back please? I need to get your brother to sit down. ”

Del hesitated, clearly brimming with questions, but not asking them. She agreed with a whisper before dashing down the hall.

A makeshift pyre, born of left-over wooden pallets, was set in the center of the fire pit. Syve could not ignore how fortuitous it was that the pit even existed at all.

Soriah’s wail was mixed with both grief and relief upon seeing her lost son—the sound cleaving its way through Syve’s very soul.

Del had taken one step onto the porch before she stopped short, eyes widening when she noticed the wolf skin draped over the wooden slats. She promptly spun on her heel and vanished back into the house.

Sighing, Bastien looked away from the empty doorway where his sister had disappeared, attention landing hard on Syve when he finally spoke.

“I…how? Where was he?” he whispered. The unspoken ‘who?’ hung heavy in the air.

“I’m going to tell you, but I need you to swear to me you won’t run off half-cocked and do something stupid—I’m serious!” she hissed her warning when she noticed a glint of malice in his eyes.

“You’re still healing, first of all, and this man has already almost killed you twice ! I know you want to be and I know it will be hard not to, but don’t be selfish. Think about Mama and Del! Even Cyrus and…” She looked away from him, inhaling deeply before continuing .

“Think about me. Please.” She begged. “You have to swear you won’t go on another murderous rampage. Let me help you. We’ll figure out what to do about him together. He won’t get away with this—just please .”

Resignation was painted all over his face when she turned back.

“This fucker tore my soul apart . I have wanted nothing more than to personally rip his throat from his neck—but you, Syve, you have stitched my tattered edges back together. I love you more than I hate him. For you, I swear I won’t go after him myself.”

Tears welled on her lashes as her hand slid into his. She would tell him again what she already admitted while he slept—once this was all over.

She quickly recapped her morning—the jacket mending and drop-off, how she’d stumbled across Dez. Mercifully, she kept the finer details to herself. He would not gain anything by knowing about the picture on the wall, how the fur was used as furniture decor—the kiss.

Her short story ended as she whispered, “It was Gunther.”