Page 92 of Taken By The Wolves

Robert slides a bottle of whiskey across the table. “We should drink to the fallen,” he says. “And to the ones who made it back.”

We each pour a glass. The clink of thick-bottom tumblers is loud in the silence.

“To my father,” Nixon says, voice rough.

“To our father,” I echo.

Hunter raises his glass. “To the end of Gregory.”

We drink.

“To the beginning of something better,” Evan adds.

I drain my glass and let the warmth burn deep into my chest, fighting the cold that’s tried to settle since the moment the fighting stopped. There’s still so much to do. So many wounds to heal. But we’re alive, and our future is blooming in front of us.

Outside, the moon glows low and almost complete, casting silver light over the trees. The forest is quiet.

I think about Ahya, already powerful enough to motivate an army. And the cubs Goldie rocks to sleep. And the life Scarlet carries, blooming beneath her heart. New life to balance out the death.

We’ll rebuild.

We’ll protect them.

And we’ll never let a monster like Gregory rise again.

Tonight, we drink. Tomorrow, we bury the dead.

After that?

We live.

47

SCARLET

Ahya sleeps tucked into the crook of my body, small and warm and steady as a heartbeat. Downstairs, someone rinses a glass; the water runs, stops. The wind combs the trees. Pine and soap and woodsmoke drift through my enhanced senses.

I stare at my phone for a long time, the new wi-fi connection taunting me. I’ve been putting off calling her through all the craziness of the past days, but I know I need to make contact before she calls for a search party.

I sigh deeply, dreading the words she’ll most probably say.Come home. Don’t be crazy. You can’t possibly love three men. What do you mean you’re giving up your life to take care of someone else's child?

They’d all be valid concerns a mother would have for her daughter, but they’d all be wrong.

I’m not crazy for loving Nixon, Reed, and Finn. I’m not crazy for falling in love with a perfect child who needed arms to hold her and keep her safe. I’m not crazy forfollowing a dream I’d given up thinking could be mine.

Now, I have to convince her.

I hit call.

Mom answers on the second ring, panting like she’s been carrying groceries up the stairs. “Scarlet? Are you okay?”

The worry permeating her voice makes my heart ache. I wish she could let go of all the anxiety she has around me living my life, for her and for me.

“I’m okay.” I swallow, eyes stinging. “I’m… actually really good.”

“What kind of good?”

“The best kind, Mom.” I exhale, and it shakes on the way out. “Mom, I have to tell you something.”