Chapter 1 - Jonah

Some people seem to flow through life like water, finding no resistance. Others were more like rocks thrown in the stream, sinking to the bottom wherever they landed. Jonah was one of the latter, he'd decided. He was made to watch the others float by.

"Are you even listening to me?" Emma demanded, knocking his book out of his hands. "I've been talking to you for, like, five minutes."

He picked up the book and straightened the folded pages, sighing. Those creases would never come out.

"Did I miss anything important?" He looked up finally.

Behind him, a pot of chili bubbled on the stove, and a pan of cornbread was baking in the oven, perfuming the air with the sweet scent of butter. He'd posted himself up on one of the barstools, flipping through an old paperback while the food finished, a cup of coffee cooling beside him.

Judging from Emma's scoff, he hadn't missed much. She cocked her hip to the side and shivered, underdressed as usual.

He'd cracked a window though the air was too cold for it, the summer fading swiftly to autumn in a riot of color. It was his favorite season. He was already thinking of the stews he'd cook and the pumpkin he'd carve at Halloween.

"It's freezing in here, Jo. I'm going to shut this." Emma yanked the window shut and rounded on him again. "Beth is looking for you because I'm apparently a goddamn errand boy for her now."

"She just had a baby, Em," Jonah pointed out, getting to his feet.

An adorable baby boy that he swore was the spitting image of Devon, right down to his crying face and burps.

"And don't we all know it," she complained, looking at herself in the window's reflection. "I'm going to start sleeping outside if he wakes me up again. Look at these under-eye circles. I've aged ten years."

Despite what she claimed, Emma was obsessed with the baby and insisted on handling any late-night soothings or early morning walks. To make up for that occasional softness, she complained dramatically anytime the baby was not around.

"You look great as always," Jonah said, fixing Beth a plate, fresh-baked sourdough, apricot jam, smoked walnuts, and a cup of peppermint tea.

It was true. Without her usual pristine appearance, Emma looked more like the girl he'd known as children, more approachable, more human.

"Liar," she called to his back as he went to find Beth.

"Take the cornbread out when the timer dings!" He yelled back to her, setting an alarm on his phone just in case.

. He checked for Beth first in the master bedroom, where she'd moved in with Devon before the baby was born. It was empty, as was the crib beside the bed. The nursery, office, and living room were dark and quiet, almost eerie in their silence.

Realizing he should've asked Emma where to find Beth, he continued his search, knowing that if he went back to ask her now, she'd find too much joy in withholding the information. Becoming an aunt had not lessened her pleasure in being a pain in the ass.

"She must be in the garden," Jonah said to himself, stopping by his room for his sweater before heading outside.

It was still her solace, the place she'd found refuge in when she'd first come unwillingly to the White Winter pack. Now, he couldn't imagine the pack without her. She was everything they'd been missing and hadn't realized they'd needed, a calming, motherly figure.

"Beth?" He called, slipping between the hedges.

The garden was heaving its final breaths. Late summer roses clung to their branches, drooping toward the dahlias fading by their feet. He stooped to pick a few sprigs of rosemary from the herb garden, crushing a fragrant leaf between his fingers. They'd go perfectly with the beef stew he had planned for tomorrow.

"There you are," he said, finding Beth at last.

She was kneeling by a border, pulling dead plants from the dirt and tossing them into a bucket on the path.

"Oh, Jonah, Emma found you." Beth stood and pulled off her gloves, tossing them beside the bucket. She surprised him with a hug. "Come and sit over here with me."

He knew at once that something wasn't right, the way her round eyes softened when she looked at him, how her hug had lasted a second longer than usual.

"Here, this is for you," he said, handing her the plate once they'd settled onto the bench. "What's going on? Is everything okay? Is it Devon? Is it Edwin?"

But it couldn't be—if something had happened to Devon or the baby, Emma would not have seemed so chipper. Beth gazed down at the food in her lap, shaking her head.

"No, it's neither of them, Jonah. It's your father." She twisted on the bench and reached for his hands. "I'm afraid he's passed away."

Jonah understood the words, the meaning of each one, and their place in the sentence, but they all became incomprehensible. He continued smiling, feeling as though his face were frozen.

"I'm so sorry," Beth went on, her own face creased with concern. "I can't imagine what you must be feeling."

He shook his head back and forth, over and over again, the smile slipping from his face at last. But it was a useless denial. His father had been unwell for some time, years even. Knowing that, and reconciling it with the fact his father was now gone, that he'd never again see that sun-leathered face, hear that rasp of a voice, were entirely different things.

When he spoke, his voice sounded like it belonged to a stranger, whisper-thin. "How did you find out? What happened?"

"One of your old pack passed the message on to Adria, who passed it on to me this morning. She said the Silversand wolf was too afraid to enter White Winter territory alone to get you the message personally." She bit her lip, frowning. I'm sorry you had to hear it from me, not someone who knew him."

"I'd rather hear it from you," Jonah replied honestly, heaving a stuttering breath. "But I can't blame them anyway, given our reputation."

His father was dead.

The phrase repeated in his mind like a mantra until it started to sink in. Grief was never simple, but doubly so when the person had been, in their life, a figure of both fear and authority, paternal love and paternal neglect. Jonah scrubbed a hand over his face.

"They wondered, too, if you might come back to the pack. I assume for the funeral, but they didn't specify when it would be," Beth went on carefully, eyeing Jonah. "I could reach out to Adria and see if she can get more details, if that's helpful."

"No," Jonah blurted, too loud in the quiet of the garden. "No, thank you. I'll go back and… and see everyone. It's the right thing to do."

Beth nodded, and Jonah felt a pang of guilt, seeing the genuine sorrow on her face. It was purer than his own emotions. But then, she was better than he could ever be.

"We'll miss you," she said, nudging him with her shoulder. "Would you like company? I can manage without Devon, if it'd help to have your best friend along. Give me a little time to have Edwin for myself, if I can fend Emma off for a minute."

"Good luck with that," Jonah said. "But no, I should go alone. I haven't been back in a long time. It's better if I see them myself first."

He couldn't tell Beth the truth, not the whole of it. The Silversand pack had been his home for many years, but he wasn't certain they would welcome him back. Not after what his father had put them through.

Evening crept in around them, bringing a chill that slipped its fingers beneath the collar of his sweater and settled into his bones. Cocooned in grief and confusion, Jonah didn't notice Devon's arrival, the way he silently slipped into the seat Beth had vacated. His best friend draped a heavy arm around his shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Jo," he said. He might have been the only one who could understand the complicated emotions Jonah was going through, having a difficult father of his own. "What can I do?"

Jonah blew out a cloud of breath. "Just make sure no one destroys the kitchen while I'm gone, okay?"

Devon laughed. "Come on, man, I know you're hurting. Are you sure you don't want me to come with you to the funeral? You know I look good in a suit."

"I don't want you outshining me," Jonah said with a shrug. "I'm a vain dude."

"Dads, right?" Devon said with a sigh.

"Even though I hated him, I think I'm going to miss him." Jonah's voice cracked on the last word and pressed his knuckles to his mouth, suffocating the sob that threatened.

"I know what you mean. It's complicated, it's messy."

And he didn't even know the whole of it. Jonah's father hadn't just been a part of the Silversand pack; he'd been their alpha. When Jonah returned for the funeral, they'd expect him to make a bid for the role, and few of them would be happy about it, after what his father had done to the pack.

"We'll miss you, but take all the time you need, okay?" Devon glanced at the house, lit up in the gloom. "Emma's going to throw a fit about all the takeout. You know sodium wreaks havoc on her complexion."

He mimicked Emma's voice in the last sentence, pulling a laugh from Jonah.

"Maybe she'll take up cooking," Jonah said.

"God help us all."

Jonah wiped tears from his cheeks. "I don't know when I'll be back."

He didn't know what he'd be going home to. Even all those years ago, before he'd left, his father had been running the pack into the ground. What would remain of the seaside town he'd called home as a kid?

"Maybe a week or two? I'll let the pack know. Don't worry about anything," Devon said.

"It could be more," Jonah said, hesitantly. He didn't want to tell Devon everything, not yet, not until he knew more about the situation himself. "Going through his house and all his things could take some time."

"Right, right." Devon leaned against Jonah with a sigh. "We'll all miss Uncle Jonah, though."

Jonah's heart squeezed. He had been by Devon's side for years, through the worst of times, and the thought of being without him was unnerving, but bringing Devon back to the Silversands wasn't possible. The White Winter's reputation would work against him, and he couldn't afford to be painted with their brush. But stepping out of Devon's shadow meant stepping out of his protection as well.

"I'll miss you all too," Jonah replied, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"What the—-" Devon leaped to his feet.

The blare of a fire alarm split the quiet evening, ringing out from the house. Shouts followed it, barely audible over the alarm's repetitive tone, and Jonah jumped up.

"The cornbread!" He cried, darting past Devon on the path that led back to the house. "I told you to set a timer, Emma!"

Side by side, they raced up the stairs and into the house. The stink of something burning filled the air. Caleb was waving a towel beneath the fire alarm to silence it.

"Out of the way!" Emma yelled, coming out of the kitchen with a smoking pan in her oven mitts. "Move it!"

Jonah watched the charred remnants of his perfect, buttery cornbread get tossed into the yard. He was afraid to check on the chili, wondering what kind of damage she'd managed to inflict on it in his short absence. She came back in, hair frazzled, face shining with sweat.

"Never again, Jo," she warned, brushing by him, poking him in the chest with her manicured finger. "Don't you dare leave me with the cooking again."

Devon turned a pleading look on Jonah. "Please don't leave me."

Jonah pushed his hair off his forehead, hoping the sting of smoke would be all the excuse he'd need for his red-rimmed eyes. He wasn't ready to explain himself or his grief to the rest of the pack. "Trust me, I wish I didn't have to."

He made his way to his room and pulled out his backpack. His room was full of more books than he could ever carry, so he winnowed it down to a handful of favorites he liked to reread and a few new books he hadn't gotten to yet. A week's worth of clothes on top, his bathroom products, and he was done, zipping the bag with a sense of sealing his fate.

Alone in his room, he let the tears flow. He mourned his father, yes, but also the loose ends he'd never be able to tie up, the answers he'd never receive. It had always seemed like there would be more time. That one day, he'd go home, and his father would be changed, better, more understanding, and they'd patch over old wounds and find friendship. All of that had been ripped away.

He'd watched Devon create a pack out of nothing, banding together a group of misfits like Peter Pan and his lost boys, but Devon was everything that Jonah was not—strong, brave, determined. Devon never would have run from the problems Jonah had left behind. Jonah looked down at his hands; his usually light skin turned darker from the days of summer sun. Would they be able to wrest the Silversands from the state his father had left them in?

The room seemed empty with the half-filled shelves as if it had already moved on from him and readied itself for the next inhabitant. He wondered if the pack would forget him as easily. They didn't need him, not really. Someone else would step in and cook the meals, rock Edwin when he couldn't nap, support Devon as omega.

Jonah stripped and took a long, hot shower, wishing he could wash his history away in the scalding stream. But running from his past hadn't erased it. It had only pushed it away for a moment. In the morning, he'd leave before dawn and make his way to the Silversand territory. He wanted to slink in with his tail between his legs, escaping the notice of everyone. How was he going to survive this?

Fake it till you make it. Jonah clung to the phrase like a lifeline. He'd just pretend to be someone who could do what he had to do. Toweling off, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and saw not his own reflection but his father's looking back at him.