3. Grace

Present

Why is it that time always moves faster when you don't want it to? The last five weeks flew by, and now, we only had two days remaining. Deacon has been working even more hours training with the enforcers in preparation for his retreat. I know he's completely capable and strong, every time he leaves, dread fills me, and I chew through my fingernails, waiting for him to return.

So far, he always has.

He always will.

Think positively.I chastise myself before returning to the counter to grab the pepper. The closing shift is always responsible for refilling the condiments on the tables, but it"s been a ghost town around here all day with the pack events and everyone preparing for the retreats, so I have nothing but time. Time and anxiety.

I haven't spent more than a day away from Deacon since the night he was Awakened. He"s my right arm. My whole heart, and he's leaving, off on a retreat for six weeks with a neighboring pack and then six months interning in Florida with the Amato Alpha.

Six months of letters in the mail, waiting to hear from him, and hoping Alpha Marlo isn't shipping him there to be killed. The Alpha has been a tyrant to Deacon since his wolf revealed itself to be more dominant than Luca. More dominant than him.

Deacon almost didn't survive the beating that night. I'd never seen so much blood. Alpha Marlo had waited until Deacon had shifted, run his wolf until he could barely walk, and then beat him bloody, not allowing him to shift to heal. Deacon was ten, and the Alpha left him on the edge of the territory, bleeding, unconscious, and freezing.

Eight years ago

I still don"t know what made me walk in that direction that night. My wolf hadn't been Awakened yet, and I was feeling restless. I'd wandered out to stretch my legs. I knew Deacon had his ceremony scheduled, and I was so excited for him, but I didn't know how long it took, how long it was supposed to take. The pent-up energy drove me further into the woods than I had traveled since moving here, and it was then I heard them.

Alpha Marlo swinging over and over, vile profanity flowing from his mouth as Deacon moaned and whimpered. He never shouted. I didn't understand how he could withstand his bones cracking, his flesh bruising and tearing, and not once did he call out for mercy, not once for help.

Silence fell after the last fist flew, and I feared my heartbeat would give me away. Alpha Marlo was breathing heavily and shaking out his wrist. I didn't understand the last thing he said to him because he spoke the words in Italian, but the words burned themselves in my memory.

Non sei mio figlio. Tu non sei niente.

I'd looked them up later.

You aren't my son. You're nothing.

Without any remorse, he spit onto Deacon"s lifeless body and walked away, leaving him to die in the frigid temperatures.

Instinctively, I wanted to run to him, help him, save him, but I knew if the Alpha found me, if he knew what I had witnessed, my fate would be the same.

I must have waited ten solid minutes before running to him, my pulse throbbing in my ears. I tried everything I could to stop the bleeding. I knew he needed to shift, but I could see the exhaustion taking its toll on his body. I lifted his eyelids, calling out to him, trying to get a response, any response.

He was a boy I barely knew, but in that moment, his survival meant everything. He was the only person who cared enough to see me. The only one who knew my secret. My only friend.

"Please, Deacon, you need to wake up! Please!" Tears fell from my eyes, and blood soaked my hands as I pressed into his more significant cuts.

"Please..." it was barely a whisper as I cried over him. I closed my eyes, sending a silent prayer to whoever was listening. I begged The Fates to intervene, to save this boy. The boy who showed me kindness. The boy who saw through my bravado to my pain. The boy who saw in me a kindred spirit.

"Don't cry, Tails."

My eyes flew open, and my breath caught in my throat.

"Shift! You need to shift!" I nearly shouted at him. With a short nod of his head, he gave himself over to the change, and where once I was holding a broken boy, now lay a panting jet-black wolf.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

I hadn't ever really bought into believing in The Fates before, but that night, I knew they had a hand in everything, and I knew it would be ok.

***

Present

A bell ringing over the door pulls me out of my memories, and I turn around to greet the customer. My smile falters for a second before I replaster it.

Greg Belsom.

"Welcome in. Grab yourself a seat anywhere. I'll grab you a menu," I recite, trying to hold a friendly tone through my clenched teeth. Greg spent the better part of my middle school years teasing me mercilessly, and my high school ones, trying to get me to date him despite knowing that Deacon and I had been together since Freshman year.

"Hey there, Splotches, just you in here tonight?" he asks, looking over my shoulder at the abandoned cafe.

I freaking hate that name.

"No, Pete"s in the back on his break," I respond, not liking being alone with him.

Greg was only about five-foot-eight and maybe a hundred and sixty pounds, which still dwarfed my five-foot-nothing, hundred-pound self. He was considered small for a shifter, but since his father was the Second, he lived in an imaginary world where he could do whatever he wanted, and very few people batted an eye. Some days, I was surprised he could carry an ego that big.

"I haven't seen your little friend hanging around here much lately. You two have a fight?" he asks, zero concern in his voice.

I move away from him, aiming to create as much space as possible, even feigning work I need to complete to look busy while I casually answer over my shoulder.

"What can I help you with, Greg? Are you here to eat, have a drink, or annoy me?" I rattle off without the customer service voice I usually use at work. I gave up being polite to him when "kill him with kindness" was taking too long, which was coincidentally the same time his stupid nickname caught on with the rest of the butt-kissing, low-ranking wolves.

The only splotches I see are his blood splatter across the white-wash walls and the antique photos that adorn them. That visual causes me to smile a bit to myself.

"You just seem stressed, is all. You know I would be happy to take one for the team and help you work out some of that frustration." His voice was dripping with innuendo, and his hand slid over his faded jeans, gripping himself.

Gross.

"All set in that department, actually, but if you aren't going to order anything, you better go. Pete doesn't approve of trespassers or loiterers, and currently, you"re both."

He steps toward me, closing the space from the ten feet I'd created and dropping it closer to three.

My wolf rises to attention beneath my skin, and I let a snarl of warning out.

"Last I checked, this was a public place, and," he slides his wallet from his front pocket, "I'm a paying customer. You. Will. Serve. Me." By the time the last word is out, he"s right in my face.

Every fiber of my being wants to throw him out, to tell him to put his money where the sun don't shine, but the more logical side of my brain knows I need this job, at least until Deacon gets back from his alliance internship in Florida. I fist my hands, digging my nails into the flesh of my palms. I turn my head away, avoiding the whiskey aroma on his breath and closing my eyes in an attempt to calm my wolf.

I need this job. I need this job. I need this job.

His hand grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him.

"Did you hear me, Splotches? I said you're going to give me what I want." A vile grin spreads across his face, and before I can stop myself, my fist slams right into it.