65. Deacon

Light filters in from the oversized windows despite the curtains being closed. Her body is set on the bed in the center of the room, the king-sized bed dwarfing her petite frame. Her fire-red hair stands out on the ivory-colored pillowcase, making her seem alive—as if she's just resting.

Each step I take feels involuntary as if my body is being pulled to hers by a giant magnet. I can't stop myself from reaching for her hand and grasping it gently between mine.

Grace.

My eyes drink her in. There are fine lines around her lips, wrinkle creases by her eyes, and more freckles than she had the last time I'd seen her.

All signs of a life she lived without me.

"Why? Why'd you give up? You and I both know you're stronger than some disease. Stronger than cancer. Why didn't you fight, Tails?" I say, knowing she can't hear me.

"I always thought we would find our way back to each other once some time had passed. Once the big plan you told me The Fates had for me happened. When we could laugh and say, ‘It was all worth it,' but it's not. None of the pain, the loss, the fucking emptiness was worth it. They took you from me, and now they took you from him. We all lost." By the end of my sentence, it's barely a whisper.

"I would have chosen you, chosen to save you. Nothing would have mattered more. How could he stand by and let you die?" A tear falls down my cheek, and I flick it away, hating having to remove my hand from hers.

"She didn't give me a choice," a voice says behind me, and I don't have to turn around to know who it belongs to.

My eyes memorize her face for another moment before I release her hand, turn, and face him.

He stands in the doorway in a tee shirt and shorts, with no shoes on his feet. It may be the least put-together I've ever seen him, and it only makes me angrier.

"And here I thought you were an Alpha," I say, my tone anything but friendly.

His eyes narrow, and his jaw ticks.

"Why are you here?" he asks, anger mixing with confusion.

"You know why I'm here. For her. There has never been a day that has gone by that I haven't put her first. You and I had a deal. You keep her safe, I stay out of your territory, I don't kill you," I practically growl, accusation heavy in my tone.

He laughs.

Not in the ha-ha, it's funny way, but a dark, irritated chuckle.

"Put her first? That's laughable. She never gave up on you, and you ignored her every attempt to fix what happened between you. ‘There for her' Fuck you. The only times she felt sadness in the last fifteen years were because of you," he seethes.

What the fuck?

I step toward him, shaking my head as I advance.

"I haven't seen or spoken to her since you took her from me."

"Oh, I'm aware. Despite her every attempt to talk to you, all the letters she's sent, she even showed up there at the pack house to talk to you, and you wouldn't even see her!" he yells.

No.

That's not possible.

"Don't you dare lie to me. I never got any letters and would have been informed if she came to see me," I answer, rage building as he attempts to make me the bad guy. "I respected her choice and left her alone, but had she even hinted that she needed me, I would have been here instantly. Unlike you, who sat and watched her die without doing a fucking thing to stop it!" I shout and launch myself at him, swinging my fist into his perfectly chiseled jaw with a crack.

His eyes fly back to mine, fire in them as they shift to his wolf's. He charges back, fist flying right into my cheek as I attempt to block him. I fail and feel the full impact rock me backward to the floor.

Fucking whiskey.

My movements are slow and labored, but my anger fuels a hatred I have built up brick by brick since he took everything away from me. I roll left, kicking out my foot to sweep him to the floor. His back lands with a thud, knocking the wind out of him as I shift up to drop my elbow into his ribs with an audible crunch.

Fuck you.

His gasp is music to my ears, and I raise myself to my knees to land a punch to his left eye before receiving one directly to my face.

Ouch.

Pain explodes behind my eyes as I feel my nose break under his fist. My eyes water with the impact, making it hard to see his movements, and blood drips down my face.

"You still hit like a bitch," I say, smiling as the taste of my blood leaks into my mouth. I hear more than see his effort to swing another shot, and I scramble back, forcing him to miss before my arms wrap around him, locking him into place in a chokehold.

He squirms against me, attempting to break free, struggling to breathe as I whisper into his ear.

"I should have let you die on that cliffside."

The words are barely out of my mouth when I hear the scream.

"Daddy!"

My eyes flash to the door where his kid stands; fresh tears form in his eyes. My heart squeezes, guilt flying through me as I see Grace's son watching his dad die hours after his mother.

My grip loosens, and I barely hear the gasps of air Marcus pulls in as he regains his ability to breathe. I stand, step away from him, and wipe the blood from my face, never taking my eyes off the terrified boy's face.

As soon as there is space between us, he sprints to his dad, who wraps him in his arms, shielding him from me as I walk to the door.

"Deacon," Marcus says, his voice hoarse from the fight. "We're done. Don't come back here."

The small boy clings to his father"s leg, hatred now visible on his face as I take one last glance over my shoulder.

"The next time I set foot in Vegas, it will be to take your pack. Be ready," I finish and walk out, down the hallway, and straight to my car.