Page 46 of Impregnated By the Alpha

Chapter 15 - Jonah

Jonah paced outside of the room where Vera tended to Moira. She’d brought her ultrasound machine from work, a handheld device that she used to ensure the baby was still healthy and safe inside of Moira. Once that was determined, Vera locked Jonah out of the room and demanded privacy. He hadn’t managed to get very far, too worried for Moira to leave her presence.

He couldn’t make out the words in their raised voices, but a heated discussion was happening on the other side of that door. At times, so heated that he was tempted to barge in and make sure that Vera was no threat to Moira, but he knew neither sister would appreciate his intrusion. Instead, he walked back and forth along the hallway in Vera’s sterile, pristine home.

Finally, Moira came out. Her eyes were red-ringed, but he dared not hug her, not with Vera right behind her. She smiled weakly at him.

“We’re both okay,” she reassured him.

Vera crossed her arms and stared Jonah down. “She’s not okay. She’s got a broken rib because you can’t handle yourself in a fight. You didn’t even manage to catch them?”

“We caught him,” Moira protested, coming to Jonah’s aid, “Jonah was just more worried about me than he was about keeping him.”

But the shame still stung him. He had let another wolf hurt his mate right in front of him, and they could’ve hurt his child, too. Then, he’d let them run off where they could make another attempt at it. He hung his head.

“Did you get a good description of them, at least?” Vera badgered.

He glanced at Moira, who shook her head. In the low light, he hadn’t been able to make out much more than the impression of sand-hued fur and no distinctive features, and it seemed like Moira hadn’t managed much more than he had. At least he felt confident that it wasn’t Vera now. Even in poor lighting, he was sure Moira would recognize her own sister.

“Not really. Tannish? Big, stocky, powerful. A male,” he said, though even that had been hard to discern, the wolf’s scent muddled by the smoke still burning in his nose.

Moira was pale and exhausted, swaying on her feet. Jonah caught her arm and steadied her, ignoring Vera’s heated glare. “She’s going to stay here with me tonight,” Vera said, daring him to challenge her. “Where I can keep an eye on her, and we’ll have a Rosewood out guarding all night. So you can just run along back home now.”

She shooed him away, dismissing him, but Moira’s hand was tight on his arm. “You did everything you could, Jonah,” she assured him. “It wasn’t your fault, and Vera says with how us wolves heal, I’ll be back to my old self in a day or two. Don’t beat yourself up over this.”

He sighed. “Easier said than done. Are you sure you want me to go?”

Before answering, Moira looked to Vera, who gave a tight shake of her head no. He had a long way to go to earn Vera’s trust. It felt like an insurmountable mountain just then.

“Yes, I’m sure. Go get a good night’s sleep.” Moira released his arm.

“I’ve got the guest room ready,” Vera said, tugging Moira toward one of the closed doors in the hallway.

“I’ll come see you tomorrow,” he said, slinking by them and heading down the stairs.

Vera clucked her tongue. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Please do,” Moira said over her sister. Then Vera pulled her into the guest room and shut the door, leaving Jonah with no choice but to leave.

He walked outside and considered what to do next. There was a hunch that he had to follow, he decided. That morning, there had been two options for the vandal's identity in his mind, Vera, or Evans. They had just ruled out Vera, which meant it was down to one.

Jonah had to face what he had been avoiding ever since coming to home from the White Winters. He made his way to his childhood home, dread accumulating in his stomach with every step her took. The main street was silent and eerie, and the once-grand house lurked like a sleeping giant on its corner. Its picket fence leaned toward the ground.

For a long time, Jonah stood on the front doorstep. Memories flooded him, all of the times he had run through that door barefoot, tracking in sand as a child. His mother laughing, scolding him, but never stopping him. Then, more recent memories. The dread of walking in that door, knowing his father would be there with a drink in his hand and an argument on the tip of his tongue. No matter how quietly Jonah crept into the house, his father would appear.

A waft of stale air hit him as he opened the door. He flicked the light switch beside the doorframe and stepped inside, letting his eyes adjust. It was much the same as when he’d left it. Stacks of junk in every corner. Dust an inch thick across it all. Cobwebs in the corners.

Still, he could see the bones of the place beneath it all. It had been built with love and attention, and it, like the rest of the town, deserved more than to fall to pieces from neglect. He slid by the piles of junk and headed up the stairs, familiar creaking beneath his feet from the old floorboards.

His bedroom was the first in the hallway, and he passed it without opening the door, not wanting to see what his father had turned it into during Jonah’s absence. The bedroom his father and shared with his mother was at the far end of the hall, and across from it, his father’s office. During the good years, Silversand members had been in and out of their house, and the office had been pristine and ready for guests.

Bracing himself, Jonah nudged the door open. To his surprise, it wasn’t as congested as the rest of the house. Stacks piled up on the floor around the desk, but most of the desks remained clear. He flicked on the lamp behind the desk and started flipping through his father’s papers, not sure what he was looking for.

Bills mixed with letters from concerned pack members, people pleading for help to keep their businesses going after the town had faded into obscurity. It seemed his father had done everything he could to cut tourism in the town. Jonah might never know why unless he stumbled upon his father’s diary.

He recognized his mother’s handwriting at once. It was graceful cursive, dramatic curving letters, and the lush ink of a quality pen. A hand gripped Jonah’s heart in a vice as he read. His mother knew of the affair his father was having, of the child that had resulted from it. She made no demands of him. In fact, her writing sang with the empathy and gentleness he remembered from her, even when her heart must have been torn in two.

Jonah set the letter aside and kept searching. Here was his evidence that there was in fact, another son, that it might be Evans, but there must be more to the story. A second letter from his mother illuminated another piece of the puzzle. The other woman was married. His mother pleaded with his father for caution, warning him that if the woman’s husband found out, there would be more than just their marriage at risk. He’d put the whole pack in danger.

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