Page 114 of Faith and Fury

He’s already moving, turning for the door. “I’m clocking out.”

I stand. “Get back here. Now.”

He must realize I’m not talking to him as head alpha anymore, but as his captain, because he begrudgingly looks at me over his shoulder.

“That’s your safe house?” he rumbles. “Feeding our omega to the horny wolves?”

“Maverick is good at his job. He’ll protect her. And Jaxon …” I take a breath. “She’s not ours. I don’t know how many times I have to say it.”

“Then maybe you should stop saying it, and actually be honest about what you want. This martyr bullshit is getting old.”

Without being dismissed, he shows himself out, the door slamming behind him. I could chase after him, but the thought alone gives me a migraine.

I sink into my chair, my inner alpha roaring incoherently. He wants me to put Jaxon in his place. At the same time, he wants me to beg both my packmates’ forgiveness … and convince Faith to come back to us.

Assuming she’d ever have us.

***

Jaxon is gone before I leave headquarters. A part of me hopes I’ll find him at the den, but the stronger, pragmatic part of me knows I won’t.

“I’m home,” I call, dropping my keys in the bowl.

Silence greets me.

Poking around the empty kitchen and living room, I call out, “Micah?”

No-one answers. Dread creeps in, cold and solid as ice.

I open the door to our bedroom. The bed is still unmade—practically unheard of, even before Micah took his leave of absence. My heart thunders as I check the bathroom and then, still not finding him, dare to stick my head into the guest room.

Faith’s room.

I heave a sigh of relief, finding him there, curled up in her sheets.

He stirs, his bleary eyes taking me in. I can tell at once he’s been crying. Maybe for hours. Probably all day. My every blood cell cringes at the sight, wanting nothing more than to take his pain away.

Slowly, I approach, sitting on the edge of the bed. My inner alpha whines when he recognizes Faith’s lavender scent—overpowered by Micah’s despair.

“Hey,” I murmur, “you eaten?”

Stupid question. Of course he hasn’t eaten.

“What time is it?” he croaks. “I was going to cook.” He rolls over, checking his phone. “Shoot. I’m sorry—I’ll do it now.”

I put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright. No cooking today. Just … rest.”

I can barely stand to see him like this. Broken. Small. Nothing like the alpha he’s become in the last few weeks—finally starting to trust himself again, to feel connected to something. After everything that happened with the feral omega patient who took her own life, I swore I’d never let him get hurt again. I’d protect him—take his pain, however I could.

Isn’t that what I’m doing now? Or … trying to do?

I realize I’ve stopped moderating my own pheromones when Micah sniffles, curling in on himself.

Fuck.

Cautiously, I start to rub his back, making slow, broad circles between his shoulder blades.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Two words I promised myself I wouldn’t say, yet they come so naturally as my packmate trembles before me.

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