Page 18 of Coveted By the Alpha Pack

“Yeah no shit.” Shaking my head, I forgot how heavy dead weight is when you have to move it. I can’t help but agree with him, muttering under my breath about the obviousness of the situation. Moving Ethan is a physical reminder of the gravity of the situation we find ourselves in. Each step we take, each roll of the stretcher across the gravel, feels like an eternity.

Nic and I share a glance as we navigate the stretcher up the steps and into the house, our movements synchronized in the effort to ease Ethan’s passage. Grace stands in the doorway, her expression a mix of concern and determination as she guides us toward Lorcan’s makeshift clinic.

With a gentle touch, Barrett assists Lorcan as they approach Ethan, their focus unwavering despite the tension in the room.

“He has stitches in his shoulder from where the knife went in,” Grace says and her eyes pulse between human and wolf.

Grace’s words about Ethan’s injuries cut through the air. I can sense the struggle within her, the urge to shift and unleash her inner beast, held in check only by the weight of our son cradled in her arms.

“I will do what I can for him, lass,” Lorcan murmurs, his voice laden with determination as Barrett gently positions his hands on Ethan’s injured shoulder. As his fingers hover over the afflicted area, the milk-white hue of Lorcan’s eyes seems to shimmer, casting an otherworldly glow in the dimly lit room.

With painstaking care, Lorcan traces invisible patterns over Ethan’s body, his touch light yet purposeful. Each movement is deliberate, as if he’s coaxing healing energy from some unseen source. The tension in the room is palpable, amplified by Grace’s unwavering stare, her eyes burning with a mix of concern and barely contained fury.

“The good news is there’s no permanent damage done,” Lorcan declares. His words soothe the frayed nerves of those gathered. He continues his examination, methodically checking every inch of Ethan’s upper body under Grace’s intense scrutiny. It’s clear that her loyalty to Ethan runs deep, her protective instincts on high alert. Mate or not, any misstep from Lorcan could ignite a storm of wrath from Grace, and he knows it. But he remains steadfast, his focus unwavering as he works to mend the damage done to his friend.

“He’s all clear, Lass. I did what I could to speed up his recovery,” Lorcan says, his voice tinged with relief as he smiles warmly. I see the weight lift from Grace’s shoulders as she exhales a shaky breath of gratitude.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice a fragile whisper, her eyes brimming with emotion. Grace steps closer to Lorcan, her movements slow and deliberate, like a delicate dance. Standing on her tiptoes, she presses a tender kiss to his cheek, a silent testament to her appreciation, before turning her gaze to Nic.

“Can you place him in the nest with me and the children? I need to take a nap,” Grace requests, her words carrying the weariness of a soul stretched thin. Her eyes flit between our son and my brother, a flicker of exhaustion shadowing her features.

“Of course. We can angle the stretcher and slide him right in with Barrett’s and Conrad’s help,” Nic responds, his smile strained, a reflection of his concern for Grace. I feel a pang of empathy for her, knowing she won’t stray from Ethan’s side until he awakens.

I watch as my brother and bond mates stride out of the room, leaving behind a palpable sense of emptiness. Ethan, usually the pillar of strength among us, now sidelined for days. It’s a heavy realization, one that settles like a lead weight in the pit of my stomach, casting a shadow over the room.

“Griffin?” Lorcan’s voice cuts through my swirling thoughts, drawing me back to the present moment.

“Yeah?” I pivot slowly to face my old friend, meeting his gaze with a mix of weariness and understanding.

“Can you explain how your family works? I don’t wish to overstep or cause issues.” There’s a hint of uncertainty in his tone, a flicker of apprehension that I recognize all too well. He’s navigating unfamiliar territory, a beta in a sea of alphas that comprise Grace’s family.

“Of course. Let’s head to the kitchen and chat over some coffee.” I reach out, guiding Lorcan with a reassuring hand on his shoulder as we navigate the narrow hallway.

Entering the kitchen, the aroma of dinner in the making envelops us, a comforting embrace amidst the tension. My mom is already bustling about, a familiar sight that brings a small sense of normalcy to the situation.

“Mom, could we have some coffee?” I inquire, ushering Lorcan to a seat at the worn wooden table.

“Of course, honey. With or without whiskey?” Her smile holds a hint of mischief, a silent acknowledgment of the weighty conversation about to unfold.

“With, please, Mom. Just give us the bottle,” I respond with a wry raise of my eyebrows, and she acquiesces with a knowing nod.

I set the whiskey-laced coffee in front of Lorcan, watching the amber liquid swirl into the dark brew. The aroma mixes with the rich scent of the brewing coffee, filling the air with a comforting warmth. As I pour my own cup, the steam dances around me, enveloping me in a cocoon of familiarity.

“What would you like to know?” I may as well let him lead the conversation, since I have no idea what he needs to understand. Taking a moment to relish the ritual, I sink into my chair, feeling its familiar contours beneath me. The first sip of the concoction dances across my tongue, sending a shiver down my spine. The bitterness of the coffee mingles with the smoky sweetness of the whiskey, a perfect harmony of flavors.

Breathing in deeply, he lowers his head for a moment. “Other than being a healer, I am not an asset to the family. As everyone already knows, I’ve been blind since birth.” He arches a brow and looks up at me. “At best, I can make out faint outlines and that’s it.” Lorcan’s words hang heavy in the air, mingling with the scent of the coffee. His vulnerability pierces through the calm, raw and unfiltered. I reach out, my hand finding his, offering what little comfort I can muster. The rough texture of his skin beneath my touch speaks volumes, a testament to his strength and resilience.

“None of that matters to Grace,” I reassure him, my voice soft yet firm. But his growl betrays the depth of his struggle, the weight of his perceived inadequacies pressing down on him like a heavy burden.

“It should. I can’t provide for her or protect her in any capacity,” he counters, his voice tinged with bitterness. His admission hangs in the air, a stark reminder of the demons he battles daily. But there’s a hint of defiance in his tone, a flicker of determination amidst the despair.

I watch as he raises the mug to his lips, the porcelain clinking softly against his trembling hand. The liquid disappears in a single gulp, swallowed down like a bitter pill. His laughter cuts through the silence, sharp and jagged, echoing off the walls of the room.

“I was ready to be a hermit living on the edge of a Loch for the rest of my days. No one should be burdened with me,” he confesses, his words heavy with resignation. The image of him alone by the edge of a Loch paints a vivid picture in my mind, a solitary figure lost in the vast expanse of the wilderness.

I top off his mug with a careful blend of coffee and whiskey, the rich aroma mingling with the warmth of the room. “You know the moon goddess doesn’t do anything half-assed,” I murmur, my gaze drifting to the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his face.

“There’s a reason she gave you Grace,” I continue, my fingers gently squeezing his forearm in a silent gesture of reassurance. “Just like there’s a reason she added Nic to our family.” I offer him a small smile, hoping to convey the depth of my conviction.

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