Page 91 of A Wolf in the Garden

“Lacey,” Van growls.

Bronte steps forward, interrupting them.

“Van.”

At the sound of his mother’s voice, Van sets little Ash down on the ground. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hello my darling boy.”

It’s weird, seeing Bronte, now that my ‘latest’ memory is of herlike this, with her taller frame, lean with muscle, bright amber eyes set against the deep olive skin she and her children all share. Pre-Unravelling, her ‘human’ form was softer, shorter, her curves a little more pronounced, and her eyes had been green. She’s beautiful in either form, and the caring warmth in her eyes hasn’t changed one bit from when we were kids. I blink back tears as I watch her and Van embrace, especially because I can see it’s having the same effect on him as he kisses the top of her head. “All boys love their mama,”is something my mum has always said, based off her observations of the little ones she teaches, and Van has always been a very clear example of that. He’s a mama’s boy for sure.

I know he’s still upset with her. Maybe I should be too, but at this point my life has been turned upside down so many times that I feel like I’m in a constant spinning motion, and I’m just thankful to be here, alive, and very muchnotkidnapped by some fae.

Bronte pulls back from Van’s arms, and her gaze lands on me. “Ellie, hi, sweet girl.” Her face is wet with tears that she brushes back with her thumb. I step forward, into her warm arms, and between the smell of her and the small hum she makes, it’s like going home, nostalgia hitting me hard.

“Hi Bronte.”

I don’t sayit’s good to see you again, or anything else that references the last time we saw each other, and neither does she. Jenny’s death is the elephant in the room, the shared experience none of us ever wanted, and something I’ve been thinking about all day. What Weston said — that he believes the fae has something to do with her passing — has been eating at me, but I haven’t, and won’t, say anything to Van about it. What can I say, and what can I do, anyway? I could let the fear and guilt of it all devour me alive if I dwelled on it for too long. I know Van has blamed himself over the years, agonising over the fact that he was supposed to be the one babysitting that day. It doesn’t do any of us any good. Nothing we ever do is going to bring her back, and so for now, at least, I’m going to cling to the numb feeling I woke up with this morning, the one that always comes after the initial shock.

I know it’s not necessarily healthy, but I simply don’t have the time or capacity for a breakdown right now.

“How are you?” Bronte asks, her hands clutching my elbows. She’s the same height as Lacey, and I’m accepting at this point that I’m forever going to be looking up when speaking to anyone on Van’s side.

“I’m… alright.” There’s not really a word to encompass how I’m feeling right now. She nods, seeming to understand. Her mouth opens to speak, but then her head snaps up, concern flitting over her face, and I spin around.

Van and Weston stand opposite each other, staring silently, while Seth flanks his father. Up until this moment, Seth still existed in my mind as a twelve-year-old boy, despite me knowing that he’s twenty-one, and it’s a shock to see him stand almost as tall as the other men, sharing the similar Livingston looks, but with Weston’s slightly paler tan and hair more brown than black.

To say the air is charged is an understatement. I feel like everyone waits with bated breath, asking themselves the same questions. Are these two wolves going to fight? Or will these two alphas finally be able to coexist?

“Look, Gramps!” Ronan cries, bouncing up to Weston and taking his hand, pointing down the hill. “That’s Uncle Van’s house! He makeswine!He’s going to take me to see the wine barrels tomorrow! Can we go to his housenow? Come on!” The little boy tugs on his grandfather’s hand, putting all his weight into it, and Weston’s expression transforms from stern to doting.

“Alright son, here,” Weston says, grabbing the boy by the waist and lifting him until he’s sitting on his shoulders. “Let’s go see your uncle’s house.”

“Pick me up! Pick meup!” demands Ash, arms raised towards Van, demanding to be carried like his big brother.

“Okay, I’ve got you,” Van says, lifting Ash to his hip.

“On the shoulders!” Ash is already climbing Van like a monkey, pulling on his neck, muddy shoes digging into Van’s shirt.

“Okay, okay, shoulders it is. Let’s go.”

Both alphas share a look, nodding in acknowledgement, turning in unison towards the house. From the back they could be twins, if it weren’t for Weston’s salt-and-pepper hair.

Bronte and I have been clutching each other the entire time, and I feel her sag with relief at the same time as I sigh. “Thank the moon goddess for small miracles,” she mutters, rubbing my back with a familiarity I didn’t even realise I’ve missed so terribly until now. “I think we’re going to be okay.”

“Van said he’d behave.”

“So did West. I made him promise. He wants things to get better, he really does.”

I nod. “We all do, eh?”

Bronte clucks her tongue. “Eh,” she mimics. “I’ve missed your Kiwi accent, and I’ve missedyou, honey. So much. Lets follow them before they get up to no good. It’s been a long day.”

With her arm still in mine, we start walking. “You’re all forgetting the bags!” Lacey calls from behind us.

“You and Seth have two arms each, darling,” Bronte replies over her shoulder.

Grumbles from Lacey of, “Treating me like a fucking packhorse,” follow us all the way to the front door.

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