Page 36 of The Pack

Thorne stepped closer, his movements slow and cautious, like he was approaching some wounded animal that was about to bolt.

“Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone,” he coaxed.

I let out a bitter laugh. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t even know me.”

“You’re right,” he said. “But I know what it’s like to carry something too heavy for too long.”

His words made me falter, the sharp edge of my anger softening just slightly. “What are you talking about?”

Thorne’s gaze shifted, his eyes distant for a moment, like he was staring at something only he could see. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.

“I had a son,” he said, the words falling heavily between us.

I blinked, caught off guard. “You… what?”

“Two hundred years ago,” he said, his tone steady despite the pain lacing his words. “Back during the Collapse. He was seven. His name was Alaric.”

I didn’t know what to say, the heaviness of his words pressing down on me. “What happened to him?”

Thorne’s eyes darkened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “The Collapse happened. The world was burning, and the virus was spreading so fast no one could stop it. Ireland and England were at each other’s throats, and no one cared about the people caught in the middle. We thought we could keep the fighting away from our town, but…” He trailed off, his voice tightening.

“But what?” I asked gently.

“There was an attack,” Thorne said, his eyes dropping to the ground. “A group of feral shifters tore through our town. They didn’t care who they hurt—man, woman, or child. I tried to reach Alaric, but by the time I got there…” His voice broke, and he took a deep breath before continuing. “He was already gone.”

My heart ached at the pain in his voice, still raw after two hundred years.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said quietly.

Thorne shook his head, his expression hardening. “I was his father. It was my job to protect him. I failed.”

“You didn’t fail,” I insisted, my voice trembling. “You couldn’t have stopped a feral, especially a group of them. No one could’ve.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier to live with,” Thorne said, his voice low.

The grief in his words left me speechless, and for a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Finally, I let out a shaky breath, the memory of my brother’s face flashing in my mind again. For a moment, I glanced at Thorne, deciding whether or not I should open up. There was something about his quiet confidence that felt safe, though, and before I even knew what I was doing, I started to speak.

“I remembered my brother,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Thorne looked at me, his piercing gaze softening slightly. “Tell me.”

“He was a shifter,” I said, the words trembling as they left my lips. “But he wasn’t like the others. He didn’t go feral. He proved they were wrong, that England lied to us all.”

“Do you think he’s still alive?” he asked.

I shook my head, the rest of the memory slipping through my fingers like smoke. “I don’t remember anything other than that.”

Thorne was silent for a moment, his eyes studying me. “He probably has something to do with why you’re here,” he said quietly.

I nodded, the truth of it settling heavily in my gut. “I think so.”

Thorne’s eyes softened a bit more, the faintest crack in his icy exterior. “Then we’ll figure it out,” he answered.

I looked at him, his expression now warm and comforting. For the first time, I felt the faintest spark of hope.

Maybe I didn’t have to carry this alone.

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