Page 4 of The Alpha's Betrayed Mate

And then the two of them were gone, the door clicking softly shut behind them and leaving Venna to stew. As much as she’d hated that, at least she had a useful timeline to work from now. She had a day until she’d be back on her feet… a day to work on a plan to get out of here. Last time, the pack had exiled her for what she’d done, ordered her to leave their lands and never return.

This time, Venna knew, there was no way they’d be so merciful.

Chapter 3 - Belmont

What should have been a day of celebration passed instead in a dreadful blur. At times like these, Belmont often felt as if he was watching himself remotely, as though some part of him was able to step right outside of his body and observe from a distance. That feeling had never been stronger than it was today. It was a strength, he decided, that sense of removal. Distance was a valuable resource in a situation like this one.

First, there were the wounded to deal with. Grateful that Renfrey and Syrra had prioritized the construction of an infirmary for Kurivon’s sick and injured, Belmont saw to it that the seriously injured survivors were taken to be treated—including Raske, after an argument in which Belmont was forced to explicitly pull rank on the irascible old man. He knew his pack would be in safe hands with Syrra at the infirmary, and he trusted her staff of lorekeepers from Reeve’s pack, too, even if the fussy Raske might have his reservations.

Then, somehow even sadder, came the task of deciding where the survivors would go. There were cottages built for them already, specifically designed for each smaller family group that made up the pack’s numbers, but after the terrible losses that the pack had experienced, nobody seemed willing to leave each other’s company. Instead, after a brief conference with Yara, Belmont led the solemn, grieving group through the settlement to another recent construction, a building that had been referred to unofficially as Kurivon’s community center. It was a space designed to host events and celebrations, with a large central hall big enough for dozens of wolves to gather, and kitchen facilities attached to cater to group meals. The welcome dinner that had been planned would have been the building’s first major event, introducing the two packs to one another—those plans, of course, had been canceled, Renfrey and Reeve taking charge of communicating what had happened.

Now, the hall felt strange and empty as his pack moved into the quiet space. The scent of sawdust still lingered in the air, underscoring how recently it had been constructed, and his pack looked terribly small as they seated themselves around one long table. It was Yara who took charge, striding into the adjoined kitchen and barking instructions over her shoulder for the rest of the wolves to join her in cooking a meal. What else was there to do? None of them were hungry, but it was clear that they recognized the importance of feeding themselves—and having a task to occupy them, too, was clearly of value. Belmont left them there. At some point, he’d need to hear more details about the attack, but for now it was clear the wolves needed time to settle.

Besides—there was still the matter of his son.

Rylan was still fast asleep when Syrra brought him to the boy’s bedside. She’d set him up in one of the rooms upstairs in Kurivon’s old library. Once, the lorekeepers of Kurivon had barricaded themselves in this old building, holding out against the demons that had overrun the island, and though the wolves of Kurivon all had other accommodation now, there were still a few rooms set up as bedrooms.

“I didn’t want him to wake up in an infirmary,” Syrra explained softly, looking down at the sleeping boy with vivid sympathy in her blue eyes. “I think he’s seen enough blood for one lifetime.”

Belmont reached out to touch the boy’s shoulder, hoping the gesture didn’t look as awkward as it felt. This wasn’t how he’d imagined his reunion with his son. If he was honest, he’d been avoiding thinking about the subject much at all. He’d expected the boy to have changed—it had been eighteen months since he’d left, after all, and sure enough, Rylan was taller than he’d remembered him, a little broader in the shoulders, perhaps, and his curly brown hair was cut shorter than he remembered. But lying there in the bed, the boy still looked to Belmont as tiny and fragile as he’d been the day he was born.

“When will he wake?” he asked Syrra, aware he’d been silent for longer than was strictly polite.

“Raske’s spell was a strong one,” the lorekeeper said softly, brushing the boy’s curls back from his face. “But I agree that it was the right move. Sleep is a blessing at times like these. But he’ll be coming around quite soon. Try to get him to drink some water when he does, alright?” She nodded at the pitcher at the boy’s bedside, but before she could leave the little room, Belmont cleared his throat.

“At the infirmary. I didn’t see—”

“I dressed her wounds then moved her here,” Syrra said immediately, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Raske seemed to feel she’d be a problem for the other patients, if she stayed at the infirmary.”

“Good,” Belmont said, relieved beyond measure that it was Syrra he was talking to, not Reeve, who’d no doubt have asked him at least a hundred questions by now. “That’s good.”

“Her hands were bound,” Syrra added, her tone almost but not quite neutral. “I untied her.”

It wasn’t a question, which meant Belmont didn’t have to refuse to answer it. He turned back to the sleeping form of his son, and after a few seconds, heard the door close behind Syrra. He was glad she hadn’t pressed the issue. It had been enough to see Venna’s face, to have to confront the reality that she was still alive—he knew he didn’t have the strength left to talk about her, to explain any part of who she was to him or to the pack. Right now, he had to be here for his son. And he couldn’t do that if he let the memories of the old days swallow him whole, as they were still threatening to do…

It wasn’t long before the boy was stirring from his sleep, his silver eyes fluttering open. When he frowned blearily up at Belmont, he was struck—not for the first time—by just how much he looked like Marroc. Did that tear his mother apart, Belmont often wondered, to look into her son’s face and see her lost love looking back?

“Dad,” Rylan said slowly, looking confused. “You’re back?”

“You’re in Kurivon, Rylan.” Belmont reached out to touch the boy’s shoulder as he struggled to a sitting position, frowning curiously around at the unfamiliar room. “The pack made the move.”

“The pack—Mom.” The boy’s eyes were suddenly wide. “There were demons—Dad, we got attacked! In the middle of the night! Mom was—”

“Rylan, I’m so sorry.” He wasn’t here, Belmont thought remotely. He was standing outside of the window as he explained what had happened to the distraught boy in the bed in front of him. As the boy howled his refusal of the truth, Belmont only drifted further away, into the treeline, out beyond the shores of the island and over the roaring waves. He held the shaking, sobbing body of his son in his arms, ignoring Rylan’s small fists as they struck helpless blows against his shoulders. Rylan was a child, and he could allow this grief at the loss of his mother to take him like this. Belmont was a grown man, an Alpha, an adult—he owed it to his son and to his pack to stand beyond all that. It wasn’t until Rylan’s howling had finally subsided to shaking, hiccoughing sobs that Belmont felt himself return to the room. The story was told; the news was broken. In a way, that was the hardest part.

“It won’t always feel like this,” Belmont told his son, who had curled into a ball on the bed and buried his tear-streaked face in his knees. “As the days go by, the hurt will ease.”

No response—just a quick glance, a flash of those silver eyes in a face reddened by weeping. The expression on Rylan’s face was nothing short of murderous. Belmont remembered the way he’d felt on the day his father had died, when Raske had put an awkward hand on his shoulder and told him something similar. He’d been right, of course. And one day, Rylan would know that Belmont was right about this, too.

Night was falling, and Belmont didn’t want to leave Rylan in the old library—especially knowing who occupied one of the other rooms. So he roused the boy with some difficulty and led him down the stairs and out into the evening air. Rylan’s head was lowered and his silver eyes fixed on the ground, and Belmont quickly gave up on the idea of pointing out Kurivon’s various buildings and landmarks to him. Instead, he took him to the community hall, hoping it would bolster his spirits to be around family.

The pack were seated around the same long table they’d been at when Belmont had left them, huddled close to one another with hot drinks in their hands. He could see dozens of platters of food on the table and realized that wolves from the other pack must have made a visit to bring supplies to the newcomers. Stacked on another table nearby, he could see equipment for beds—cots and camping stretchers, a few dozen bundled-up sleeping bags, pillows and bedding for the whole pack. Yara confirmed his suspicions as she came up to greet Rylan, pulling the boy into a hug with an easy familiarity that Belmont fiercely envied.

“The other wolves have been very kind,” she said, nodding to the food. “What else can you do at a time like this, huh?”

“We’ll heal,” Belmont said softly.

“Is this all that’s left?” Rylan’s voice was sudden and loud as he stared at the pack huddled around the table, and Belmont flinched at the pointedness of his question. “Is everyone else dead?”

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