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970 Words
I stood at the edge of the rose garden long after Amelia walked away, her hood pulled low like armor. The funeral crowd had thinned to stragglers—distant cousins shaking hands, business associates murmuring about the will. I barely heard them. My wolf paced inside me, claws scraping at the cage I’d built over seven years. The mate bond burned hot again, raw and alive, like someone had ripped the scar open and poured fire into it.
Seven years. Hollow. That’s the only word that fit.
I’d thrown myself into hockey like it could fill the hole she left. Captain of the team by twenty-five, MVP twice, endorsements rolling in. The ice was the only place the noise quieted—skates cutting, puck slamming, crowd roaring. On the road, hotel rooms looked the same: minibar, king bed, silence that echoed. I’d stare at the ceiling and feel her absence like a missing limb. Phantom pain. Every full moon, the wolf howled louder, demanding what I’d thrown away.
Business was the same grind. Board meetings, acquisitions, expanding the Hudson empire the way Dad always wanted. I closed deals with a handshake and a cold smile. People called me ruthless. I called it focus. Anything to keep moving forward so I didn’t have to look back.
Samantha… I ended it two years after the gala. Quietly. No public announcement, no drama. One night I looked at her across the dinner table—perfect makeup, perfect posture, perfect lies—and realized I couldn’t stomach another minute of pretending. I’d doubted her from the start, really. The photos, the “witnesses,” the way she’d smiled when Amelia walked out humiliated. Too clean. Too convenient. I confronted her once. She cried, denied, swore it was all to protect us. I didn’t believe her anymore. I told her it was over. She kept the ring, kept the connections, kept the story that she’d been the wronged fiancée. I let her. Easier that way.
But none of it fixed the emptiness. No trophy, no contract, no woman in my bed could touch the void Amelia left. My mate. The one I’d called a mistake and sent running.
Seeing her today cracked something open. She was different—stronger, sharper edges, eyes that didn’t flinch. But the scent was the same. Vanilla and rain and something uniquely her. My wolf surged the second she stepped into the chapel. It took everything not to cross the pews, grab her, bury my face in her neck and breathe her in until the years disappeared. Instead I stood there like a statue, letting regret choke me.
The will reading was the lifeline I didn’t deserve. Dad’s handwriting in the codicil—dated six months before he died—spoke of regret. Of wanting to fix what he’d broken in our family. He’d left her shares, tied to the estate project. A legacy for his lost daughter. For Amelia. For us, maybe. He’d known more than he let on. The old man had always seen too much.
I wasn’t going to let her walk away again. This project was my excuse. My amends. My chance to keep her close long enough to prove I wasn’t the same cold bastard who’d believed Samantha’s lies. I’d grovel if I had to. I’d beg. Anything to earn back what I’d shattered.
I watched her from the library window as she headed toward the driveway. A black SUV idled there—tinted windows, professional driver. She opened the back door, spoke softly to someone inside. Then she reached in, pulled out a small bag, slung it over her shoulder. As she turned to close the door, the bag shifted. A photograph slipped out, fluttered to the gravel.
She didn’t notice.
I moved before I thought. Long strides across the lawn. I bent and picked it up.
Three kids. Six, maybe seven years old. Two boys and a girl, arms around each other, grinning at the camera in front of some colorful mural. The girl had Amelia’s soft smile. The boys… dark hair, sharp cheekbones. And gray eyes. Stormy, piercing. The exact shade I saw in the mirror every morning.
My hand tightened on the photo. Suspicion hit like a body check—hard, fast, knocking the air out of me.
They looked like me.
No. They looked like us.
My wolf snarled inside, protective, possessive. The mate bond pulsed with new urgency, like it had just realized what I’d missed for seven years.
I looked up. Amelia was already sliding into the passenger seat, the door shutting behind her. The SUV pulled away smoothly, disappearing down the drive.
I stared at the photo again. The girl—Jasmine, maybe?—had a small stuffed wolf tucked under her arm. One of the boys had a hockey stick propped against his leg, toy-sized but unmistakable.
My chest ached. Yearning so deep it hurt. Determination followed, cold and certain.
I wasn’t letting this go.
I slipped the photo into my pocket and headed back toward the house. The estate project started soon. Meetings. Plans. Time together. I’d see her again. I’d see them.
And if those kids were mine—if they carried my blood, my scent, my eyes—nothing on this earth would keep me from them. Or from her.
I didn’t hear the soft footsteps behind the hedge until it was too late.
Three small figures darted out from the garden path—must have slipped past the sitter, curious kids exploring while the adults mourned. They froze when they saw me.
The boy in front—dark hair, gray eyes—tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he’d seen before.
He took one step closer.
“You look like us,” he said, voice clear and unafraid.
- Writer
