CHAPTER 55: UNFAMILIAR MAN

Chapter 54

Cameron

I open my eyes to Lenora holding my hand, her fingers wrapped tightly around mine like I might slip away again. Her head jerks up the moment I shift.

"Are you okay?" she asks, eyes wide with worry, scanning every inch of my face like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she blinks.

"I guess I’m really a wolf now, seeing as I didn’t die," I mutter, voice dry and scratchy.

She lets out a wet chuckle and wipes her eyes, trying to act like she hasn’t been crying.

That feeling again—emotions that aren’t mine, but hers. I thought I imagined it last night, chalked it up to pain-induced delirium. But no. It’s real.

Relief, crashing through me like waves in a storm. And something deeper. Affection so raw, so all-consuming, I didn’t think it was possible to feel this from another person. It’s not mine.

It’s hers.

And it’s terrifying.

I understand now why mates lose their minds when one dies. Why they don’t last long after. Why people say it’s better to never bond at all than to lose what this is. I know—without a shred of drama or self-pity—that Lenora wouldn’t survive if I was gone.

It’s not an exaggeration.

Unfortunately.

Goddess, if you’re real... why would you do this to her? Why give her me? Out of all the wolves, out of every fate—me?

Don’t you think there’s thousands of better wolves? Wolves who haven’t lied, haven’t run, haven’t sinned their way through life trying to survive?

Lenora deserves better.

"I’m starving though," I say, trying to lift the weight.

"Right," she says quickly, standing like she’s grateful for the excuse to move.

She disappears out the door, and I sit up slowly.

My skin feels weird—tender, like I’ve been sunburnt—but beneath the soreness, I’m... fine. Healed. No cracked ribs, no bruises, no lingering agony. I guess that’s the upside of being a wolf. Rapid healing. Even from... whatever that trial was. I’m trying not to think too much about it.

Still, my legs are a little shaky when I push myself to my feet.

I make it halfway to the kitchen when I hear her scream.

"Dad!"

My stomach drops.

I bolt—well, stagger—out into the hallway, just in time to see her fall to the ground, cradling Eamon in her arms.

His body is limp. Too limp.

My stomach drops.

"Hey, Dad, you don’t get to go like this," she whispers, voice trembling. "Just a bit more time, okay? Come on, stay with me." Her fingers are shaking as she brushes his hair from his face, tears rolling down her cheeks in silence and chaos.

He coughs, a terrible sound, rough and hollow. "Can’t a man... run into the embrace of his mate?"

"Not without saying goodbye to your daughter," she snaps through a choked sob.

Eamon’s gray eyes flicker open, barely holding on. "I don’t have time, Snowball," he says. "It’s time."

"No." Lenora shakes her head, as if she can deny death itself. "No, it’s not. It’s not time. Don’t do this to me."

He just nods once, gently. It’s like watching the last flame of a candle flicker.

Then his eyes slip shut again, and with the superhuman strength I really shouldn’t be surprised about anymore she scoops him into her arms bridal style.

Her face is unreadable, jaw clenched, eyes glossy and empty all at once. The little girl inside her is screaming, I can feel it, even if she doesn’t make a sound.

She walks past me like she’s carrying the world on her shoulders.

Into the master bedroom.

She lays him down, with reverence. Fixes his collar. Brushes back his hair.

And then she walks back out.

Closes the door behind her. No hesitation. Like it’s final.

She meets my gaze across the hallway.

Her lips tremble. But then she gives me a smile—small, mechanical, heart-wrenching.

Like it’s the only thing she can still control.

She disappears into the kitchen.

I follow. Slowly, my body still too weak.

When I reach the doorway, she’s already pulling things out of drawers, grabbing vegetables, setting a pot to boil.

I don’t say anything. I just sit.

She starts chopping like the world isn’t burning around her.

Too fast. Too loud.

The knife hits the board with sharp, punishing thuds.

Then— "Shit."

Blood.

She cuts her thumb and rushes to the sink, sticking it under the water. It heals within seconds, but she stares at it like she’s watching the whole world fall apart.

"I won’t die without a meal, you know," I murmur.

"I know." Her voice is hoarse. "I just... I need to cook something. I need to feel like something is normal."

She doesn’t look at me as she says it.

"Yesterday, my pack almost killed my fucking mate and now my dad is dying. I just need a minute to process these emotions."

She picks the knife up again.

I watch as she goes back to chopping—faster than before. If she wasn’t a wolf, I’d take the damn knife from her before she fillets her whole arm.

Instead, I stand up, slowly, blood loss from yesterday still messing with my balance. I make my way out of the kitchen and down the hall, toward the master bedroom. I’ve never been in there.

Not once.

I hover at the door, uncertain. It’s closed, the kind of silence behind it that feels like it’s holding its breath.

Just as I lift a hand to knock, I hear his voice.

"Are you going to stay there all day?"

I open the door slowly, peeking inside.

I’ve never seen Eamon this way.

Lying on the bed, pale and still, his presence is nothing like the giant of a man who once towered over me during training. Outwardly, he still looks like himself—broad shoulders, muscled arms, that imposing presence of his

but there’s something... missing. A quietness that runs deeper than fatigue.

Hollow, Lenora had said.

Now I see what she meant.

It’s not exhaustion. It’s the absence of something essential, something that held him upright all this time, finally slipping out of reach.

It’s coming off him in waves.

I shut the door behind me and slowly make my way across the room, trying to stay upright.I intend to stand, but I sway halfway and end up sinking onto the edge of the bed instead.

"You look like hell," Eamon rasps, a crooked smirk tugging at his lips.

I blink at him. "You’re saying that to me?"

He chuckles—dry and scratchy, but a chuckle nonetheless.

I glance around the room. It’s simple. Clean. The kind of space where everything has its place. But it’s the small wooden table by the bed that catches my attention. Three photo frames sit neatly arranged there, their glass catching a bit of the late afternoon light.

I reach for the first one.

A younger Eamon. And beside him, a woman who—Goddess—looks so much like Lenora it makes my breath catch. She’s got her hair in two tight cornrows, face tilted slightly toward the camera, eyes full of that exact sharp softness Lenora wears when she’s teasing or half-annoyed. Same pale skin. Same storm-grey eyes.

"She’s the most beautiful, isn’t she?" Eamon says quietly, noticing where I’m looking.

"Yeah," I say, nodding. "Lucky Lenora didn’t get it all from you."

He chuckles.

I set the frame down gently and pick up the second.

It’s the three of them—Eamon, his wife, and a younger Lenora with messy pigtails and a gap-toothed grin. She’s in Eamon’s arms, half-turned toward the camera, holding up what I think is a frog. Eamon has a black eye.

I blink. "Did she...?"

"Oh yeah," he says proudly. "She kicked me in the face. Thought it was a hug. I think she was two." He leans his head back against the pillow. "You’ll feel it when you have pups of your own. Their strength is hell."

I shake my head, laughing softly. "Everyone keeps warning me about wolf toddlers like they’re miniature demons."

"They are," he says, eyes far away with affection. "But you love them anyway."

I put the second frame down and reach for the third.

I don’t need to turn it over to know which one it is.

It’s us.

On the porch of the cabin, just about a month ago. Ronan had taken the photo. I’d been slouched in one of the chairs, sore from training, trying not to move too much. Lenora had jumped into my lap with zero warning, pressing her cold feet to my thighs, grinning. Eamon had come out and rested a hand on my shoulder.

I’ve seen my face so many times—magazines, articles, polished screens flashing curated perfection. Always the right angle, the charming smile, the posture meant to say, I’ve got it all together.

But this picture?

I take it, lean in, look closer.

I don’t recognize the man in the frame.

His hair’s longer, a bit unkempt. His blue eyes—not empty, not dulled by pressure or performance—have a spark. A subtle glint like he’s laughing at something off-camera. There’s a softness in the way his shoulders are angled, a gentleness in the curve of his mouth.

It really puts things into perspective.

"I don’t need to explain about that one," Eamon says, voice low, roughened by more than illness.

I glance at him. "No. No you don’t," I say, the smallest smile tugging at my lips.

I look at the picture again, he’s so unfamiliar.