Page 75 of Omega Hunted

One article proposed that the instinct to protect vulnerable omegas—particularly pregnant omegas—could be overwhelming for unmated alphas and occasionally for widowed bonded alphas whose wolves had lost their purpose. The behavior could be mistaken for the beginning of a mating bond when it was nothing more than deeply ingrained biology.

That should have reassured me.

Instead, it irritated me.

My wolf didn’t want to just protect Soren. He settled whenever Soren was near. He listened to his breathing. He knew the difference between Soren’s fear and his exhaustion. He’d accepted Asha before she’d even been born. None of that appeared anywhere in the papers.

Buried halfway through an anthropology text from nearly a century ago, I found a single paragraph I’d almost missed.

Among several northern packs, there existed a belief that fate did not always grant one mate, but one soul at the time it was most needed. Such accounts are impossible to verify, as bonded pairs rarely survived long enough after bereavement for meaningful study.

That was it.

One paragraph.

No evidence. No data. No conclusions.

I stared at the words for a long time before closing the laptop.

It wasn’t proof.

But it was enough to stop me from telling myself I was losing my damn mind.

“I know what I feel.” I rubbed my chest as I muttered the words and felt a burning where my mate bond with Raff sat.

After he’d died, I’d lived because breathing required less effort than dying, and because the house gave me purpose. Now Soren was asleep upstairs with his daughter, and somehow I’d found myself planning beyond tomorrow. I’d even started collating notes and resources.

Where could we go where he’d be safe? I needed to get him up to Quebec, where I had contacts. I didn’t know much about the Kastor or Dalton families, other than the surface-level shit they had going on, but if I could talk to Ronan, I could learn more and strategize, and between us, we could get Soren over the border,

I just wish he’d call back.

Hoped to hell he was safe.

I was calculating how long it would be before Soren could shift post-baby, already working out routes to avoid the SED. They were strong along the borders, and although I had ways past them as an Alpha who was former ORT, with an omega and baby in tow, it would be nearly impossible.

Three years without allowing myself to imagine next month, never mind three years from now.

My wolf wasn’t only grieving—he was preparing for war. That frightened me more than anything because it felt like a betrayal. I closed my eyes as guilt hit me. Raff. It wasn’t that I loved him less. It wasn’t even possible. Every room in this house still carried pieces of him. The library existed because Raff wanted somewhere to disappear with a book while snow buried the mountain outside. The ridiculous wolf mugs he’d insisted on buying from every gift shop we’d ever stumbled across were scattered through the kitchen cupboards because he claimed life was too short for matching crockery. Half the blankets in the sitting room had been chosen because he was permanently cold, and I’d never once convinced him that one blanket ought to be enough for a grown man.

I still reached for him in my sleep, waking with my hand on cold sheets.

Until Soren.

Wanting to protect Soren and Asha wasn’t replacing Raff.

Living isn’t wrong.

For the first time since the warehouse, I wasn’t following him into death.

I set the untouched coffee in the sink. “I need to talk to Raff,” I said aloud, and my wolf lifted his head immediately.

I headed downstairs, poured coffee out of habit, took one mouthful, then set the mug beside the sink. My gaze was fixed on the hook beside the back door, where my old leather coat still hung.

Raff had bought it for me even though I’d told him it was too expensive. He’d rolled his eyes and bought it anyway because, according to him, if I was determined to spend every morning wandering around a mountain in every kind of weather, I should at least stop pretending I was indestructible.

I wanted my fur, but I stayed in my skin for this, and I shrugged on the coat before I set off down the familiar path. My wolf loved these woods. He loved the cold air filling his lungs and the rhythm of paws on earth, loved running the boundary lines until every scent belonged exactly where it should and every step carried memories. There was the fallen pine Raff had insisted we turn into a bench instead of cutting up for firewood because, apparently, every mountain path needed somewhere romantic to sit. The bench was still there, weathered now, moss creeping over one leg where I hadn’t bothered to scrape it away.

The memories hurt, and they always would.