"Rightful place?" I repeated, stunned more by the irony than the offer itself. I doubted he'd be saying any of this if Aldric were still alive.
"You're the older brother," he said, as if the answer were obvious. "Of course, the Alpha position is yours."
His tone sounded practiced—like he'd rehearsed those words and hoped they would land better than they did.
I shook my head, letting out a dry laugh. "That's bullshit," I said flatly, and his eyes narrowed in surprise. "You threw me out of this pack without so much as a second thought. Don't stand there pretending you see me as your son. And you think I'd just forget all of that—pretend none of it happened—just so I can play Alpha to the people who turned their backs on me?"
His body trembled faintly, though whether from guilt or age, I couldn't tell. "I turned my back on you," he admitted quietly. "Not the pack."
That earned a bitter smile from me. "Well, great. Thanks for finally being honest. Doesn't change anything. My loyalty's with the Wild Hearts now."
He gave a nod, slow and hesitant, as if carefully weighing his next words. "I heard you built a pack. Rogues, mostly. Survivors. Outcasts. You took in those no one else would. That takes strength, Wyatt. That takes leadership."
I clenched my jaw. The compliment didn't land—it only irritated me more. There was too much history between us for him to speak to me like that, as though none of it had happened.
"Stop trying to butter me up. You don't get to hand out compliments like we're just catching up over drinks. It's insulting."
He sighed, defeated, but not deterred. "If it's your pack you're worried about, you can integrate them into ours. It won't be easy, and I won't pretend the members will welcome it overnight—but they'll come to accept it when they realize it's our only option."
He paused and looked me dead in the eye.
"There's a large pack forming beyond our borders. Made up of shifters from all kinds—werewolves, jackals, hyenas, bears, ravens. All rogues. Organized. United under one leader. We don't know what he wants, but he's already taken out four packs, and we suspect he's building toward something much larger. For us to survive, we'll need alliances. And for that, we'll need strength. That's why I'm asking you to take over. I won't live long enough to lead them into what's coming. But you can."
He let the words settle, like they would suddenly shift something in me.
But they didn't.
I ran a hand over my throat, grimacing. Hearing him call me his son again made my skin crawl. It felt like manipulation, not redemption.
"I don't want this pack, Eldric," I said calmly but firmly.
That caught him off guard. Not just the rejection—but the fact I'd used his name. I saw the flash of pain in his expression as he bit down on his bottom lip.
"Wyatt, this involves you whether you want it to or not. They killed Aldric. And they'll kill many more. You can stop them. I can't."
His voice cracked, but it didn't move me.
"If it's about the rogues, I'll deal with them," I said. "But I'm not going to take the Alpha seat of the same pack that cast me out without so much as a fair hearing."
"Wyatt—"
"I was twelve!" I snapped, my voice rising. "I awakened my wolf too early. I didn't know what the hell was happening in my own head. I couldn't separate myself from it. And instead of helping me, you tossed me out like I was defective. You abandoned me when I needed a father. Now, you need help—and I'm supposed to be noble enough to step in? Aldric was the only one who ever gave a damn. He was the only one who called. Checked in. Tried to understand."
I looked away, swallowing the lump rising in my throat.
"He's the reason I'm here. Not you. I couldn't care less that this pack is dying—or that you are. I can get revenge for my brother without playing Alpha to a place that never saw me as anything more than a liability."
I turned to leave, already halfway to the door when I heard him say—
"Wait… please."
His voice cracked open with emotion, enough to make me pause and turn back.
He exhaled a shaky breath. "I've spent years wondering how to ask for your forgiveness…"
I raised an eyebrow. "And you decided now was the time—right after asking for help and being turned down?" My voice was cold. "How convenient. Makes it hard to believe any of this is real."
"I know how it sounds," he said quietly. "Truth is… I never thought you would forgive me. I figured I'd die carrying that guilt. And maybe I deserved to. But seeing you again after all these years… it made me remember what it was like before. When your mother was still alive. When we were—"
I cut him off. "Are you done blaming me for her death?"
He flinched, visibly.
"I…" His face contorted. "It wasn't your fault."
His voice wavered, thin and uncertain. It didn't sound like conviction. It sounded like someone saying what they thought needed to be said.
I clenched my jaw. "You said, and I quote: 'Why did you have to be so stubborn? If you'd just listened and stayed home, your mother wouldn't have needed to protect you. She'd still be alive. Her death was your fault.' You told me that—right here in this room—before you sent me away."
He winced and looked away. "I was drunk."
"That's not an excuse," I snapped. "You don't get to hide behind a bottle when your words ruin someone's life."
"You don't understand what it's like to lose your mate," he said hoarsely. "It breaks something inside you. I didn't know how to cope. But I'm trying to make it right now—before it's too late."
I narrowed my eyes. "You still haven't apologized. Not really. You're just explaining. Justifying. Hoping I'll give you what you want in exchange for crumbs of guilt."
"That's not true, I—"
"Enough," I said, cutting him off again. I didn't want to hear another excuse.
But then, suddenly, he shouted, "No one saw them coming!"
I froze mid-step and looked back at him, unsure what he meant.
"The shifters who killed your mother," he said, voice rough and desperate. "No one saw them coming. I should have. I should've kept the borders tighter. I should've protected you. Protected her. I failed—you all. And I couldn't face that, so I took it out on the one person who didn't deserve it. You."
He breathed heavily and met my eyes.
"I'm sorry, Wyatt. Truly."
I didn't know what to say. For the first time, he sounded sincere. Not rehearsed. Not desperate. Just… human.
I dragged a hand through my hair, torn between a thousand feelings I hadn't wanted to deal with.
Then he dropped to his knees.
"What are you doing?" I asked, startled. I instinctively stepped forward, but forced myself to stop. I didn't want to care. I didn't.
But he didn't answer.
His breathing had grown shallow. His hands trembled at his sides. He didn't kneel out of remorse—his body had simply given out.
His skin looked pale, too pale, and there was a faint wheeze in every breath he drew.
"Wyatt… I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible now. "Please… save the pack."
Then he coughed—a harsh, wet sound—and blood spilled from the corner of his mouth. I caught him just before he collapsed completely, easing him to the floor as panic surged through me.
"Help!" I shouted. "Somebody—help!"
Bran burst through the door, eyes wide with alarm. He took one look and turned on his heel, running for the healer.
Eldric clutched weakly at my shirt, eyes locked on mine. Blood bubbled at his lips. His grip tightened once, then slipped.
I held my breath.
Eldric Cadwell was dead.