Page 17 of His Forsaken Alpha

What was left? Fortunately for Wynter, his alpha had prearranged every single moment of the funeral, from the casket to the officiant to the flowers. Wynter had often complained of Warden’s controlling nature, but for once, it had been welcome. Wilder had handled the small things that still needed doing, allowing him to live in his usual fog.

The wake had arrived next, and with it, a long line of mourners come to pay their respects. Hours of listening to people regale him with stories of Warden or offer their sincerest condolences.The pity in their eyes had made his stomach turn. By the time Wynter had arrived home afterward, he’d sank into his bed and slept for two days, only rising again to attend the funeral. If only it would be the last of his performances. He’d need to remain the grieving widower for at least a year after. Publicly, of course, but then who did he have to show a private side to? Only himself.

Wynter glanced down at his hands, wringing the old handkerchief that had once been his own papa’s, the threadbare linen slight and yellowed from age. It likely wasn’t capable of taking his incessant tugging, yet he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. It was then that he noticed the barely-there, faded spots that dappled the backs of his hands, showing hints of his increasing age. For a moment, he was intrigued by how much they looked like his own papa’s had.

Hands that had never once shown him kindness.

I hated him and yet… I’ve turned into him, haven’t I?

No… I’ve never hurt my children.

That was a lie. It didn’t only take a backhand or a closed fist to cause pain for a child. He’d never meant to harm his kids, but he’d been powerless to stop it.

The pompous preacher continued to prattle on, the sun heavy and warm, lulling Wynter to close his eyes and drift off to a place where his life wasn’t a maelstrom of memories and regrets. When he reopened them, he focused on the light reflecting off the sleek onyx surface of the casket, only to notice it wasn’t quite black, but the deepest of purples. Flecks of mica shimmered under the bright illumination, making them dance and glitter in the sunlight.

It was almost pretty.

Why would it matter when the thing would end up six feet under where no one but the worms would see it? Then he realized why. Their family had a reputation to uphold. Only the best of everything for Warden Jaymes.

Only the best…

Memories assailed Wynter, his chest tightening. His papa’s voice whispered through his mind.This family sets the bar for the entire province…

How many times had he heard his papa saying those very things, repeating them over and over again until they were burned into Wynter’s brain? He’d come from wealth and power—and its privileges, but also an unbearable weight and expectation. That expectation was the exact reason why Warden had planned his going away party down to the very last, minute detail and not left anything to chance.

He hadn’t trusted Wynter to do it, of course.

It was also why Wynter had to appear the proper grieving widower to a man who was little more than a stranger to him nearly forty years later. Yes, they’d been married for decades, but none had been happy.

Not a single minute.

There had been a tiny glimmer, long before, where Wynterhadbeen happy.Trulyhappy. But it had been short-lived. Warden hadn’t been the reason behind that happiness, of course. Hehadbeen the reason for its demise, not that he’d ever been aware.

After Warden’s abrupt passing, Wynter found himself freed from most of his shackles. The tragic part? Wearing them for so long, he didn’t know how to live without them. His alpha wasgone, and he was too old to be tossed back into the world as breeding stock, thank heavens. He’d be allowed to return to his fine home with his servants and gardeners, and live alone, on his own terms, until he followed his alpha into the ground.

He’d never experienced autonomy in his entire life.

As a child, he’d had an independent streak, or so he’d been told, until his papa had beaten it out of him. He’d tried to be bold with Warden a time or two, only to quickly be put back in his place.

His keepers gone, he was suddenly expected to know what to do.

And what will I do now? I’ve ruined everything I’ve ever touched.

Even had I not, I’m too old. It’s too late for me to start anew.

He shifted on his feet—more memories of the past assailing him—and stumbled. His middle son, Wilder, reached out to right him and wrap a protective arm around his shoulders. Any other time, Wynter would’ve have worried about the slip and how it would be perceived, but any of the two-hundred-plus mourners standing behind them would likely attribute his unsteadiness to grief.

Not that he had much to show as it was.

“Papa?”

Wynter lifted his dark-covered gaze to Wilder and smiled, those long-lost memories alive within his son. He traced the lines of Wilder’s face with his gaze, his heart swelling.

If only I’d made a different choice all those years ago.

“Are you ready?” Wilder asked, eyes narrowing as he searched over Wynter’s face.

Are you ready?Those words dragged another memory from the ether, and the corners of his lips tugged upward.

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