Page 16 of His Forsaken Alpha

Wynter reached for the phone on the nurse’s station and called home. A calmness settled over him once that was done. Home. While it had never felt safe before, with Warden gone, it was for once. There, he could figure out what came next.

But… what needs to be done?

Calls needed to be made… in the morning. His boys. The board. And then a funeral would need to be planned, though he seemed to recall Warden might’ve already had a plan. If so, they’d need to find it. There were a hundred million things he needed to do—focusing on a list helped calm him for some reason.

Wynter wandered toward the elevator and pressed the Down button. The doors opened, and he climbed aboard the thankfully empty car. Unseeing, he smashed a couple of buttons at the bottom of the panel with his palm, hoping one would lead him to the entry and salvation.

Before it reached the bottom, the doors opened again. Wynter stared at the tips of his shoes, unwilling to meet anyone’s eye.

“Papa?”

Wynter’s lifted his gaze to a familiar voice.

Wilder stood facing him, frowning.

Had the hospital called or was he hallucinating again?

“What…what are you doing here?”

“Avery just gave birth…” Wilder tilted his head, searching Wynter’s face. “That’s not why you’re here?”

Wynter shook his head, unsure what to say other than, “Warden… is gone.”

“Gone?”

Wynter wiped the wetness from his face. Why was he crying? Warden didn’t deserve his tears. “Warden Jaymes is dead.”

A few days later…

How many timeshad Wynter imagined the death of Warden Jaymes?

Too many to count.

Standing near Warden’s casket, he couldn’t conjure the memory of one for some reason, the reality he’d witnessed etched into his mind and cancelling out all the others. For days, he’d replayed the fall down the stairs, unable to wipe it away. It wasn’t the onlymemory his mind had grasped on to, assaulting him with every ugly moment from their meeting to the end at the bottom of the stairs.

Perhaps it was because his life was stuck there, unsure where he went next. After forty years mated to the wrong alpha, he’d become so accustomed to his life that it was dizzying to think of the freedom he suddenly found himself faced with.

It was easier to allow cold numbness to wash over him than to let his mind reel with too many questions. Questions that would only bear more pain than answers. Forty years he’d languished, and it was too late to begin anew.

Too late to return to the many fantasies he’d created of a life without Warden Jaymes.

From behind his big, dark shades, Wynter scanned the crowd huddled close to hear the officiant depict the story of a life well lived. Only Wynter was aware of the numerous fictions and stretches of truth that story contained. As far as the public knew, Warden was a king among alphas. He’d taken his family’s failing construction firm and turned it into a provincial juggernaut, giving him the kind of power the Jaymeses of old had once wielded. He’d had three adoring children and aloving, grieving omega and amassed a bevy of admiring associates, friends, and rivals—all who’d respected, either real or feigned, his rise to power, wealth, and status.

Publicly, and to some degree privately, Wynter had done his best to play the role he’d been cast in, though not out of any true sense of duty. Had he not done as expected, the alternative would’ve been soul-destroying. Standing at his mate’s grave, he continued to play that part, though he had no real tears to shed for a man he’d never loved—and who’d never loved him.

Not that he’d wanted that love.

Not from Warden, anyway.

“And we should remember Warden’s gracious and loving omega, Wynter, in this time and hold him up, as his friend and his community,”the officiant said, casting a piteous glance his way. Wynter felt the weight of hundreds of stares turned his way. It dragged his focus back to the service and his performance within it. He wiped away a fake tear, thankful for the dark shades to cover his dry eyes.

Above, the big, fluffy, white clouds parted, and the sun bore full force upon them. Wynter lifted his gaze to soak in that warmth and chase away the chill deep down in his bones. It was a beautiful day, one wasted on manufactured grief and contrived angst.

He was tired of pretending.

Four decades he’d done it. Participating in one more day of pretense felt impossible, but Warden’s death hadn’t yet pardoned him from his role.

Soon enough.

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