Page 125 of Taken By the Pack

Rowan doesn’t look at us as he speaks. His gaze stays locked on the water, a faraway look in his eyes. “The myth that Fiona asked about… It’s about a family curse, if you believe in that shit.” He lets out a breathless laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “The Thorne men are always claimed by the sea. That’s how it’s always been. And sometimes… I wonder if it was supposed to be me, not her.”

A deep silence settles over us. The only sound is the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull ofTheHelene.

Grace moves first. She swims closer, pressing her hands to his chest, her eyes full of warmth and something fierce. “Rowan…”

“I should’ve saved her.” His voice cracks. “I should’ve done something. Anything.”

I clear my throat, stepping in. “You know, in every fisherman’s tale, there’s always a trade,” I say softly. “The ocean doesn’t just take—it gives, too. Maybe Lena wasn’t taken from you. Maybe she became part of something bigger. The tide, the current… the very thing that carries us forward.”

Rowan stares at me for a long moment, his jaw tight, his throat working.

Grace reaches for his hands. “Maybe we should say goodbye to her properly. A memorial. Just us.”

Jake nods. “It doesn’t have to be big. Just something to honor her. Maybe the sea will release you from the curse if we do that.”

Rowan hesitates. Then, finally, he gives a small nod.

We move together, but before wading into deeper waters, Grace plucks a delicate shell from the ocean floor, cradling it in her palm before passing it to Rowan. He turns it over in his hands like it’s something precious.

I clear my throat. “There’s a tradition where sailors send off something small—natural—back to the sea, as a farewell. It’s not about loss, but about release.”

Rowan swallows hard. “Yeah,” he murmurs.

One by one, we take turns whispering our goodbyes.

Jake runs a hand through his wet hair, exhaling. “I didn’t know you, Lena,” he admits, “but if you were anything like Rowan, you must’ve been damn stubborn.” He chuckles, then grows solemn. “Rest easy.”

Grace cradles the shell in her hands, closing her eyes. When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. “I promise to keep him safe. I’ll keep him happy.”

Rowan’s breath shudders. And then he does something none of us expect.

He cries.

Not silent tears. Not a single, stray drop. No, he breaks, shoulders shaking, hands gripping the shell so tightly his knuckles turn white.

Grace is on him in an instant, wrapping her arms around him, holding him like she can take some of the weight on her own shoulders. Jake and I exchange a glance before stepping in too, creating a circle of warmth in the cool water.

Finally, Rowan exhales. And he lets the shell slip from his fingers.

We watch as it drifts beneath the waves, swallowed by the sea.

There is no dramatic sign. No sudden change. But as we float there together, held by the water and each other, something shifts.

Rowan breathes.

And for the first time in a long time, I think he lets go.

* * *

The lighthouse isquiet except for the rhythmic sound of the waves crashing below and the occasional creak of the old wooden beams. I’m at the workbench, carefully sealing sample vials, preparing them for shipment to the university.

The familiar process keeps my hands busy, but my mind is made up. I’m not leaving Driftwood Cove when this study is done. I’ll negotiate a way to stay.

Behind me, Jake is flipping burgers in the small kitchen, humming along to an old rock song playing on the radio. The scent of grilled meat fills the air, mingling with the salt from the sea.

It’s comforting, grounding.

And then, of course, there’s Rowan and Grace on the couch, fucking.

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