Page 112 of Broken Wolf Heart
So, I keep running. Long enough that the sun starts to dip behind the trees, dragging the sky with it.
Then I smell him.
Crow.
He doesn’t sneak up on me. Doesn’t have to. He just runs alongside, quiet and steady. Matching pace like we’ve done this a hundred times—probably because we have. None of the others know it, but Crow and I used to run together a lot before I left the city. He’s the only one who actually knows how to sit in silence, and not just as a beast but as a man. So, even on the nights I told everyone else to stay away, Crow would show up, and we’d run just like this. Never saying a word. Never needing to.
We slow and shift almost in sync near the river. I drop down to the mossy bank and sit, uncaring that we’re both naked. Sweat coats my skin. Adrenaline courses through my veins. My wolf is only mildly placated, but I need to see if I can maintain control on my own.
The current of the river is steady, crystal water washing over the smooth stones. I watch it for a moment, the words I want to say sticking in my throat.
Beside me, Crow doesn’t say anything. Just stares at the current, arms dangling over his bent knees.
Eventually, I ask, “You mad at me?”
He looks up then. “For what?”
“Finishing him off like that.”
He shakes his head. “No.”
I wait.
Then he says, “I’m not sorry he’s dead. But I don’t feel better, either.”
I nod, waiting, giving him space to get his words out.
We haven’t talked about what happened in that warehouse. And even though I know Alvaro isn’t the first man Crow has killed, we only kill our own father once.
Crow leans forward, flicking a stone into the water. “I used to think, if I could just make him see me, respect me, I’d finally matter.”
“And now?”
“I don’t care what he saw.” He looks over at me with haunted eyes—it’s a look I recognize. “But I don’t know who I am without that fight.”
His voice is raw. Like a scab just peeled back.
“I get it,” I say.
He glances sideways. “Yeah?”
“For a long time, my whole identity was tied to surviving my old man. Outsmarting him. Beating him. Hating him.”
Crow nods slowly. “It keeps you alive. But it doesn’t teach you how to live.”
We’re quiet again.
Then he says, “When I was a kid, cooking felt a little bit like living.”
“Makes sense. Eating your food feels like living to me.”
He grins, and it’s a bright light in the darkness of his expression. There and gone way too fast before the ghosts of his past return. “My mom taught me to cook, you know. Made everything from scratch and insisted I do the same. It was annoying as hell at the time.” He snorts at some memory then immediately sobers again. “She always dreamt of opening a restaurant of her own.”
I don’t say anything.
I know we’re both thinking how fucked up it is that she didn’t get to live long enough for that dream to happen. ThatAlvaro did—but squandered his life by being a fucking monster.
Finally, he adds, “Sometimes, I still think about opening a place. Just mine. Small. No blood on the floor, you know what I mean.”
