Page 74 of Found by the Pack
I tilt my head. “Supposed to?”
“You know what I mean,” he says, glancing toward the window like maybe the conversation will be easier if he’s not looking at me. “I had my chance—with Camilla. And I didn’t… I didn’t protect her the way I should have.” His voice catches just enough that I know he’s about to spiral if I don’t stop him. “So maybe letting Boone be with Sadie is the right call.”
I rub a hand over my jaw. The thing is, I don’t know if it’s even a choice we’re “letting” happen. Sadie’s not a thing to be passed around like a pack heirloom. She’ll make her own call—about Boone, about any of us.
But Shepard’s shoulders are tight, and I can see the weight he’s carrying. So instead of poking holes in his logic, I go with the thing I know he needs to hear.
“Camilla would want you to move on one day,” I tell him quietly. “She wouldn’t want you to live like a ghost.”
He shakes his head like the thought’s too big to hold onto. “You think so?”
“I know so.” And I do. Camilla was all sharp edges and warm center, the kind of woman who didn’t do anything halfway. If she loved you—and she loved Shepard—she wanted you living, not just existing.
The silence stretches, and then Shepard asks, “You ever thought about… sharing an Omega?”
I snort, playing it off. “You mean like some kind of co-ownership arrangement? No. Sounds too damn complicated.”
It’s a lie. A smooth one, but a lie all the same.
The truth is, I’ve thought about it more than once—hell, with Sadie it’s crossed my mind in ways I’m not proud of. The way she draws different pieces out of each of us… Boone’s steadiness, Shepard’s quiet care, my own instinct to protect and challenge her.
But I’m not about to open that door, not when it’ll just make this mess harder.
We talk about nothing for a little while after that—Shepard pretending to be interested in the half-empty coffee pot, me pretending to check my phone like I’ve got urgent captain business. When I leave, it’s with the taste of that lie still bitter in my mouth.
By the time I get home, the exhaustion from the night’s calls has settled into my bones. I walk through the quiet house, drop my keys on the counter, toe off my boots. Gus’s absence reminds me Shepard’s probably already walking him, which saves me one chore but leaves me with too much empty space.
I tell myself I’m going to shower and pass out, but when I get to my room, I don’t reach for the towel. I reach for the top drawer of my nightstand.
There’s a photo in there, edges curled from being handled too much over the years. Me, Boone, and Sawyer. We’re standingin the backyard of my parents’ place, all sunburned from a day at the lake, grinning like idiots. Sawyer’s got his arm hooked around my neck, pulling me in close, and Boone’s maybe twelve, just hitting that age where he’s lanky and awkward but still trying to keep up with us.
It’s my favorite picture and my least favorite. Because every time I look at it, I remember the night Sawyer died.
The things I didn’t say. The things I didn’t stop.
The way Boone’s life cracked right down the middle, and how I’ve never told him the full truth about what happened.
If he knew—if he ever knew—he’d never forgive me.
And maybe I wouldn’t blame him.
I trace a thumb over the image of his younger self, over the bright, hopeful kid who looked at me like I hung the damn moon. Boone deserves to be happy. He deserves something good that isn’t touched by loss or betrayal.
So if Sadie’s that for him, then fine. I’ll keep my distance. I’ll swallow down whatever the hell I feel when she looks at me. I’ll be the captain, the friend, the steady presence she can rely on without ever crossing that line.
Because Boone may never know the truth about that night, but I do.
And it’s enough to keep me from taking anything else from him.
CHAPTER 19
Sadie
The sun hasn’t even burned through the morning haze yet, and I’m already out here with my brushes. The south-facing wall of Baxter’s Feed & Seed catches the light early, and I like that—it makes the colors sharper, truer, like the world hasn’t had time to wear them down.
My hands are streaked with cobalt and ochre, palms dry from the chalk dust I use to sketch outlines before I commit to paint. Barefoot, because shoes only get in my way, I move between jars and trays, humming under my breath.
It’s quiet, except for the gulls overhead and the occasional car rolling down Main Street. The kind of quiet that makes me forget, for just a little while, that I’m always one blocked number away from my old life snapping back into place.
