He was hit with felony drug charges associated with the trafficking of Omegas, and his life was ruined.
Especially now that he sits in jail with no bail, awaiting a prison sentence.
Fuck Clay to hell and back. I’ll never forget the look in April’s eyes or the way her scent soured when that drug was mentioned.
I wanted to kill him right there, consequences be damned.
But ruining his life will have to suffice.
You’re going to ruin April’s life, too, if you end this, a part of me argues.
April will move on, forget us, but I’ll still keep an eye on her. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of, even if I have to stay hidden and keep an eye on her through my private investigator.
Hunter and Liam will deal with it, and they’ll understand one day.
I already failed her once, allowing Clay near her vicinity. I won’t do it again.
That’s all you do. Fail the women in your life.
I sit on the bench and run a hand through my hair.
Priscilla Axton’s grave could be nicer. Even though it’s embellished with cherubs and delicate engravings of roses, I’m sure I could have done more.
Maybe I could have found better doctors. Maybe I didn’t exhaust all my resources.
Hunter and Liam would say otherwise—they already have, numerous times.
She died alone because you were on a business call.
Guilt weighs heavily in my chest, a constant reminder that I can’t help anyone I care for.
I’m a shit friend to Liam, and an even shittier person to Hunter.
A son that couldn’t even be there for his own mother.
I’m an asshole, through and through, and I won’t drag April down with me.
April, the kind, beautiful Omega that smells like salvation and everything I don’t deserve.
April, who alleviates Liam’s anxiety and makes Hunter laugh more than I’ve ever seen.
April, the one woman that makes mewantagain.
She deserves better.
I won’t fail her, too.
I don’t arrive backat the packhouse until the sun is setting, and I expect April to be with the others.
But I find her in the backyard, nursing a glass of wine, her gaze distant and her eyes glassy.
It looks like I won’t be having a conservation about the contract anytime soon.
She looks up at me, a small frown on her face. “Look who it is,” she mutters. “Mister Broody.”
I raise an eyebrow. “How much wine have you had to drink?” I demand.
“Why? Are you going to tell me what to do again?” she huffs.
