Chapter 3

The days following my father's stroke blended together in a haze of worry and exhaustion. Each morning began the same way—Emma would kiss her grandfather's forehead before school, my mother would take the morning watch, and I would return to sit vigil by his bedside, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, praying for his eyes to open.

On the third day, as the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the healer's den, the door opened quietly. Ryan stood there, a ceramic container in his hands, steam rising from beneath the lid.

"I brought bone broth," he said simply. "Jensen says it might help your father if we can get him to take a few spoonfuls."

I looked up, surprised not by his presence—he'd been checking in regularly—but by the thoughtfulness of the gesture. "Thank you," I whispered, my voice hoarse from disuse.

Ryan set the container down and pulled up a chair beside me. Not too close, respecting boundaries, but close enough that I could feel the steady, calming presence of his wolf. He didn't fill the silence with empty reassurances or ask how I was doing. He just sat with me, a silent sentinel in my darkest hour.

It became our unspoken routine. Each afternoon, Ryan would arrive with fresh broth or herbal tea. Sometimes he'd bring small treats for Emma when she visited after school—sugar cookies shaped like crescent moons or tiny carved wooden animals that made her smile despite the heaviness in our home.

"Uncle Beta brought me a wolf today," Emma announced on the fifth day, proudly displaying a small wooden figure with remarkable detail. "He says it looks like me when I shift!"

I smiled weakly, grateful for Ryan's kindness toward my daughter when her own father remained conspicuously absent. Michael had visited exactly twice—brief appearances where he stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed, checked his phone constantly, and left within minutes, claiming urgent pack business.

By the seventh day, my father's condition had worsened. His breathing became labored, his skin taking on a grayish pallor that made Jensen's expression grow increasingly grim.

"We should prepare ourselves," the healer told me gently that evening, after checking my father's vitals. "His body is weakening."

I nodded numbly, watching as Jensen adjusted the IV drip that kept my father hydrated. When the healer left, I found myself alone with the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the weight of impending loss.

Desperately, I reached for the mate bond, focusing all my energy on that sacred connection that should never fail.

*Michael, please. Father is dying. I need you here.*

The mind-link echoed in emptiness. No response. Not even the courtesy of acknowledgment.

Something inside me shattered—the last fragile thread of hope that my mate would be there when I truly needed him. A sob tore from my throat, raw and primal, as I clutched my father's limp hand.

I don't know how long I sat there, drowning in grief, before I felt a warm hand on my shoulder. Ryan stood behind me, his eyes filled with quiet understanding.

"I heard you," he said softly. "Not the mind-link—that wasn't for me. But I felt your pain across the grounds. I came as fast as I could."

He didn't ask why Michael wasn't there. He didn't need to. Instead, he pulled up a chair and sat beside me, his steady presence anchoring me as we watched my father's labored breathing together.

Hours passed. My mother arrived with Emma, who curled up on Ryan's lap and eventually fell asleep against his chest, exhausted from worry. He held her gently, one arm around her small form while his other hand occasionally squeezed mine in silent support.

It happened just before midnight. My father's breathing changed, becoming shallow and irregular. Jensen appeared, summoned by the shift in monitor readings. We gathered around the bed—my mother, Emma (now awake and tearful), Ryan, and me.

"It's time," Jensen said softly.

I clutched my father's hand tighter, willing him to feel my love, my gratitude for everything he had been to me. My mother leaned down to kiss his forehead, whispering words of devotion in his ear.

As his final breath left him, I felt Ryan's hand envelop mine, strong and steady. My wolf howled in anguish, the sound echoing through the pack bonds. In that moment of raw grief, I felt a distant ping through the mate bond—Michael, finally responding.

But he never came.

My father, the proud warrior, the loving grandfather, the man who had taught me to play the cello and to stand tall in the face of adversity, died with Ryan holding my hand.

Not my mate.

As the monitors flatlined and Jensen quietly pronounced the time of death, I made a silent vow to the Moon Goddess. This would be the last time Michael Thompson's absence would break my heart.