After The I Do

by Autumn Breeze

  My little brother was a good man; he would have been a better husband and father.

  “I . . . I don’t . . . ” She swallows and looks around at the expectant faces. Everyone is waiting for her now. A tear rolls down her cheek, but she straightens her back and takes a single step forward before another, until she is at my side. “What do I do?” she questions, her voice strong and unwavering.

  “Walk around the pyre with the torch, lighting the bundles of kindling. Afterward, extinguish the torch in the water.” I indicate the small bucket of water sitting not far from where we stand.

  “Is anything else required?” she inquires, and I shake my head.

  “No.” Erian nods before reaching for the torch. Her fingers shake, but that doesn't stop her from pulling it from its holding. I step back, and she lowers the flame to a bundle of kindling before us. Without a word, she moves to the next one and starts to lower the fire once more before pausing.

  “Mrs. Right,” Erian speaks, her voice trembling now as she turns slightly. She extends the torch toward my mother. “You are the only woman I would ever share him with.”

  A sob breaks from my mother, but she takes a shaky step forward. Grasping her elbow, Father walks with her, giving her the support she so desperately needs even as he silently cries for his youngest son.

  My eyes prickle as Mother grasps the torch. Carefully, she lights the next bundle before giving the torch back to Erian. The pair walk together, silently trading the burning stick back and forth and saying goodbye to Mason in the only way that is left.

  When the last bunch is lit, Erian sinks the tip of the torch into the water bucket. Standing off to the side, alone since Mother and Father have moved back to their former place, she watches the blaze with a face etched in stone—not even a tear falls. I can almost believe she has stopped breathing altogether.

  Heartbreak is funny in the way it manifests in everyone.

  For me, most of the time I have learned, heartbreak is anger—a storm that brews quickly and fizzles out just as fast before the sadness sets in—before emotions become a numb hum of unfulfillment.

  For Erian . . . I see now it is strength; it is a backbone made of titanium as she stands by herself and watches the man she loves burn with one hand resting on her belly that is not yet telling a story of its own. The other clenching the cross at her neck—the same one that belonged to my brother a mere four days ago.

  The tears I have been fighting track down my cheeks as I wrap my arm around Everett’s shoulder and draw him against me. His shoulders shake, and he struggles to swallow a sob but doesn’t manage to. The sound rolls through my soul, hitting me with the same force as a punch to the gut. We have all lost so much.

  How much more must we lose in this senseless war?

  “What happens now?” Everett whimpers beside me, turning to press his face into my shoulder.

  I close my eyes. “No one else I love dies.” Pulling back, Everett looks up at me with wide, puffy eyes. Reaching out, I cup his cheek. “No one,” I assure him, bending to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Benjamin,” I call, releasing Everett and stepping away from him. “We have work to do.”

  “Sir,” he agrees in his familiar way. I turn from the group gathered.

  I have said my goodbyes. It is time I manage an overdue greeting.

  Evaline needs to pay for . . . everything.

  “Athanasios,” Father calls and I pause but do not turn around. The wood behind me crackles as smoke blows through the clearing, racing toward the trees and creek beyond. “Not tonight,” he speaks to my back. I curl my fingers into my palm.

  If not tonight, when?

  The sooner I deal with Evaline, the sooner we can all rest easy.

  Tonight, we have burned Mason; tonight is about saying goodbye—not revenge. I am not finished performing my duties as not just the head of this family, but an elder brother.

  Haven’t I failed Mason enough for one lifetime? He still needs me.

  When the burning is done, what does not turn to dust will need to be cleared away and put into a proper resting place—somewhere nice, somewhere Mason would have liked to spend his days.

  Evaline will have to wait another day—but only one.

  44

  “It is not your place to fight,” Father said a week ago as he stood in front of me, his hand pressing against my chest to stop me from following Benjamin and the others. “It is your place to lead now.”

  As much as I wanted to protest, he was right—as usual. My place is no longer on the front lines, taking one life after another. My place is to give orders, to ensure they are followed and everything goes according to plan, which mostly involved a lot of waiting—something I have never been good at doing.

  Pacing in front of my desk, I wait for my phone to ring, for my team leaders to call in and confirm they completed their tasks—whether it is raiding a safe house, flushing out a Vârcolac stronghold or targeting an important location.

  Every silent hour that passes only causes my blood pressure to rise.

  “Wearing a hole in the rug won’t accomplish anything, Thanos,” Father monotones from the chair he has taken residence in for the last half day. “You should sit.” He gestures to my desk chair but I ignore him in favor of stalking toward the window to overlook the estate grounds.

  It is another beautiful day. It is too bad my mind is plagued with ugly thoughts.

  What if something has happened to the men and women I sent into the city?

  I know not all of them will make it home but what if none of them do?

  How high is the death toll going to be?

  Will we recover all of the bodies of those lost?

  What if those who do not make it suffer before they die for one reason or another?

  Closing my eyes, I try to shake the unwelcome thoughts free but they refuse to be chased away. One terrible conclusion rolls after another, making my throat dry as I lean heavily against the window sill.

  Have I sent my warriors, some of which I call friends, to die?

  “It’s best to have a whisky and settle in for a long night,” Father speaks again and I glance in his direction. He is already holding a glass of my finest scotch, sipping it intermittently.

  “Is it always like this?” I question. Did worry, fear, and doubt assault him every time he planned an attack, sent us out to handle a problem?

  “After a while, you get used to it,” he admits. “Once you trust you did your best, it will be easier.” If the way he has aged is any indication, it never got easier for him.

  His gray hair and crow’s feet tell a long story of the stress he existed under for decades. How can he say it will get easier when he is living proof it doesn’t? Or maybe it does get easier, but not before it turns you into an old man.

  “How will I ever know if I did my best?” I question.

  “That’s the rub of it; you won’t.” He offers his glass and an encouraging smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. In his face, I see my future.

  Looking away, my gaze travels across the grounds just as there is a knock on the office door. Happy for the distraction, I push away from the wall and move toward the door but it swings open. Duke’s lips are pressed together in a straight line; there is a tightness around his eyes.

  “Valentine would like a word with you,” he announces.

  “Of course she does.” It would be foolishness on my part to not expect a visit from the female detective. Things are heated in Necropolis; the city was declared ‘A State of Emergency’ days ago, after the first attack launched by my foot soldiers, in fact. No doubt, the NPD has been kept busy. “You can show her up.”

  It is best to deal with Valentine quickly and hope no one calls while she is in my office.

  “She won’t be placated easily,” Duke assures me before turning from the door.

  Father rises from his seat and says, “I believe that is my cue to find Charlotte,” before leaving with his whisky in hand.
<
br />   Shaking my head, I fall into the chair behind my desk and prepare to meet with Valentine.

  Moments later, she enters the room with Duke, who looks similar to a scolded child, seeming to bring a storm with her. “Miss Knight—”.

  “Mr. Right—” she cuts across me. “Are you aware of what is happening in Necropolis?”

  Rising to my feet as she approaches my desk, I say, “I have seen the news reports.”

  “Only the news reports?” she retorts and I shrug.

  “I spend very little time in the city these days. What happens under the Necropolis Police Department’s jurisdiction is none of my concern.” Sliding one of my hands into my pocket, my gaze flicks to Duke before moving back to Valentine who is red with barely suppressed fury.

  “This feud between your family and the Vârcolaci is out of hand,” she snaps.

  “As far as I am concerned the feud ended upon my marriage to Everett Dawson.” Never mind the marriage isn’t legal or binding. Never mind that Evaline Dawson doesn’t agree. “I’m of the mind my mother-in-law agrees along with her daughters since they are in residence for the foreseeable future. Necropolis isn’t what anyone would call safe these days, after all.”

  The pens on my desk jump; a picture falls against the surface and the cold tea my mother brought some time ago spills over the rim, splashing important papers as the echo of Valentine’s fist striking the wood reverberates around the room.

  “I know your family, as well as the Dawson’s, are responsible for the state of the city. If you have any sense, or a heart for that matter, you’ll stop this insanity,” she snarls.

  I am trying to. I have been trying for months under false pretenses. My father tried before me and I am of the belief my grandfather had probably tried, too.

  “I am in no way involved with the city’s current dysfunction.” Valentine looks murderous. “Duke will show you the way out,” I dismiss her. If looks could kill, I would have roasted under the heat of her parting glare; a glare I can’t blame her for because she isn’t stupid and she knows I am lying. She can’t prove it, though, and that is all that matters.

  “Valentine looked ready to kill someone,” Everett comments from the doorway as I move back to my best.

  “Can you blame her?” I question. The city she loves is burning. I don’t doubt innocent people are being killed in the crossfire. It makes me sick to my stomach but if I don’t do something about Evaline, more innocent people will perish. In war, sometimes innocent people die.

  As Thomas Jefferson said before he became a United States President, in a letter to his friend William Stephens Smith in 1787 while he was in France, ‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.’

  “Not really,” Everett replies, stopping in front of my desk. Reaching out, he rights the picture that has fallen. “Do you think she’ll be back?” he asks and I shake my head.

  “She won’t waste her time.” The detective will have her hands full of other matters and knows coming back to the estate will be another dead end. I can’t help her—even if I want to. “Why?”

  “No reason,” he replies, rolling his shoulders. I look up and search his face.

  “Everett—”

  “I’m just making conversation,” he snaps while his fingers curl into a fist against his thigh. “It’s been a week . . . longer since we talked.”

  I frown. “We talk every day.”

  Everett shakes his head, the displeasure clear in the way his brows pull down.

  “We exchange words but you’re never present for the conversation. I . . . I know things are hard for you. And I know you’re busy but . . . ” he trails off and I wait for him to continue but he doesn’t. Maybe if things were different, I would ask him to elaborate, but I am tired.

  “I’m doing the best I can, Everett,” I tell him, closing my eyes and pushing my fingers through my hair before meeting his gaze. “What more do you want from me?”

  I gave him everything and he betrayed it. I lost my little brother because of the war his sister started, a war that could have been prevented, or at the very least delayed if he had trusted me.

  “I want my husband,” he bites out.

  “I’m not him,” I retort and he flinches as if struck. My heart squeezes. “Everett—” I begin to rise from my chair just as the phone on the desk rings. My eyes fall to it. “We’ll talk later.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” Everett replies, his voice cold and his face empties as I reach for the phone. “You’ve said enough.” I haven’t said everything I need to but Everett is turning away as the phone rings. As much as I want to ignore it . . . I can’t.

  “Hello,” I answer the phone as Everett shuts the door behind him.

  “Sir.” I sigh in relief at Benjamin’s familiar greeting. He is alive.

  Hopefully, he is unharmed.

  45

  My heart is heavy. I take no joy in seeing the bloody body of Evaline Dawson cradled against Benjamin’s chest. If anything, I am sad. For a short time, she was my sister-in-law—we were family. I have lost far too much family in such a short amount of time. With Evaline’s death, maybe no one else will die of unnatural causes. Maybe we can all finally enjoy some peace.

  “Take her to the stables before Mrs. Dawson sees.” It is early morning. The sun hasn’t pushed above the tree line yet. Most of the house is still asleep, but I don’t want to take any chances. Susan doesn’t need to see her daughter as she is now—burnt, covered in blood and dirt.

  No good mother, no matter how awful your child is, wishes death upon their offspring.

  Mrs. Dawson is a good mother—despite what I previously believed.

  “And Oliver?” Benjamin ask.

  “I’ll deal with him later,” I say.

  Oliver will need to be dealt with soon, too. How I am going to deal with the man who helped start a war with my family, I don’t know. I spent some time fantasizing about yanking his teeth from his jaws and tossing him across the wall for the humans to do as they desire but now . . . it seems like a lot of work for little reward.

  “Sir.” Ben nods and moves toward the stables. Turning, I look up at my estate.

  Lilith’s bedroom light burns brightly. Two figures are silhouetted in the window. Standing across from each other, with their arms across their chest, they seem to be locked in a battle of wills. I shake my head. Duke is a stubborn man. If anyone could match Lilith, it is him.

  Everett is supposed to be my match. Now . . .

  My eyes drift to the bedroom window. It is dark. He probably sleeps. I wouldn’t know. Since yelling at him a little over a week ago, we haven’t spoken. I could have tried. I probably should have tried but . . . I can’t. I am angry with him, and it doesn’t seem fair to apologize for yelling, to apologize at all for anything when . . . I’m not sorry.

  I am sad, though, and if I'm honest, I miss him. Before shit hit the proverbial fan, we were good together. I loved him, I still do but that isn’t enough, and I can’t pretend it is. I can’t keep stringing him along—even if it is unintentional. Everett deserves better.

  He isn’t a bad person. If anything, he is misguided. I can’t be his guide—not after Mason, even if he had no part in my brother’s death. I can let him go, give him the chance to love someone, be with someone else, someone who can see past his mistakes—mistakes like our sham marriage.

  Now that Evaline is dead, with the war over, he has a chance to do that. Before the day is over an alpha will be settled, and Everett will be free. Our lives can return to what they’d been—maybe better, in some ways, more peaceful for sure.

  I sigh, my gaze drifting to the windows again. Mrs. Dawson’s lights burn brightly. She will be the first person I speak to. It is her daughter Benjamin carried into my yard. As much as I dread the conversation, it can’t be avoided. There isn’t much reason to delay.

  Moving toward the house, I stop in the kitchen to have breakfast delivered to the sitti
ng room. A maid is sent to ask Mrs. Dawson to join me for the private meal.

  I didn’t have long to wait.

  “Mrs. Dawson,” I speak, rising to my feet.

  “How many times do I have to ask you to call me Susan before you do?” she inquires.

  I offer a smile as I gesture to a chair. “Thank you for joining me for breakfast, Susan.”

  “Is this about Everett?” she questions, moving toward the seat. I wait for her to settle before lowering my body into the chair and reaching for the teapot.

  “Maybe we should eat first,” I suggest, wanting to delay as I offer her a cup of tea.

  “He’s a good boy,” she tells me, accepting the cup with a careful smile.

  “I know,” I agree. “Everett . . . ” I trail off.

  What can I really say about the man I love but cannot, will not be with?

  “—hurt you,” she finishes for me. “Hurt is a powerful thing. Hurt someone enough, and there isn’t anything left.” She sighs, taking a sip of her tea. “They blame isn’t solely his, you know?”

  “I know.” Reaching for my coffee, I curl my fingers around the warm cup. “There is enough blame to go around.” We are share in the blame. There are no innocents in war.

  “Breakfast then,” she says, letting the subject go—thankfully. I nod, and we eat in silence. The food is heavy on my tongue and tastes like mud which says more about my mental state than my cook's ability. “This isn’t about Everett, is it?” Susan questions after we are both finished.

  “No,” I sigh. “It’s about Evaline.”

  Susan exhales, sitting back in her chair. “She wasn’t always—” Mrs. Dawson seems to search for the world, and I give her time “—hateful.” Susan peers into her teacup. “I don’t know what made her so . . . angry.”

  There is a deep sadness in her voice as she looks up at me and continues. “War was easy for her. I don’t think she believed she would win. She just wanted us all to suffer.”

  And now . . . we all have.