ALEXANDER
The drive to Emmaline’s pack is longer than I remember.
Or maybe it only feels that way because of the impatience coiling tighter in my chest with every passing mile, winding itself around my ribs until breathing requires conscious effort. The trees blur past the window in a dark rush. I don’t see them. I see her face. I have been seeing her face for weeks and I am beginning to understand that I will never stop.
I hate it.
I hate that the anger and the love exist in the same place inside me and refuse to separate. I hate that she hid this from me — that she was carrying my child through everything that happened, through the trial, through the chains, through the gates closing behind her — and said nothing. I had a right to know. Whatever was broken between us, I had a right t
