The broken Alpha - Healed by innocence

Reading to him

*Callista*

Standing on the balcony outside my bedroom, I stare at the night, listening to the steady clack of the nearby windmill. Chase is so different from my father and my brothers. He gets angry easily, I can see the rage flash within his dark eyes, but he keeps his temper in check.

Unlike the men in my family, who only care for their own wants and needs, Chase broadens his horizons to include others. People are coming to his town because he gives them a chance to share in a corner of his dream, and in sharing, his dream grows.

I'm sure Rowan would call his actions selfish and greedy, but how can I fault Chase Moonshadow for wanting to build a future for his sons... a future grander than anything I have ever dared to dream?

A town. A community. A community of men.

I frown, surprised to discover that I want a part of his dream as well. I want to accomplish what he has yet to achieve. I want to find a way to lure the she-wolves to Moonshadowville.

I don't see my mate standing by the corral. I haven't heard his footsteps echoing along the hallway.

I wonder where he is… if he's in his office, if the two books he had purchased are waiting there as well.

I don't want to fear Chase, but more, I don't want to be dependent on him. I once coveted freedom, but now I realize without independence, freedom doesn't exist. The first step toward independence is conquering my fear.

I walk into my bedroom and retrieve the book I had borrowed from him, The Practical Husbandman.

I remember the depth of his laughter, that night and this afternoon. The spontaneity of it. The way it reached out and struck a corresponding chord deep within me.

Holding the lamp, I make my way to Chase's office. I see the light spilling out from beneath the door and almost change my mind. Instead, I force myself to knock.

“Come in,” booms from the other side.

My heart quickens. I take a trembling breath and open the door. Chase sits at his desk, the ledgers spread out before him. He comes to his feet.

“Oh, no, don’t get up,” I say as I slip into the room. “I just wanted to return your book.”

“Fine.” He says.

I take a step closer to the shelves. “Do you always work on your ledgers late at night?”

“Usually.” He admits.

I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry, my determination withering. “My father... my father works on his books during the afternoon.”

“He has three sons to watch his pack and heard. I only have me.” He says.

“And Blaise.” I point out.

He shakes his head lightly. “It’s not his responsibility. Someday, he’ll figure out what he wants from life and he’ll leave.”

When Blaise leaves, I’ll be alone with this man. This man who wants sons.

“Please don’t let me disturb you.” I hold up the book. “I’ll just put this back.”

He sits and I hurry across the room. I slip the book into place, then I trail my fingers over one of the new books on the shelf: A Tale of Two Cities.

I glance at Chase. He’s writing in his ledger as though my presence makes no difference to him... and yet, he also seems to be waiting.

I take the book off the shelf. “I have never read A Tale of Two Cities,” I say quietly.

“It’s yours,” he says gruffly. “Along with the other one. Just don’t thank me for them. Should have put books in here a long time back. Not much point in having shelves if you don’t put books on them.”

“That’s what I thought the first time I saw this room. I fell in love with it.” I say softly.

He snaps his head up and stares at me, his eyes incredibly dark.

“I thought,” I clear my throat. “I thought these shelves might hold a thousand books.”

He leans back in his chair. “A thousand?”

I nod. “Or more.”

“Let me know what the tally is when you get the shelves filled up.” He goes back to writing in his ledgers.

Holding the book tightly, I begin to walk across the room, then I stop. The room is quiet except for the occasional scratch of his pen across the paper.

“I used to read to my mother before she died,” I say softly.

He lifts his head and looks at me.

“I miss reading to her,” I add. “I miss her.”

He props his elbow on the desk and rubs his thumb and forefinger over his beard. I remember its softness as he had kissed me.

“Dr. Freemoon mentioned something about your mother being an invalid.” He says.

I have never spoken the words before. After all these years, acknowledging the truth is still painful. "She and my father had an argument. In the scuffle, she lost her balance and fell down the stairs. She couldn't move after that, but she wasn't dead. So I cared for her."

"The scuffle? You mean your father struck her?" He says, and I feel the anger in him, but it is not directed at me.

I nod, wishing I had kept the incident locked away. It sounds incredibly ugly spoken aloud. If he had risen from his chair, if he had come toward me, I think I might have taken flight and rushed back to my room.

Instead, he remains perfectly still. "No matter how angry I get, Callie, I would never hit you. I give you my word on that."

Filled with conviction, the quietly spoken words leave me no choice but to believe him.

"Can I read to you?" I ask.

I almost laugh at the startled expression that crosses his features, as though I had spoken the very last words he had ever expected to hear. He looks as though I have thrown a bucket of cold water on him.

"I know you don't have a lot of spare time. I could read while you work on your ledgers." I say.

As though unable to determine my motive, he nods slowly. "That would be fine."

I set the lamp on a small table and sit in the stuffed chair beside it. Bringing up my feet, I tuck them beneath me. I feel him watching me and try not to be bothered by his scrutiny.

I turn back the cover and several pages before clearing my throat. "'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...’"

I glance up. His pen is poised above the ledger, his ink dripping onto the paper.

"Can you work while I read?" I ask.

He nods and dips the pen into the inkwell again. When he begins to write in his ledgers, I fill the shadowed room with the story.

*Chase*

I'm not certain of the exact moment when my mate comes to regret her decision to read to me, but I think it might have been sometime after midnight.

Her eyes have been drifting closed, her words becoming softer, less frequent. I ask her if she wants to go to bed. She snaps her head up and claims she isn't tired.

I figure she just doesn't know how to stop reading and announce she is going to bed without leaving the door open for me to join her.

So she reads for two more hours, her voice growing hoarse, her eyes crossing from time to time until eventually, they close and her head drops back.

She looks damned uncomfortable propped up in the chair, her head tilted at an awkward angle, and incredibly lovely with all the worry and fear slipping away for the night.

I wish I knew how to keep the worry and fear out of her eyes when she is awake. I have considered being blunt and simply explaining to her what I expect and what I will settle for.

But I imagine that a she-wolf needs more than a man's view on the subject. She probably wants tender words that I don't know how to give.

As quietly as I can, I push my chair back, rise to my feet, and walk to the chair where she's slumped. Gingerly, I ease the book from her grasp and set it on the table beside the chair.

Then I slip one arm around her back, the other beneath her knees, and cradle her against my chest. Sighing, she snuggles her cheek into the crook of my shoulder.

I hadn't expected her to be as light as a summer breeze, to feel so dainty in my arms. As tall as she is, I had expected her to weigh more. She's little more than soft curves and warmth.

I carry her to her bedroom and gently lay her on the bed. She rolls onto her side, draws her knees up toward her chest, and slips her hand beneath her cheek. I bring the blankets over her, crouch beside the bed, and watch as she sleeps.

I had enjoyed the spark of temper that my reference to my ladies had ignited in her eyes this afternoon.

Knowing what I now know about her mother's ailment, I realize that her outburst, small as it was, had been a form of trust. Perhaps she is beginning to test her boundaries, to see how far I will allow her to go.

I think about telling her, but I don't think she would believe me. I will simply have to show her.