ALPHA'S REGRET His Fated Human Luna

Chapter 6 The Marks the Water Found

Paige's POV

He is still holding my hand.

All the way from the big cats to the parking lot, he never lets go. Hot. Tight enough that my knuckles ache. Like if I loosen my fingers the dream will c***k.

I don't say anything. I just squeeze back as hard.

Saturday zoo is our deal. Clinic closes at noon. Later vaccine slots, Dad takes those. Fraser texts from wherever Fraser is being Fraser—short, no hearts: Gate camera's still trash. Head down.

After half the zoo, Declan always demands a salted pretzel. After every animal, on the walk out, he talks until my ears buzz.

Then I left him for two minutes. After that, everything went wrong.

He carried the pretzel bag all the way to the lot. Still hasn't eaten it.

I unlock with my free hand. The door clicks. He looks at me first, like he is asking if he is allowed to sit.

"Your seat," I say. "Always has been."

He climbs into the booster. The belt takes two tries. I raise an eyebrow, walk around to the other side, and set Morris straight. The stuffed moose lists in his strap, same as this morning when we got out at the gate. Declan always buckles him first. Every time. Two tugs. Then a pat on the antlers.

The boy does not look at Morris.

I shut the door, get in front, start the car. In the rearview, Morris's antlers are still crooked. The boy in the booster holds the pretzel bag on his knees. He looks at the road and does not see it. Every few seconds his eyes flick to my hands. The wheel. Then snap away.

The car is quiet.

This road is usually full of Declan. Why zebras can't share a pen with horses. Whether the clinic cat that always tilts its head is faking that it doesn't understand.

Today: engine. The belt whispering when I brake.

I am worried about Declan.

First I have to get us home.

We live above the clinic. The stairwell always hits with disinfectant first, then the cheap lemon I use to cover it. It never covers it. It just stacks. He follows me up. One sneaker squeaks. Every step tests the floor like it might be a trap.

At the door, Declan waits.

Still holding my hand. Stopped on the wrong side of the threshold. Same as before the car.

Three years in this building. He knows which stair creaks. Which pocket has the keys. That the door has to be lifted before it will shut. He should not stand here like a guest.

I unlock and push the wrongness down. "In. You live here, Dr. D. That's the whole speech."

He goes in. Stops in the middle of the rug. Looks at the couch. The window. The hallway. The shoes he just took off point at the living room, not the spot Declan always kicks them.

I have lost count of how many times today he has been wrong.

Boxes thud downstairs. Tape tears. Cardboard collapses. Then the footsteps I could pick out half-asleep. Dad never moves a box without first announcing, with his voice, that he is still young.

"Dad home?" I call toward the stairwell. "Don't lift the heavy ones. Bad for your back. I told you."

"I can lift!" His boom comes up clearer than mine and fills the apartment. "Where's my little Declan? Zoo feed him or what?"

The boy goes rigid. Like he does not know the man downstairs at all.

Dad's head appears at the stairwell—dark red hair like mine, glasses crooked, a roll of tape still pinched in his fingers. He grins at the small figure on the rug, fond and teasing. "There you are. Come give Grandpa a hug. Let me see if you grew today."

The boy's lips move the hard way. Like he does not know what to call the man downstairs. Or what to say.

My frown keeps tightening. I am one breath from asking what is wrong with him.

Then he lunges. Buries his face in Dad's work pants. Voice muffled. Stuck. "Grandpa... your glasses are crooked today. Like the clinic cat that always tilts its head."

Dad laughs and ruffles his hair. "Still got that mouth. Fine. Grandpa's washing up. Fix the glasses too. You two eat. Stew's already on."

The second Dad lets go, Declan steps back. His arm slides off Dad's waist. Shoulders still locked. Like he just cleared a job that explodes if you miss.

I watch him. His eyes drop again.

Rug. Shoe tips. His own fingers. Anything but me.

Fine. I look away.

Something happened at the zoo when I wasn't looking. Declan is not the kid you get the truth from by pushing. When he is ready, he dumps the whole thing at once.

I turn for the kitchen. "Come on, Declan. Kitchen. You skipped lunch."

"I can wait... Grandpa. Wait till Grandpa's done. Eat together."

"You can't. Sit. Dinner, we wait. The rest of the day, we don't."

There is red-wine beef stew in the pot. I put pasta under it because it is fast, and because Declan always wants extra salt. The shaker is on his right. Hasn't moved in three years. I think maybe when he comes over to salt it, I can try talking.

He does not come over. He sits. He does not move while I fish out the pasta, spoon stew over it, and set the bowl in front of him. He does not even pick up the fork.

"You can eat," I say.

Then he eats. Quiet. Sauce on his chin. No napkin swipe. No sudden thought that makes him light up and start talking.

The problem is big.

I sit across from him. I do not look at Declan. In my head I am already picking the moment I can ask about today.

After dinner I send him for blue pajamas.

"Drawer," I say. "You know which one."

A hot bath might loosen him. That would be a better time.

Declan starts down the hall. Two steps. Then the height wall.

I penciled that line three years ago. The first one is faint. One new mark every birthday. Dates crowded in beside them. We measured last month. He stood on his toes. I caught him. He denied it, stubborn, like winning the argument would make him taller. I had to hold his ankles and a wriggling boy to get the newest line down.

Now he walks past it.

The crown of his head sits a clean gap below that mark.

At the zoo gate I already thought he looked shorter. Shirt hanging too low on his shoulders. I told myself he was tired. Growing kids shrink when they are tired.

This gap does not look like tired. Clear enough that I forget to wring the dish towel in my hand.

He must feel me staring. He looks back. Sees my face. Something like fear lands on his.

My chest pulls tight. The question dies in my throat.

Whatever happened when I wasn't looking—whatever he will not tell me—I will not be one more thing he is afraid of.

No mother can take that look from her own kid.

And I already lost one.

"Blue pajamas." I force my mouth up. Soften my voice. "Then bath. You've got zoo in your hair."

He watches me a second. Checking that I am not blaming him. Then the look that hurt to see goes away. He nods and goes for the pajamas.

Only after he disappears into the room do I turn, wipe the tears that almost fell, clean the kitchen fast, and go to the bathroom. I pat my face. Check the mirror. Then I call dawdling Declan.

Hot water first. I dial it down to not-hot, the temperature Declan always calls perfect. Same way I bathe a shaking animal at the clinic. Make the temperature safe. Then the hands. Then the voice low enough that a frightened body believes nothing sudden is coming.

I turn.

He is still on the mat. Sneakers on. Laces tight.

"Shoes."

He peels them off. Toes curl. The second his feet leave the sneakers, his whole body flinches up, like the floor might bite.

When Declan was smaller, he hated baths. Fraser said wolf cubs all do. They'd rather take a stream than a tub.

He lives with me. Human school. Human friends. The tub is not optional.

I spent a long time getting him past that.

Today he looks like we went backward. Whatever happened when I wasn't looking pulled him tight, and the tightness dragged the old fight back up.

"Shirt." I hold out my hand.

He grips the hem. Knuckles white. Like this is hard. He fights it a second, then looks up. "I can do it."

"Fine." I open my hands. "Yourself. I stand here. I don't touch you until you say I can."

He yanks. Fast.

I almost smile. He still wants the bath, then.

The fabric clears his ears. My stomach drops. I see it.

Under one shoulder blade: an old yellowed print, color sunk in. Along his waist: thin stacked lines, one over another, like someone used the same stroke before the last one healed. Near the cuff of his wrist: a pale ring, neat. On his back, old bruises that kept their color.

This morning, when I put this shirt on this child, his body was not like this.

My hand hangs in the air.