ALPHA'S REGRET His Fated Human Luna

Chapter 7 The Questions He Can't Answer

Paige's POV

The water is still running.

My hand is still in the air.

Every mark on this child hits like a fist. The air in here goes thin.

I shut the water off. The tap squeaks. He flinches at the sound.

I kneel on the mat. Both hands open. In his sight. Same promise as before: I do not touch him until he says I can.

"I'm not going to touch you." I blink the tears back. This is not the time to fall apart. I need to know what was done to this kid.

He is shaking. Small. The shirt bunched at his elbows like he wants it back on and cannot make his arms work.

Every flinch lands in my chest. Whoever did this is going to pay. I keep my voice low. Soft. No edge he can take as a hit.

"Who did this?"

He looks at the tub. The drain. The bunched cotton. Anywhere but me.

Same as the living room. Same anywhere-but-me.

"School?" I try first, because that is the answer sitting at the front of my head. "Someone at school. Kids. A teacher. You give me a name. I handle the rest."

His throat moves.

"I... fell."

"Where?"

"Recess. The steps."

Lie. I know that.

Declan comes home from school and dumps the whole day. Which kid. Which step. Whether the nurse used the spray that stings. If he decided to talk, he would not stop at the steps.

"Which steps?"

He swallows. Tries again. "Kids. They... pushed. I didn't—I didn't start it."

Some of my head comes back. The marks are old. Color like that takes days. But this morning, when I put a shirt on this child, the skin was clean. At the zoo he was out of my sight for a few minutes. A few minutes cannot do this. School cannot either.

"What's your teacher's name?" I watch his face. I do not miss a flicker.

His lips part. A sound starts. Dies.

"Any class," I say. Softer. Every word clean. "First name. Last name. Either."

Nothing.

He knows I am waiting. He tries to build a name out of air and cannot.

All of today's wrongness crowds into this bathroom. Too short. Doesn't know Morris. Doesn't know his classmates. Doesn't know his teachers. Doesn't know Grandpa. Shoes pointed the wrong way. Pasta with no salt. A body I dressed this morning that is not this body.

"Last month," I say. "Height wall. When I caught you. What were you doing."

"You stood on your toes. I held your ankles. You argued with me. What did you say."

He tries to sound sure. The words still wobble.

"I... grew?"

Declan did grow. He also stood on his toes to look taller, then denied it flat, like winning the argument would make him that tall.

"How do we shut the front door?"

His eyes flick toward the hall. Still lost.

"Push... it up?"

"What does Dr. D mean?"

Hope, tiny, wrong. "...A doctor?"

Not a stupid guess. It is not ours.

The bathroom is too small. The lemon soap smells like every other night. He is standing in a house that is foreign to him.

"You're not Declan."

The guess I do not want.

He jerks.

Not toward me. Back. Shoulders up around his ears, the way a body waits for a hand. I have not lifted mine.

"Please." The word comes out thin. Almost gone. "Please don't hit me. I can—I'll go. Right now. I won't take the clothes. Or you can let me take them. I'll wash them. I'll bring them back—"

"Stop."

He stops. Shaking harder.

I do not stand. Standing makes him look up. Looking up feels like punishment.

"Nobody wants you to leave. Nobody is going to hurt you. You just tell me the truth. Slow."

He stares at my open hands. Checks that they stay where I promised.

"I'm not your son." It squeezes out through his teeth. Then he sees my hands have not moved, and the rest comes faster. "I swapped. With Declan. At the zoo. He looks like me. Same face. He—he said stand by the painted wolf. He gave me his clothes. The paper band. He said if I called you quiet, you'd think I was just tired."

The painted wolf.

I went to the restroom. I told Declan to stay put.

Two minutes. That brat ran anyway. Of course he did. That is Declan.

"I don't have a mom. Declan said he doesn't have a dad. So we swapped. He told me a lot. About you. About him. I was too scared. I didn't keep it. I held your hand too tight. I don't know the door. I don't know Dr. D. I don't know the wall. Please don't yell. Please don't hit me. I'll go back to the pack. I'll swap Declan. Just—don't."

He cannot finish. He shuts his eyes and waits. Like a slap is coming. Like that is what usually comes.

I cannot get air.

A face like Declan's. The zoo. The two minutes I left.

I set two cradles. I woke up to one.

This morning I dressed a child with clean skin and a mouth that would not shut. The child in front of me is marked all over, waiting for a hit.

He is not a stranger who stole my son.

He is mine. The one they carried out. Alive. Barely. And I have him.

The sound that comes out of me is not pretty. I clap my other wrist over my mouth so Dad does not hear it down the hall. Tears hit the mat. I let them.

I just want to hold this child I got back.

I promised I would not touch him.

I grab him anyway.

He goes still. One eye opens. He does not know what to do with his arms.

"I'm not going to hit you." I say it twice. The second time has heat in it, aimed at whoever has been doing this, the person I do not have a name for yet. "I'm not going to yell. I'm not putting you out any door."

He looks like he does not believe me. Or like the words have not landed.

"What's your name?" I look at his face.

"Toby."

I turn it in my mouth. The cradle that stayed empty so long has a name now.

"Toby. You're my kid. Someone carried a baby out when I couldn't stand up. I looked. I didn't stop. Declan looks like you because he is your brother. You are his. You are not a thief. You didn't do anything wrong. You came home."

His mouth crumples. Tears sit in his eyes. He wants to cry and shakes his head instead, fast.

"I don't have a mom. Only a dad. People told me she died. That woman told me—I'm not—"

"You do now."

I open my arms. I let the boy who just backed out of the hug choose this time.

He does not make me wait.

He comes across it himself. Hits my shoulder with his forehead and holds on like I might be a dream.

I hold him. Tight. I am afraid of the same dream. The heat of him says it is real. I cry into his hair. Zoo in it. I do not care. I have my kid. I am not letting go.

After a while his mouth moves against my collarbone.

"Declan." He has to stop. His face is as wet as mine. Snot. Tears. We look at each other and a laugh gets out. I grab tissues. Wipe him. Wipe me. Then he tries again. "Declan. He went to the pack. To my place. He said he would handle the people."

Pack.

Fraser's word. He taught it anyway. Declan is a wolf. He needed it. I asked Fraser to tell my son the truth, because Declan is smart enough to know he is not like the kids at school, and he has a right to know what he is. Even when I hate the shape of that.

Declan swapping and walking in to handle people. That is Declan too.

He saw these marks. He went to the pack to go after whoever put them there.

I run the water again. Hot. I finish the bath. Pull a towel off the rack and wrap him. His hands fist in it like it might be taken. He still does not trust this house. Or me.

That is not his fault.

Next I deal with whoever made him like this.

"You're staying here. With Grandpa. You eat. You sleep in that bed. I promise you: nobody in this house hits you. Declan can tell you that."

"Are you—" He looks at my face and cannot finish mad.

Reading an adult's face like that. It hurts. I do not lie.

"I am mad. Not at you. Don't worry. Nobody hurts you again. Family can get mad. Family does not hurt each other. I'm going to bring Declan home too."

I stand. My knees c***k. The keys are already in my palm before I remember I set them on the sink.

Fraser answers on the second ring.

"Declan again? That brat. Wait. I'm already—"

"I found the one they took."

My voice is wet. Steady.

"Declan walked into a pack. I need you, Fraser. Tonight we bring him home."