𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒 ⸻ 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋

→ chapter six.

The air was perfumed with the brine the Pacific, and it made Leah's headache that much worse. 

Beside her, looming and silent and wholly unwelcome, was Sam. Who had pounded on the front door and woken her at the ass crack of dawn to traipse down to Old Quil's place. 

The door opened, and Old Quil's impressive figure filled the doorframe. His long, white hair fashioned in a ponytail made him look more of a man of twenty instead of closing in on eighty. His dark gaze was keen and clear, intense, missing nothing.

"Little Leah Clearwater," he said finally, his voice low and raspy, "I haven't seen you since you were a little girl." He paused as though just noticing Sam at her side. "Hello to you as well, Samuel." He didn't sound pleased to see her ex either.

She might've smiled but she wasn't sure. But when Old Quil held his hand out for her, she grasped it, surprised by his strong grip, and he pulled her into a hug. Emotion crept into her throat, making it tight, and she swallowed hard against the swell, feeling saliva crinkle all the way down. His embrace was comforting and familiar.

Sam cleared his throat, reminding Leah abruptly why they were there, and stepped into the house without invitation. He closed the door behind them soundly, the lock snicking in place, and Old Quil watched him with calm, keen eyes. "I assume you know why we've come to you," Sam began calmly, but Old Quil shook his head and turned to head into the kitchen.

His kitchen was flooded with sunlight, the buttery shafts casting soft shadows under the table and chairs. Sam hovered in the doorway, his face set in a deep frown as Old Quil offered them both glasses of water, to which her ex declined.

"So," she croaked, the word tasting fuzzy on her tongue as she spoke into the quiet that had descended, "what's the verdict? Why'd I go all feral wolf-y?" She couldn't look at Old Quil as she asked, unable to meet his too-probing gaze that would see through her mask of indifference, instead inspecting his little kitchen, clean and neat, the little touches of his wife in the sparse potted plants and the little sticky notes on the dingy fridge.

When Leah tuned back in, Old Quil had hauled a very large, dusty book onto the kitchen table. The pages were weathered and frayed, yellowing, and in various states of disintegrating held off only by the lamination. 

Leah stepped closer, spected the handwriting that filled page after page, and recognized it with a gallop of her heart.

"That's—" she started, unable to help herself, her voice low and quiet, and Old Quil interrupted her gently.

"Harry's? Yes. He, Billy, and I made it. We called it the History. Every Alpha since the beginning of written word had added it; we poured every record left behind that we could into it." His gnarled finger traced a line of handwriting, and Leah swallowed, fighting against the urge to cry over something as minuscule as her father's handwriting.

She ignored Sam, who'd grown unnaturally still and hadn't said a word since the History had been opened, and leaned in closer, her shoulder brushing against Old Quil's. "So why did it happen?"

"Your wolves are much more in tune with internal shifts. Even though Samuel hasn't announced it yet, your animal sides know that he's going to step down. He's going to pass on Alpha-hood to Jacob. They can smell it, can sense it." Old Quil's voice was solid and slow-poured molasses, with all the authority and bass of a councilperson. His gaze lifted. Met hers. "Until Jacob steps into his birthright, your wolves will fight for control."

She looked up and stared at Sam, so big and broad in the sunlit kitchen, his head bowed, eyes closed as he listened to the explanation.

"Is it true?" she asked finally and watched as his jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists, the muscles of his biceps tightened before he nodded slowly. "Then why didn't you tell anyone?" She struggled to keep her voice steady and low.

"I wasn't going to announce it until I was sure," he admitted. His head was bowed, his shaggy hair a overhang in his eyes, making him appear boyish and young. Like when they'd met. But she had to remind herself he wasn't the Sam she knew in high school, that he was also Alpha. No matter how little time he remained as such. "I—I don't want to leave for a patrol one day and leave Emily to raise our pup alone." His voice cracked. The entirety of La Push knew Sam's childhood hadn't been a loving one, seeing as he'd been raised by his alcoholic, abusive father. His mother had died unexpectedly in an accident, leaving the two alone, and Leah had had a front row seat to the cruelty of Joshua Uley in the years she'd been Sam's girlfriend.

"But if your indecision is affecting the Pack, making our wolves go haywire, making them take us over, then you need to call a Meet. I don't care that you're stepping down. I don't care if you aren't one hundred percent certain. I do not care about any of it, but your hesitation is fucking up the Pack. Imagine if that happened during a hunt?" He winced, and she pressed forward, fighting to keep her voice loud in the quiet of the kitchen. "You need to get your shit together. For the safety and sanity of the Pack." Yes, it was the same Pack that despised her, but all she could think of Seth's anxiety that he wouldn't be himself or Collin's undercurrent of panic that he would be next. "Please, just make the announcement." She swallowed hard. "Please...Sammy." The nickname escaped her without her permission, and he looked away, his jaw tight, eyes narrowed.

He was silent.

Old Quil closed the book with a resounding thunk, and Leah quickly took the opportunity to put the book back for him, wanting out of the room, and thank God he didn't argue that he wasn't an invalid or something because she couldn't stand another second in that room with Sam.

Sam, who was about to be a father. Sam, who had broken her heart. Sam, her Alpha who was content to let his Pack suffer due to his indecision.

Rage filled her. Then sorrow. She stood with her back to the kitchen, grateful for Old Quil recognizing she needed a moment to herself. The sting of tears burned at the back of her eyes, pressure in star burst shapes behind her eyelids, as she ran her hands over the worn leather cover, flipping it open one last time.

Her mom had since hidden all of her dad's things so this felt like the hardest thing she was faced with, her father's handwriting, a final piece of him she'd never get to keep. Her throat felt tight as she traced the spiky, cramped spidery handwriting that had been a staple in her childhood.

"Leah?"

She couldn't stop how she tensed, her fingernails digging into the cover of the book, at the sound of Sam's voice, grating as nails on a chalkboard. It figured she couldn't even have a moment of privacy with something Harry worked on. Swallowing against the tightness in her throat, she closed the book and placed it back into the gap of the books before she begrudgingly turned around.

Sam lurked in the doorway, hands tucked into his pockets. His mouth was twisted, his jaw clenched, nostrils flared as he lifted his gaze, his darker-than-night eyes meeting hers.

Her stomach turned over as she looked away. Whenever she looked into his eyes, she was flooded with a dizzying mix of nausea, longing, and anger. She had loved him. She had given him her everything, all of her love, her heart. Then he broke her heart and everything after was like a bad soap opera, an endless neck-break series of events that today she still reeled from.

"I'll call a Meet," was all he said, his voice low and gravelly, as he turned his head to look out the front window, avoiding her eyes.

Good, she thought venomously, clenching her hands into fists and letting her nails dig into the skin there to keep herself from saying something ugly. She watch him for only a minute longer before she saw Old Quil staring at them. "I think we'll be going now," she murmured in a soft tone, unable to keep the affection from her voice, as she stepped close to him.

"Don't be a stranger," Old Quil replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he led her to the front door. 

Sam had already crossed through it and was making his way down the finicky steps without even a thank you or a farewell. What an ass.

She gave Old Quil one more hug before she set off too, leaving the last piece of her father in that dusty bookshelf. As she followed Sam, she couldn't help but glance behind her, Old Quil's figure still filling the doorway.

It was too far to tell but it looked like he might've been giving her a smile.