First Love Jumped So Made Pregnant Me Fall? Alpha Now Your Death Sentence Is My Love Letter novel · Chapter 24 of 24

Chapter 24: The Back of the Page

The first Sunday of winter, we ate at the long table in the great room, and there were forty-one of us.

Rhys carved.

He laid each slice on its plate with great ceremony.

The cook's son carried the bread, and the cook stood behind him, telling him how.

Two of the elders who had turned their stools argued over the last potato, and the old woman at the middle table settled it by taking it herself.

Clara slept in the crook of my arm, in a knitted cap that was too big for her.

Cade sat on my left with his sleeve rolled to the elbow.

The skin of his right arm was clean and brown and unmarked, and I kept looking at it, and he kept letting me.

"Godfrey?" he said, to Rhys, quietly.

"A trucker saw him walking north on the highway, alone, the night we cut his cord." Rhys put down the knife. "Nobody has seen him since. No pack will take him in."

"And Lydia?"

"Peeling onions in the ward kitchen," said Hattie, from across the table, with her mouth full. "She asked for the worst job they had. I let her."

Nobody said anything.

It was not forgiveness.

It was Lydia, peeling onions, with a guard at the door and her name stripped off her.

I let it be enough.

Hattie wiped her fingers, climbed on a chair, and lifted a mug of cider over her head.

"Quiet! I have a toast."

"Get down," said Rhys.

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