Humid air clung to him as he began the first jog toward the woods. Hudson River owned several thousand acres of the surrounding countryside and a good chunk of their valley through various subsidiaries and holding companies.
Keeping his pace light, he scanned the land around him and loped toward the healer’s house first. Though Owen and Gillian were absent, he always kept a close eye on their home. From there, he ran toward Trent’s. The two Hunters assigned to his protection rotated their nights spent with the family, but the boy was never left alone. His Hunter might keep his distance, allowing the child to be a child, but he was never out of earshot or easy reach.
Death didn’t care whom it took, young or old, strong or weak. No, if death came hunting his wolves again, Brett would go down fighting before he let another innocent fall. The heat in his muscles began a slow burn as he increased his pace. Milo stepped near the trail, letting his Alpha catch his scent when Brett drew near. He didn’t pause to talk to the Hunter, the wolf’s awareness of him and actions spoke volumes.
One by one, he’d taken each Hunter aside for long conversations. Discussions he used to measure their trustworthiness and level of comfort within Hudson River. While he only trusted without question a small handful, the number grew with each interview. Gillian’s test for their mental health and Owen’s assessment as a senior Hunter of another pack helped solidify the trust.
Every pack needed a strong structure at the head, wolves who could be delegated to and relied upon. Not every wolf felt comfortable approaching an Alpha, whereas if they reached out to a senior wolf they could trust, then that wolf could bring the issue to him. An imperfect system, but one designed to facilitate to the needs of the pack. The structure had worked for them before several of his Hunters fell victim to Marco’s madness and the use of a gun. He’d mourned their loss, helped Gillian save whom they could, but the trust amongst his wolves shattered—his trust most of all.
An Alpha was responsible for every member, yet he was only one person. Before Marco, Brett believed he’d done a good job of looking after his people. His grandfather, Hatcher, took care of their physical health, while Brett’s mother Margaret, helped manage the women’s groups from the mothers to the teachers to the young females coming into their own. A task, she’d reminded him on more than one occasion, she would pass to Brett’s mate, when Brett took one.
A mate. The thought sent another burn through his chest, but it wasn’t one of physical exertion. Gillian would have been a perfect mate for him, her submissiveness and sweetness a perfect compliment to the darker side of his nature. Her invaluable talents could have helped him rebuild his pack, and he would never betray her—because Gillian needed to be needed and she liked to be cared for. Brett would have surrounded her with Hunters and protection, so no one would ever have touched her.
Not even me… The reality chased the pipe dream. Yes, Gillian was perfect in so many ways because she wasn’t his mate. Her pure generosity and gentle nature invited everyone to care for her, and Brett would gladly slay anyone who caused her harm, but she loved her mate. She loved him with all her being and their love was a beautiful thing to behold.
He could admire Gillian and covet her because he would never have her. She’d never truly been an option. He didn’t dare let his attention wander to the other females in his pack, not when too many unknowns threatened. So, giving Gillian his affection protected his pack as much as anything. Also her mate is a worthy Hunter and powerful wolf in his own right.
Not only had Owen saved his mate when Marco tried to kill her, he’d helped save Brett and the pack. He never faulted Brett for leaning on his mate nor took issue with the affection between them. Because he knows I will never poach what is his, and I’d kill the first wolf who tried.
His wolf lashed at him in agitation. The more he dwelled on the matter, the more his attention wavered from the course before him. They needed a good fight, but for the time being, the run would have to do. Leaving the small grouping of houses behind, he cut across the land toward the river and the rock walls. The natural formations would give him something to climb, and if that didn’t satisfy his need for violence, he’d shift and go for a good hunt.
What else did he have to do on a Saturday morning?
Two hours later and slick with sweat and rain, Brett ascended the stairs of his house in search of a shower. He’d torn the palms of his hand during the last ascension of a sheer rock face, but he’d managed it. More scar tissue had given in the climb allowing him greater range of motion with his left shoulder. Gillian would be irritated with him when she returned, but it had been worth the effort. Even his wolf seemed satisfied with their run.