Chapter 26: Gone
Jax
I’m halfway through dragging a sock onto my foot when I catch myself smiling again.
It’s becoming a problem. A genuine, medically diagnosable problem. It should probably come with pamphlets and support groups. Corrian would absolutely say so. Corrian would say a lot of things, most of them involving words like boundaries and self-control and please stop staring at Frankie.
The shower hisses steadily from the bathroom, steam drifting through the open doorway, and I glance toward it with another grin because, honestly, my life is pretty fucking great right now.
Getting dressed should not be this difficult. It’s a sock. A completely normal item of clothing that I have successfully worn thousands of times before, yet I’ve managed to get my heel caught in the wrong bit and now I’m balanced on the edge of Corrian’s bed looking like a confused flamingo.
"Fuck off," I mutter to the sock. The sock remains unmoved by my argument.
The house is quiet. For once nobody is crying, growling, bleeding, having an existential crisis, or threatening to murder anyone. Honestly, it’s suspicious.
I finally win the battle with the sock and feel victorious enough to deserve a trophy.
Or breakfast.
Definitely breakfast.
Corrian was already awake and functioning by the time I dragged my ass from under my blanket pile. He keeps them in here for me when we have special sexy sleepovers. They’re the best kind. It’s been forever since we’ve had time to just be us. Everything recently has revolved around Frankie.
Frankie arriving. Frankie settling in. Frankie accidentally detonating every survival instinct in the house. Frankie crying. Frankie laughing. Frankie being a red hot sex muffin. Frankie existing.
Not that I’m complaining.
God, I’m really not complaining.
But somewhere between emergency heat management, emotional support, and trying not to scare the shit out of her with the whole werewolf thing, me and Corrian haven’t had alone time. Last night has fixed that.
My grin gets wider. Embarrassingly wider. I grab my second sock before my thoughts can get any less dignified.
The mattress shifts beneath me as I lean forward, and the scent of Corrian is everywhere. Cedar. Clean linen. That uniquely annoying smell of competence that follows him around twenty-four hours a day. The man could emerge from a burning building and still smell organised.
"Corrian," I shout over the shower.
I know he can hear me, he always hears me.
"Corrrrriannnn."
A long sigh drifts through the bathroom wall. "Yes, Jax?"
"D’ya want blueberry pancakes?" I beam.
"No."
I gasp as dramatically as I can. "You didn’t even consider my offer, they’re a Jax classic dish you know."
I can practically hear him rolling his eyes.
"I know the ’why’ behind the pancakes." He says.
I flop backwards onto the bed, one arm over my eyes. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."
The shower shuts off and his voice is closer now, muffled by a towel. "It’s a very bad thing."
I stare up at the ceiling, still stupidly happy. Maybe because Frankie’s finally sleeping properly. Maybe because the house feels lighter. Maybe because for the first time in days nobody is actively on the verge of a breakdown.
Or maybe because last night reminded me that beneath all the Alpha posturing and leadership bullshit, Corrian is still Corrian. Still the guy who pretends he doesn’t like physical affection while somehow ending up with me attached to him at every available opportunity. Still the guy who acts perpetually disappointed in me while secretly making sure I never fall apart.
My chest feels warm.
"Leave her alone." Corrian’s voice comes from the bathroom doorway now.
The sheer audacity. "I wasn’t even thinkin–"
"And that pup, is the ’why’ of the blueberry pancakes."
I place a hand over my heart. I’m deeply wounded, tragically wounded. "I was simply wondering how she was feeling."
"You were wondering how quickly you could annoy her after breakfast."
The fact he’s completely right is irrelevant.
"I am offended by that accusation."
"No you aren’t."
I pause, then dazzle him with my very best grin.
Corrian shakes his head and stalks back into the bathroom, giving me a stunning view of his bare ass.
One hand on the handle, I swing the door open already planning how I’m going to annoy Frankie before breakfast. Maybe just existing in her general vicinity until she threatens violence. The possibilities are endless.
I breathe in.
The smile shrivels off my face, somebody has reached into my chest and pinched a nerve. At first I can’t even work out why. The hallway looks the same. The house looks the same. Sunlight still spills across the landing and I can still hear Corrian in the bathroom behind me.
Hollow, the place is empty in a way it hasn’t been since the day she arrived. Wolves experience the world through scent first. Sight lies. Words lie. Smell doesn’t. Scent is truth. Presence. Safety. Family. Home.
Frankie isn’t here.
My wolf hits the inside of my skull so hard my vision blurs, every instinct I possess lunges forward at once.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
"Corrian," The word comes out too sharp and too loud. Something in my voice must carry because I hear movement behind me.
"Jax?"
I don’t answer. I’m already moving.
One second I’m standing on the landing trying to convince myself I’m imagining things, the next I’m sprinting. The hallway blurs around me, sunlight flashing across polished wood, my bare feet slam against the floorboards hard enough to hurt. It doesn’t. All I can hear is blood roaring in my ears. All I can smell is absence. Every instinct inside me is screaming the same thing, over and over, a frantic animal panic that doesn’t care about logic or reason. Find her. Find her. Find her.
She’s outside. She’s in the kitchen. She’s with River. She’s taking a walk. She’s somewhere. She has to be somewhere. Frankie couldn’t just disappear.
The door to her room is half open. I hit it with enough force that it slams against the wall knocking plaster loose, and for one awful second my brain refuses to understand what I’m looking at. The room is familiar, all Frankie. Her scent still clings to every surface, thick enough to make my wolf ache, but underneath it sits something colder. Older. Her scent has faded.
Her nest is destroyed. Blankets dragged across the floor. Pillows kicked into corners. One of the drawers hangs halfway out of the dresser like she’d yanked it open in a hurry. The balcony doors stand wide open, curtains shifting in the morning breeze. My eyes land on the corner beside the wardrobe.
No.
No no no no.
The space where her special bag lived is empty.
I walk further into the room, my body hasn’t accepted what my eyes already know. Maybe it’s under the bed. Maybe she moved it. Maybe she finally unpacked the thing. Maybe I’m losing my fucking mind. The excuses come desperately, one after another, each more pathetic than the last.
My gaze snags on a shirt hanging halfway out of the nest. Mine. A pillowcase from River’s room. One of Leo’s hoodies. Pieces of us everywhere. Pieces of her everywhere. Evidence that she’d been here. Evidence that she’d belonged here. Evidence that she’s left anyway.
Footsteps thunder behind me.
Corrian appears in the doorway still dripping from the shower, dark hair wet, a towel hanging precariously around his hips. Under any other circumstances I’d laugh because he looks like somebody interrupted a modelling shoot. Right now all I see is the moment his eyes move across the room. The nest. The balcony. The drawers. The missing bag.
His entire body goes still.
"She’s gone." The words leave my mouth strange, scraped raw around the edges.
Corrian doesn’t answer. Water drips from his hair onto the floorboards. One drop. Two. Three. He’s staring at the open balcony door, as if he can focus and she’ll magically reappear. He’s still not said anything, that alone is dragging my stomach to the soles of my feet because Corrian always has something to say.
"Tell me I’m wrong," I hear myself say, and I hate how desperate I sound. "Tell me she’s downstairs. Tell me she’s with one of the others. Tell me she’s gone for a walk or something."
The silence stretches.
Every second of it tightens something around my ribs.
Finally he steps into the room and crouches beside the nest. His hand brushes over one of the blankets she’d slept with. His jaw flexes once. Twice. He inhales deeply, and I know exactly what he’s doing. Reading the scent trail. Piecing together the story she’s left behind.
When he looks up at me, something cold settles in my stomach.
"She’s been gone for hours."
I laugh, a short, horrible sound that doesn’t belong to me. "Impossible."
"Jax."
"She was sick, could barely fucking stand."
I keep laughing, shaking my head, pacing left to right. I keep moving, because if I stop I’ll have to accept what he’s saying. I’ll have to accept that while we were fucking and sleeping, while I was lying there thinking everything was finally getting better, Frankie packed a bag and fucking left.
Corrian rises slowly to his feet, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks tired. The kind of exhaustion that comes from watching the thing you were afraid would happen unfold right in front of you.
"We knew she might run."
My throat burns. "Then why didn’t we stop her?"
He looks toward the open balcony doors, toward the forest beyond, and says quietly, "Because if she stayed, it had to be her choice."
My wolf is tearing itself apart inside me.
Find her.
Find her.
Find her.
The instinct is overwhelming.
"Corrian."
His eyes finally meet mine, and I see something that looks terrifyingly close to fear.
Not fear for us, for her.
That’s worse, so much worse.
Because if unshakeable Corrian is scared...
Then there’s no doubt that we’re truly fucked.
