He didn't call them Sunday prayers. It wasn't mass that they were all meant to attend. Still, Bo put on his best shirt and jeans, and waited for Saoirse to find something in her pile of clothes to wear for the early morning gathering. It was never religious—it was just an hour of some old wolf in the pack rambling on about how important it was to remember where we all came from.
He didn't believe in much of it; he understood that each member of his pack came from a lengthy line of old wolves that migrated across continents and oceans to find land for themselves. But when they started jabbering about the Morrigan, and how blessed she was, he started to fall asleep. If they were descended from rogues, deserters, then what was the point in listening to all of it? What was the point in remembering something your ancestors wanted to initially forget?
When he was Alpha, he was forced to go. He had no choice but to sit at the front of the group and listen while the oldest of his pack told the stories—now he felt almost ashamed that he had to force her to go. Because he knew that at the very end of the history lesson, the scary stories about Wildlings would always come up. He didn't want her to endure that shit-fest. Saoirse wasn't a scary story, or a monster. Her curse, her affliction, wasn't something of nightmares. It was bad luck, and nothing else.
Eventually, she made it out of the bedroom.
He wasn't the type to be smitten—to stop in his tracks and stare like some absent-minded idiot when a pretty girl entered a room—but his half smile and burning cheeks were too hard to ignore. Saoirse managed to find a dress in her pile of hand-me-down clothes. A simple sun dress with wildflower patterns along the bottom of the skirt that draped down onto the flower. Somehow, he was impressed at how she managed to get all her wild, curly hair into a single braid.
Where's the wild? He asked himself, staring at her longer than he should have. He could smell sickly sweet perfume that most wore on Sundays, rather than that lovely vanilla scent he was so used to smelling. She wasn't wild today—and he kind of missed it.
But he quickly looked away, suddenly aware of how boring his Sunday clothes were. Maybe he should have pulled out the fancy shirt and slacks—but that was meant for funerals, and he didn't want to look too out of place. He took a deep breath, relieved that he indeed took that shower and used his better deodorant.
He cleared his throat. "It's just a Sunday, you know." He shrugged, reaching for his keys to lock up the trailer behind them. "I'll probably use your shoulder as a pillow. No need to look so pretty."
She narrowed her gaze at him, giving a soft chuckle under her breath before she brushed passed him. That perfume was too sweet, too nice—everything about her made impossible for him to remember that just a few days ago she was scrambling to pick up broken glass and sobbing. It was hard for him to remember that she hadn't smiled in the last few days, that she'd kept herself confined in his bedroom just waiting for that savage wolf of hers to bury itself again.
When she smiled, it didn't feel as if it was the first one in a few days.
"Mom would have a fit if I didn't look my best," she said, reaching for a simple jean jacket hanging on the back of a chair. "It's been a while since I went to a Sunday gathering. I usually stayed inside to avoid the stories."
The scary stories, Bo added for her.
He would have stayed home, too, if he were a wildling.
"You don't have to go, you know," he offered her. "It's the same stories, told in the exact same way."
"If I don't go, they won't trust me, and after the attack..." She trailed off, taking the steps one by one. "I need them to look at me and know that I'm still strong, that I'm not the monster that Enzo tried to turn me into."
Enzo nearly did turn her into a monster. It was hard—hard to ignore the glimpses of her savage wolf, tearing through the walls she tried to keep up. He hated that there wasn't much he could do... when she had her episodes, she forced him to stay outside, to wait until it was all over. He watched his door for six hours while she tore his room apart, blankets and sheets and pillows shredded because the wolf hated being locked inside. He watched cuts and bruises form because she fought so hard to keep it in.
Bo wanted to kill Enzo—but even with four wolves, dead and buried just behind the Stop & Stock, and one person to look to as the culprit he couldn't point fingers just yet. He couldn't call the Elders and demand justice when he had no actual proof. He only found one wolf still alive that night, and his throat was torn beyond repair that he doubted he'd get him to confess anything. And he had his doubts that Enzo would come back any time soon to admit what he'd done.
He reached for her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers as they walked toward the clearing in between the trailers. Benches and lawn chairs were set up like a crescent pointed toward the direction of an old podium. It was too church-y for his tastes, but it was a Sunday gathering, and he didn't want to upset the older folk that started to take their places at the very front. They all watched as Bo pulled Saoirse to the very front row, right in the middle. Ellis already saved their seats, nodding and half-smiling as he turned to talk to a man seated beside him.
But as Bo sat down, ready to fall asleep already, he stiffened as his father sat down beside him. He quickly recalled their chat, his foreboding about what had to be done to protect Doherty. He tried to keep calm, his gaze like daggers as he stared his father down. His grip on Saoirse only tightened as he kept his gaze fixated on his father.
"I just need you to tell me what you have planned," his father blatantly asked him the last time they spoke.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" He whispered fiercely.
By then, Saoirse had snapped her head in his direction. She had no clue—he never bothered telling her about the conversation he and his father had. Bo never told her that his father asked if he would ever kill her out of mercy, to end her suffering. He never wanted to—but somehow, he figured his father would bring it up. He feared that William Church would do something to ruin this day... the first day in a whole week that Saoirse smiled.
"Watch your tongue, boy," his father answered calmly. "It's Sunday."
"I'm twenty-five years old, sir," he answered back sharply, "I'll speak however I please."
"You'll speak to your elder with respect."
"I respect those who respect me," Bo retorted, looking ahead toward the podium. "And you've disrespected me and my Alpha."
Bo felt Saoirse squeeze his hand, and in her periphery, she watched as she stood. Now he watched as she stood in front of them both, and giving Bo's shoulder a quick shove she plopped herself in between Bo and his father. She had no clue why he was so angry, why he was seething in the direction of his father, but somehow, she figured that this gesture would solve it.
But when she turned to face William, Bo couldn't help but feel the satisfaction when his father quickly looked ahead, away from her.
"With a last name like Church, I'm surprised you behave this way on Sundays," she muttered.
It was Ellis who howled with laughter.
###
By the end of the Sunday gathering, Bo had committed the lines of Saoirse's palm by memory. Not because he absolutely wanted to, but because her hand never left his as she stood in between him and his father. His fingers played with her palm, each breath he took just as tense as the last one—because he was sitting just on the other side of her, and he didn't want to think about it.
He loved his father, and he knew his father loved him, too. Deep down, he knew that William only told him those things because he wanted to protect what was once his. Bo knew that William just wanted his son to protect Doherty, even if it meant doing the one thing he promised he would never do. Pulling the trigger meant he'd lose two of his best friends. One he'd have to bury, and one he'd never see again.
As he sat in the front row, listening to Marie give her version of a sermon, he tried his best to calm the seething. If it meant he had to memorize her life lines, then so be it. He was surprised, though, at how calm she'd become when Marie began to talk about wildlings.
Even he tensed.
"Wildlings have been said to be our only curse—we may break bones and shed our skin on a full moon, but this is not our curse. We broke from our ancestors, defied our gods, and so tainted blood must now walk among us, reminding us of what we'd done." Marie didn't mean to glance at Saoirse, but once she did Bo noticed others do the same.
He looked over his shoulder, to a small cluster of kids staring rather intensely at Saoirse. He cleared his throat, shaking his head once he caught their attention. He might not be their Alpha, but they quickly listened, bowing their heads quickly to look at their hands they'd clasped together in their laps. When he turned back, he could see a faint smile forming on Saoirse's mouth. It was Sunday; he wasn't about to let them disrespect her.
Eventually, Marie continued. "The curse jumps from bloodline to bloodline, proving that none of us are free from the curse. Loved ones are taken; loved ones are devoured by the wildling blood. The wildling will never know peace, will never know salvation." Marie sighed, then, looking down at the speech she'd scrawled on a piece of paper, to remember.
Saoirse cleared her throat. "But, they shall know peace when they are dead." She repeated—because, like Bo and everyone in their pack, she'd heard this sermon before. She'd heard the warnings, the scary stories. By now, he realized, she must have memorized these stories. She looked up, as everyone turned to her, watched her as she finished Marie's sermon. "They shall know peace when they are dead, for the gods shall embrace them and grace them in their holy light. For they are no longer man or woman, but wolf."
Bo stared at her, his hand now squeezing hers. Out of the corner of his eye, William was watching—not Saoirse, but to Bo. He swore he could see pain in his father's eyes as he watched them. He felt it, too... he felt pain for Saoirse. She didn't look at him, though. She didn't dare look at him as the single hear fell down her cheek, nor as she took a shaky breath as she pulled herself up.
Ellis kept him from standing up with her, from following her as she left the gathering. He didn't argue, nor did he try to break free of Ellis' hold. He watched, as everyone else did. He thought she was strong enough to listen to it, too. He was hoping she'd stay, she'd have the strength to listen to everything. She wasn't, and that was okay for him. He licked his lips, turning his gaze back on Marie, who looked disturbed, confused if she should continue.
She didn't mean to, Marie. She was saying this sermon, as so many others had before her. This was her purpose, this was Sunday's purpose. Sunday was to remember everything that Bo despised about his pack; he didn't care about ancestors, or the gods. He didn't care about the wildling warnings. They were descended from rogues, they weren't supposed to care about any of this.
He wasn't supposed to care about any of it, and yet he nodded and asked Marie to continue.
He already knew how the wildling warnings would end. He quickly tuned it out, sitting beside the empty seat between him and William. His hands clasped together in his lap, his thumb quickly dragging along his own life lines... he'd committed those to memory a long time ago, but he took note that it was longer than hers. His life line was longer, and that pissed him off even more.
He leaned toward William, who was still looking ahead. He didn't mean to make it so blatantly obvious; his father looked at him, as if to tell him to listen to Marie, but he couldn't.
"Her salvation isn't a silver bullet."
William clenched his teeth, pulling his gaze toward Marie—now, she began discussing their future, what it could be. He didn't care about this part, either. Not when he wasn't the one who had to make sure it happened. The person who was supposed to do that was long gone, probably looking for the rest of his stashed liquor.
William eyed him, shaking his head.
"Neither are you," he whispered to him. "It's never been her salvation... but, it will be her end. If not by you, then by someone else."
"I won't let it happen."
"Bo,'' William replied, standing as Marie finally finished. "They're coming."
"You mean Enzo's coming," Bo retorted quietly. He followed behind his father, quickly telling Ellis to falter.
He shouldn't listen to them, he didn't want Ellis just as upset as him. William directed toward the edge of the wood, where Bo's bubbling creek would be. Already, he was beginning to hate that place—his one sanctuary as an Alpha was miserable now, all because of his father. But he didn't object to the solitude so they could speak. From one former Alpha, to another. He shoved his hands in his pocket, looking over shoulder.
He was so far away from his trailer—what if she needed him?
He swallowed it down once they reached the creek.
"I mean they all want to come." William told him flatly, finding a tall stump to sit on and rest his legs. "Some are curious about her—there are a few packs out there with their own wildlings, and they're concerned the same thing will happen to them."
"She's holding her own... she's stronger than she looks," Bo answered his father, careful not to look at him. "What about the other packs? What do they want?"
"Some have... made it very known that they want her removed. They respect Doherty, want the best for it—having a wildling for an Alpha would ruin it."
Bo sneered, holding the growl deep in his throat. Removed. That was a softer word for what they really meant, and they both knew it. Three Alphas wanted Bo removed, too. They thought a kinder Alpha would weaken Doherty. They wanted him overthrown, and had nearly done it, too. But William stepped in, explained to them that his son was capable of being the Alpha Doherty needed.
Why wasn't he stepping in, now? Why wasn't he defending Saoirse, like he defended Bo? Was it because Bo was his flesh and blood, his only son? It felt as if Ellis and Bo were the only ones defending her, doing their best to prove that she was right for the pack, for the title.
"Just out of curiosity, which one told you to remove her from the position?"
William looked at him, as if expecting him to already know. Of course, Bo already knew—he had four dead wolves in buried in his wood as proof of what he knew. And he wanted to tell his father about it, but he couldn't accuse without actual proof they belonged to Enzo. He gritted his teeth, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he stared down his father.
"Alpha Addario has made it rather clear that he's thinking about Doherty's best interest—"
"Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me—"
"Watch your mouth, Bo!" William stood up. "Alpha Addario hasn't given me any reason to doubt the reason behind his concern."
"He wants our land. He's wanted it for years," Bo argued it, his voice loud and booming through the wood. "If he removes Saoirse, then he can take whatever land he can get. You think he came to the Tribunal because he wanted to be friendly and diplomatic? He cornered Saoirse, and flat out told her he'd get it no matter what. But you're so far up his ass you can't see any of it!"
"It's all just words, and you know it—he knows the laws, he knows the codes, he knows the rules." William shoved Bo with an index finger, causing Bo to stagger back for a moment. "None of which you should be concerned about, since your dumb ass lost the Tribunal. You're not an Alpha, anymore."
"No, but I'm a Luna. At some point, that was the best damn job there ever was." Bo said, taking a step closer. Anger fueled him, driving each breath he took. He didn't hold back the growl, didn't hide how quickly his shoulders squared. He was better than William, stronger than he was. Sure, Bo was no longer an Alpha, but never forgot how to act like one. He growled beneath his breath, causing his father to falter back a step or two.
"He knows the laws, and the codes. Which means he knows the loopholes. Right now, four of those loopholes are dead and buried just by the line where they attacked Saoirse." Shit. "He tried to remove her already, and I am pretty damn sure he's going to try again."
"Those are wild accusations," William scolded him, as if he were some child in trouble for stealing a snack.
"I can show you where they are. I can show you the empty casings I used to put them out of their misery, because Saoirse did not hesitate to defend herself." He pointed in the right direction, his index practically jabbing through empty air. Every movement he made was strained, tense—ready to strike if his father's voice grew any louder.
William turned abruptly, his voice catching in his throat. It wasn't fear; he knew his father all too well, and noticed how quickly his mind calculated Bo's accusation. He watched as William's eyes scrutinized the wood, already going through dozens of laws, acting as a high Alpha should when faced with this sort of thing. When William's gaze returned to him, Bo stood still.
"Enzo can go to the Elders about this, Bo—he can ask for her head, her land."
"His people attacked her on our land. We should have the right to go to Irvine and get his head."
"What part of Enzo isn't dumb don't you understand?" William raved. "You think he can't spin a tale to work in his favor?"
"Finally got out of his ass, did you?" Bo taunted. "Although, I'm a little glad you believe us."
"You're my righteous son, as if you'd make something like that up. For now, I'll need to hear it from her. I'll need to see evidence, if there's any." William answered him, calmly. "And watch your mouth, Bo."