To Be More (Slate/Gray Book #2)
Chapter 7

Weeks ago, cities across America and Canada…

“This wolf, it travels around the country, but I’ve heard it’s going up the west coast.”

“Wow, like...right now? You think she’s going up the coast right now?”

“I know so. I think she’s going to end up in Washington.”

“Oh my gosh...this could...this could change a lot of people’s lives. I need to go talk to…”

Present day, Atwood Territory...

At this point in the year, near the middle of October, harvest season in the orchards is, for all intents and purposes, over. Now on a Saturday morning, Slate, Raven, Sage, and Forrest are all walking leisurely through the rows and occasionally plucking away the few apples that remain that are overly mature and will be good only for baking.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Slate turns to Sage and eyes him carefully. “Always,” is his most plainly genuine response. A promise, really.

Sage’s mouth quirks up a bit at the response, but quickly flattens again. His brows furrow as he asks, “Dad said...Dad said I could ask you about your scars.”

Slate, to his credit, doesn’t react with shock or affront of any sort. He just nods thoughtfully. He sees Forrest do something out of the corner of his eye and observes him for a moment. When Slate turns to him, he abruptly looks down to avoid being caught staring.

He decides to address the more important fact first. “You can ask me anything, Sage. Do you know that?”

Sage looks up at Slate, sees his commanding posture and piercing eyes and recognizing that there is only one correct answer to this question. He smiles bashfully. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Slate offers Sage a smile in return that makes him feel warm inside. Then he turns back to the path and continues further into the orchard at an ambling pace, leaving his entourage to follow him. “You know about the fight that happened a month ago, right?”

Sage nods. “Yeah.”

“Well everything started about nine years ago.” Forrest makes an inquisitive noise at this. Slate nods at him. “You would have been ten. It would have been a bit much for you at the time. It’s not a secret, but it’s not something that needed to be talked about with everyone.”

Slate waits a moment for Forrest to process this. When he nods, Slate continues. “I was out with friends one night and we were breaking curfew--I have often wondered how things would have been different if we’d just been a little more obedient. Rules are made to protect us, not restrain us.”

Sage is grateful Slate doesn’t look at him even though he knew the words were meant for him. This way, it feels less like a scolding or condemning remark. Just a bit of wisdom from an older brother. It still stings, but that could be the guilt talking more than anything Slate made him feel.

“Now more than ever I wonder that,” Slate says more quietly, almost to himself.

When the words hang in the air, Forrest can’t help his burning curiosity and tries not to sound overeager when he prods a bit, “What happened?”

“The simple answer is that we found a group of werewolves who didn’t want to be found. When they saw us, they started shooting,” Sage gasps and Forrest shivers at the calm Slate is still able to project as he recounts what is shaping up to be a horrific memory, “and one of my friends got hurt. To protect her, I had to disarm the shooters. One of the men got me on my back.”

This time Forrest is the one to gasp, though he feels young and silly for it. He had rarely seen anyone get the better of his older brother in a fight.

Well, that’s not entirely true, he rethinks. He’d often seen Sara and Asher both sneak attack him and topple him until the three of them were a pile of limbs and laughs. But to imagine Slate--a sixteen year-old Slate--on his back underneath another wolf who was...trying to kill him is a terrifying thing to imagine.

“I would have died,” Slate continues steadily. He doesn’t break stride, his voice doesn’t tighten, his shoulders don’t tense--he’s solid. Just the same as ever. Forrest and Sage both look on in varying degrees of horror and awe. Raven though, silent so far, seems unable to keep his emotions to himself any longer. With less capacity to understand the deeper nuances of the conversation, his little mind can only focus on the fact that bad people were trying to kill his brother. He lets out a low whimper and Slate immediately softens as much as he ever does and scoops up the boy and holds him tight for a moment. Raven buries his head into Slate’s neck and Forrest spots a few tears rolling down his cheeks.

“What next?” Raven asks shakily. “You were okay, right?”

“Yeah buddy,” Slate reassures quietly. “It all turned out okay, promise.” When Raven continues to cry quietly, Slate stops walking and pulls his head away from his youngest brother enough to force Raven to look him in the eye. “Everything is fine, Raven. I’m just fine. Okay?”

“But...but your--your face,” Raven whispers almost ashamedly. “It’s--”

“Raven,” Slate fixes a stare at him. “Listen to me. Everything is okay, I am okay. But you know what helps me feel better even during the times when I’m not so okay?”

Raven sniffs “What?” He asks with eyes still glassy, but much more gathered than he was a moment ago.

“You do.” Slate touches his forehead with Raven’s. “Coming out here with you and your brothers helps me feel so much better. And cooking you breakfast at my house helps me feel better. And when you smile, I feel so happy. That’s how I know I will always be okay.” He pauses and puts some distance between the two of them. “Do you understand, Raven?”

Raven looks completely awestruck now, and much like Sage, he sees that there is only one correct answer here. He doesn’t open his mouth, but he nods with wide eyes.

“Okay,” Slate nods, satisfied. Just like that, he continues on. “To protect myself, I clawed the man across the face. I know now that his name was Silas, and I blinded him forever that night. He had five scars across his face in the shape of my claws for the rest of his life. I never thought I would see him again, but one month ago, he showed up.”

Forrest gasps yet again--he just can’t help it. Sage seems almost too overwhelmed with all the new information that he’s incapable of further outward reaction. Slate picks up, “He was one of the wolves who wanted to use Gray for himself. He died that night.

“After the fight was over, his family managed to find us. He had a wife and two children. I never saw them at the time, but those two children were there the night their father was blinded and the boy, David, recognized me. He was...very angry. He was angry that his father had changed so much, both physically and mentally, after that night--because of me. I think he wanted to kill me.”

Slate sighs, and for a scant moment, his siblings see him droop the tiniest bit, as though he’d gotten too tired to hold himself up anymore--but it’s gone again in the blink of an eye. “I could see that David wouldn’t give up. One of the reasons his father changed so much nearly a decade ago was because he couldn’t let go. I didn’t want the same thing to happen to David, so I let him mark me the way I marked his father. I wanted him to have closure the way his father never did.”

As casual and relaxed as ever, Slate reaches up for another softened apple and tosses it in the sack Forrest carries in slack hands. Silence reigns for nearly half a row of walking. Then Forrest seems to think out loud, “But...it’s so hard to scar a werewolf. How…?”

Slate stops then and turns to face all three of his siblings, gruesome scars on full display. One of his arms is used to hold Raven close to him still, but he uses the other to brush back some of Sage’s hair and rest on the back of the boy’s neck. To Forrest he offers a rare soft look. “Listen boys,” he says with low volume but a firm tone. “What happened to me was my decision. Was it right or wrong of David to hurt me anyway? I don’t know, it’s not my place to decide. I just knew that if someone had to bleed for him to move on and live a happy life, I wanted it to be me.” He pauses and gets a certain fierce glint in his eyes. “I want you to know, I would do much worse things for each of you.”

He gives them each a look that is simultaneously so purely loving and also hard and determined--so Slate. “I love you.” He makes eye contact with each of them individually. “I love each one of you more than anything else in the world. You are brave, you are strong, you are intelligent, and you are loved. Never forget that.” S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FindNøvᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Then he draws all of them together and wraps them up tightly. Forrest thinks none of the three younger boys have dry eyes.

“And if anyone says anything,” Slate says into their hair, “you just let it roll off. It doesn’t bother me, so it doesn’t have to bother you.”

:::::

Gray is officially spent. Mentally, at least. This morning, she’d gone out with Asher and his friends to see a movie, which was...good, overall...she thinks. It started out a bit shaky…

Gray is standing in a huddled group with Asher’s friends while he goes and gets snacks, courtesy of the Alpha’s credit card. She feels like they’re all staring at her. Finally, one guy gets up the confidence to ask, “So how do you do your healing stuff?”

Gray sighs. She hadn’t forgotten that people had seen her healing nearly two months ago now, but it hadn’t been at the top of her list of things to be concerned about because she’d never given anyone the opportunity to confront her about it. She supposes she should have expected this when she started hanging out with people outside of her own family and the Atwoods.

“I’ve just always been able to,” she shrugs awkwardly, sneaking glances to see if Asher is anywhere close to coming back to rescue her. She tries to dredge up any social finesse she used to possess, but comes up blank.

Another girl, Kelsey, Gray thinks, leans uncomfortably close and asks, “That’s like, so weird. Awesome, but weird. How does it work?”

Gray shifts her feet. This really isn’t a topic she’s interested in becoming public knowledge, but she’s too frazzled and uncomfortable to find a socially acceptable way to deflect. She’s pretty sure she’s forgotten what social acceptance is in the first place. Reluctantly, she decides she can share, “I just need skin to skin contact. Rarely it can work with just close proximity.”

“Oh. Cool.” She seems satisfied enough by this answer, but almost immediately leans closer with a little smirk on her face, jumping at the chance to catch a piece of gossip. “So hey, I heard you’ve gotten really close to Slate Atwood, but Asher won’t say anything about it. What’s the--”

“I love your nails, Gray,” another girl says loudly with a pointed look at the rest of the group.

Gray exhales and gives the girl a grateful, if timid, look. “Thanks. I just painted them with some of my little sister’s nail polish.”

“Cool!” She says genuinely. Then she looks at her own nails. “My manicure is chipping--wanna go with me to get them done next week?”

And that’s how Gray ended up becoming friends with Erin Baker.

It had to have been some sort of witchcraft, because getting manicures wasn’t something she regularly did even before her three year foray into the wild. Somehow Gray was agreeing before she’d even realized what had happened. She had no idea it was possible to be so friendly. It had to have been the smile, she decides. No one can deny that level of sunshine emanating from someone’s face.

Gray definitely sees how Erin and Asher would be a good match.

Now, in her depleted state, she finds herself mindlessly clicking through a few programs at universities nearby on her laptop in her siblings’ living room. Aria is in her room doing who knows what and Alexander should be home from work soon.

The blaring ring of her phone shatters the peaceful quiet, making Gray jump at the sudden intrusion of stimulus in her sluggish brain. It’s not often that Gray’s phone rings--or notifies her at all, for that matter. By virtue of the sheer number of hours spent together and the close bond they’ve been forming over a matter of months now, Gray and Sara can bond communicate on a very basic level, so she rarely calls or texts. Slate uses his phone probably less than Gray does, confident that the only people who would immediately require attention are those who can bond communicate with him anyway, or are with someone who can. Asher and Gray, though they can’t interact with each other’s gifts the way Slate can, have been able to communicate through the bond as well, likely a result of Asher’s mastery of the bond and Gray’s closeness to all things preternatural. Gray and her siblings have been able to reach the bond as well.

Therefore, the only person who would reasonably need and be able to contact her via telephone is Alpha Atwood.

Sure enough, when she flips the phone around to see the screen, Alpha Atwood is emblazoned across the top with a little green phone symbol and a matching red one underneath, offering the option of answering or sending the call to voicemail. Gray feels a sense of dread creeping in and is very tempted to let her voicemail catch the call, but decides she owes it to the Alpha to respect him enough to hear what he has to say, regardless of the positive or negative nature of the news he might deliver.

She swipes the green phone across the screen and puts the little block of technology to her ear. “Hello?” she asks timidly.

“Gray,” Alpha Atwood’s tone is warm, “thank you for answering my call.”

Gray feels simultaneously guilty that she truly considered not answering out of pure cowardice, and relieved at the usual affable quality of the Alpha’s voice.

“Of course,” she answers politely. While she feels completely at ease with the Atwood patriarch now, he is still an alpha, and respect for his eminence is too far ingrained to not present herself with the most proper manners. The difference is that with Brett Atwood, Gray offers the show of respect freely because he has earned it, not because she is afraid of the repercussions if she missteps.

“Gray,” the alpha begins without preamble, “I’m going to tell you of some messages I’ve been receiving. You don’t need to answer now--I don’t want your answer right now. I want you to listen to what I have to say and take some time to think it over, maybe talk with your siblings, with Sara, Asher, Slate--anyone you’re comfortable sharing with. And then I’d like for you to come see me on Monday with a well thought out response. Am I being clear?”

If Gray was feeling more mentally sharp she’s sure she’d be better at reading between the lines here, but now she can’t puzzle out exactly what the alpha is intimating. But, she suspects this is the sort of thing that will make sense in the rearview, so she responds in the affirmative.

“Good,” Alpha Atwood rumbles. “I want to remind you before I begin that you have full control over this decision and that I am not pressuring you to lean one way or another. I will respect whatever decision you arrive at, and you are always free to change your mind in the future.

“Now,” he sobers, “I’ve been receiving what I can only describe as copious amounts of mail about you.” Gray can’t squash a small surprised noise before it passes through her vocal chords. “It seems that the rumor has gotten out that there is a wolf with the power to heal in Atwood territory. A lot of the mail I’ve received has been sent with the thinly veiled intention of obtaining more gossiping fodder, but there is also a significant amount of mail from those who would genuinely like your help.”

Gray blinks. She is...unsure how to take this. Her first instinct is to accept immediately--this is what she was born to do, what gives her life meaning. Healing and helping people is all she has ever wanted to do.

The other side of her feels incredibly overwhelmed at the notion of her secret being basically public knowledge. Gray knows corruption, she knows the depths of selfishness that can exist within a person and she can understand why one would want control of a creature who could perform unthinkable feats the way she can. There is a reason she’d stayed hidden all these years.

There’s a feeling of betrayal that rises to the surface as well. Who could have spread these rumors? It had to have been someone in the pack, didn’t it? She hadn’t met anyone who seemed nefarious or mean-hearted in nature here, but it’s not hard to make the leap that a member of the Atwood pack might just be innocently and naively unable to keep a secret like this.

“There are a lot of ways we can respond to this, Gray. Above all else, we will protect you: your physical health and mental well-being both. You are not alone in any of this, you will have the full and utter support of our entire pack, but especially my family. You are one of us, Gray. I think you forget that sometimes. You are important to us because of who you are, not just what you can do. We love you, Gray, please remember that.” He pauses just to breathe deeply for a breath or two, Gray mimicking instinctually. His last comments are, “Please take the rest of today and tomorrow to think and talk this through. I’ll be in my office on Monday.”

When the alpha has nothing more to say, Gray responds dizzily, “Okay. I’ll...I’ll see you then.”

There’s a short pause, then a fond sigh from the alpha. “Thanks Gray, talk soon,” he says, and the line goes dead.

She sits there, thoughts swirling, for a long time. Her thoughts go round and round and still, she keeps coming back to the same answer. It was really inevitable from the beginning. Gray has never been able to say no to a person in pain, and she can’t think of a thing that would ever change that.

However, she is not a lone wolf anymore, and there is one person she knows would never let her do this alone.

She needs to talk to Slate.

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