Filthy rich werewolves by Taylor Caine novel Chapter 8

GRACE

I kept my scarf on while at work. It didn’t hide the bruises on my face, but my neck bore the worst of the damage, so at least that was covered. When Chris was tearing at my clothes, he’d held me down by choking my neck.

Aside from a few nosy coworkers giving me odd looks, no one says anything.

It’s hard to concentrate.

Because all I could think about throughout the day—all I can think about now—is if a certain wolf will be waiting for me when I get home.

I’m not sure what that says about me.

I’m not looking for a relationship. I’m too damaged for something like that. But I won’t mind if Jay sticks around for a while.

I leave the Sanitation Center and I’m excited to go home. My phone rings and I stop at the edge of the street.

I recognize the number. “D-dad?”

“You’ve been out of prison for three months now, Grace. If nothing else, you should come home to pay your respects to your mother.”

I’m speechless.

My mom died when I was three.

Dad remarried only a few months after mom died, and my stepmother gave birth to another daughter, Evelyn.

My stepmother is only half-wolf. Considering how much my father detests humans, I’m surprised he wound up with her.

There was never room for me in their new family. My dad told me as much. Not that I understood what he meant. I was only a child.

I just remember being picked up by my grandparents one day and told I’d be going to live in another pack.

My dad patted my head and handed me a bag of my clothes.

Then he turned around and went back into his house before my grandfather even pulled away. I didn’t see him again for many years.

“Did you hear me?” my father asks, dragging me from my memories.

“Yes.”

“Come home.”

Home?

Cummins lands are not my home.

I’ve been exiled.

The ruling Alphas of the region—not my father, he resided over only a very small pack—see me as a murderer. My human trial was only a formality compared to the pack sentencing.

That…it was like being abandoned by my family all over again.

Because, yeah, I was.

I cast a glance at my right, the street that would lead to my efficiency apartment.

To my left is the road to the bus stop.

I turn left. As I wait at the corner, old resentments swell. My dad didn’t reach back out to me or invite me home very often. Not for holidays or birthdays. I could attend events for my sister or that required my presence for pack gatherings.

It wasn’t until I started dating Sean that my father warmed to me. I didn’t see the situation for what it was at the time. I’d been young and dumb, and just so happy to have my family’s love.

But my dad’s affections died the same night Jennifer Atkinson did.

Because in the aftermath of my breakup with Sean, I was no longer of any use to my father. The alliance he’d been hoping for between his pack and Alpha Sean’s—the one that would’ve brought incredible resources and prestige…once that was gone, I was done.

I try not to be bitter about it.

But it hurts.

And all the time I was in prison… he never visited. He never called. He didn’t offer to help me get back on my feet or suggest that I come home for a while to get readjusted to the world.

Still, he’s right. I should make the trip home at least once to pay respects to my mom. When I was old enough to shift, I’d run for hours and then curl up beside her tombstone. As a rogue, I can’t set foot on Cummins lands without my father’s permission. And I have to give other packs a wide berth.

I’m not sure I will get permission again anytime soon, so I board the bus when it arrives.

I take a seat toward the back and settle in for the long ride.

The city buildings melt into rural houses then stretches of farms and forest.

My grandfather lives an hour past my dad. We made the run a few times, in our true forms. The memory is one I will always cherish.

I visit the cemetery first.

I pull weeds and brush away dust, then sink to the earth and sit with my mom for a while. It’s sad but the connection I felt to her, it’s dimmed.

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m detached from my wolf too.

Or if the three years in prison felt more like thirty and the time has further bridged the distance from the pain of losing my mom.

I touch the cold tombstone, whisper another prayer, and promise to light a candle.

My mom may be gone, but she will never be forgotten.

When I step into my father’s house, not much has changed. Same layout of furniture. A big dining room table to allow for packmates to visit. Couches spread out across more than one sitting room. A huge kitchen that in decades past had been for community use.

Pictures of Melinda—my stepmother—and Evelyn—my little half sister— line the walls.

Pictures of the three of them. Not a single photo of me.

I hear them in the kitchen so I head there. It’s been renovated.

Melinda smiles at me. That’s something, I suppose.