The Alpha and The Enforcer [TATE]

Chapter 9

Ellie's P.O.V

The forest was quiet, but not peacefully so.

It was the kind of quiet that pressed in on your ears. Heavy. Expectant. Like something unsaid was suspended between the trees.

Jacob and I were supposed to be training.

Instead, he sat beneath a pine tree, long legs bent, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely clasped. His breathing was controlled, but his eyes were far away.

I stood a few feet from him, arms crossed, watching.

We'd only known each other a few weeks. Not long enough to claim understanding. But long enough to recognize when something was wrong.

"You're distracted," I said.

He blinked, like I'd pulled him back from somewhere deep. A tired half-smile tugged at his mouth. "Didn't think it was that obvious."

I didn't answer.

It was.

The wind moved through the branches above us. Neither of us moved.

Finally, he spoke.

"Do you ever feel like no matter how much you rebuild, the ghost of what you lost still lingers in the corners?"

My chest tightened.

"Someone?" I asked carefully.

His jaw flexed once. "Yeah."

I stepped closer and lowered myself to the ground across from him. Not touching. Close enough to see the faint strain in his expression.

"Today is the anniversary of her death," he said quietly.

Understanding settled heavy in my lungs.

"You should take the day," I said softly. "Training should be the last thing on your mind."

The hypocrisy of that wasn't lost on me. I trained for the same reason he did — to outrun memories.

"No," he murmured. "I needed today. I needed to do something. I have to learn how to keep moving... even when it hurts."

"You can talk about her," I offered, the words stiff in my mouth. Comforting people had never been my strength. "If you want."

Silence stretched between us, adding to the awkwardness.

It thickened the air, made me aware of how close we were sitting, of how fragile the moment felt. I almost told him it was fine if he didn't want to talk.

Then he exhaled slowly.

"She wasn't ...loud," he said.

His voice changed. Softer. Unarmored.

"Not the kind of person who demanded attention."

"And she definitely wasn't a fighter."

A faint, fragile smile touched his lips.

"She hated training days. Hated the shouting. The clashes. The smell of blood." A small breath of amusement left him. "She used to sit at the edge of the field with a book in her lap, pretending she wasn't watching me."

His gaze drifted past me, into memory.

"She never liked violence. Said there was already enough of it in the world." His jaw tightened slightly. "We argued about it sometimes. I told her it was necessary. She told me necessary didn't mean harmless."

He looked down at his hands.

"She wasn't weak," he added, protective steel slipping into his tone. "She just believed strength didn't have to look like claws and teeth."