My Lycan Mate of Suicide Forest

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry you were caught by surprise and that I didn't explain it to you. I was surprised last night, too," he paused, remembering the intensity of the energy in the forest and how it had overtaken him like it had never done previously.

With one hand, he tilted her chin to look at him. "I guess this is all new to me, too," he whispered against her. She didn't answer, but her eyes softened gazing into his. "Are we okay?" he asked, rubbing her arms.

August growled softly at the ease with which he was able to sway her. She couldn't stay mad at him. "We're okay," she said quietly. "Let's see this atrocious car of yours."

Not too much further and before they reached the turnoff to the pack house, Graeme veered left onto a small dirt road that cut through the woods. The road curved to the right, sloping upward until finally a two story English style stone cottage came into view.

August's steps paused on the drive as she took in the view of Graeme's childhood home. It was breathtaking. Not ostentatious. As with the other homes they had passed, the green lace of ivy climbed its facade, tucking it into the earth tones of the forest. While it looked elegant and spacious, it still managed to feel quaint. The front door was located on a short, round tower with a pointed turret.

Graeme continued walking up the drive, approaching the side yard. "Are we not going inside?" August called after him.

"The car is around back," he replied, turning to wait for her. She jogged to catch up with him.

"You—you don't go inside?" she asked, slightly out of breath.

'Not if I can help it,' he thought. Every inch of this place was dripping with memories, threatening to tug at places in his soul he had tried to bury long ago. "Would… you like to?" he asked slowly.

"Yes please," she sighed happily before catching the discomfort in his stance. "Someday," she quickly added. "Not today… it's okay."

"We can go in for a minute," he said, retracing his steps to the front where a stone path surrounded by lush, overgrown plants curved to the front door.

Inside, an old stone floor led through the foyer into an open first story where large, irregular wood beams stood as support along the walls and across the ceiling. August could see a wooden door painted light blue standing open along the back left wall past the living room and kitchen and further still glass doors leading outside to the backyard.

It was comfortable and cozy with a soft grey couch and throw pillows off to the left in the living area matching grey cabinets further back to the right in the open kitchen. A large rustic dining room table echoed the smaller coffee table version in the living area, and mismatched grey and light blue chairs were tucked under, waiting to be pulled. The common walls shared by all rooms were a simple white stone that made the area seem larger.

August padded forward, leaving Graeme standing in the entryway with his hands hidden in his pockets. This was a happy home. The realization swelled inside her as she slowly made her way through, fingers running lightly along the edges of the furniture until she reached the blue door standing open with light streaming through. Rather than enter, August stood in its doorway to see the master bedroom with the large bed made, preserved as if waiting for the home owners to return.

It wasn't until August saw the picture on the bedside table that she entered what felt like a sacred space belonging to its previous inhabitants. This is where they slept and dreamed. This is where Graeme's mom tossed and turned uncomfortably when she was pregnant with her twins.

After slowly crossing through the room and spying a bathroom off to the side, August picked up the picture that had invited her in. It was a family photograph from when Graeme and Greta appeared to be eight or nine. Greta was laughing, draped over her father's shoulder. Derek could have been Graeme—the resemblance was that striking. The sweet pain of loss shuddered through her at this realization, and her eyes shifted to the young Graeme being tickled in his mother's arms. No one was looking at the camera.

It was the perfect candid shot, capturing an honest moment in this family's life. Genevieve had long, straight dark brown hair that fell over her face—a face hidden from view, as it was bent over her son.

Graeme cleared his voice in the bedroom's doorway behind her, and she quickly replaced the picture on the bedside table. "Should we get the car?"

"Where is your room?" August asked, turning to see him leaning against the doorframe. He raised his eyes toward the ceiling, nodding his head upward to indicate upstairs.

"May I see it?" she asked softly. Rather than answer, Graeme shifted his body to the side to let her pass, and she wandered back toward the entryway where a rustic wooden staircase led up to the second floor.

Graeme's and Greta's rooms stood on opposite sides of a long hall with a bathroom between them. They were simple, mimicking the style of the rest of the house. August could tell Greta's room from her brother's, because paper stars hung from the ceiling and a pom-pom garland was draped over the bed.

There wasn't much to Graeme's room. August went in and sat on his bed that was made with blue linen sheets and a quilt, bouncing lightly a few times as she smiled, imagining him as a kid. Graeme hadn't followed her upstairs, and she had the sudden urge to look under his bed for any lingering secrets left there.

She crouched down, gazing into the dusty shadows underneath to find the silhouette of something with long ears.. When she pulled it out, she was surprised to see a ragged brown stuffed bunny with button eyes.

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