Be My Brayshaw (Brayshaw High 4)

I head straight for home, but something has me pulling around the side of the Bray house and parking. I climb out, dropping onto the old swing behind it.

I grab my brass knuckles from my pocket, slip them on, and make a fist.

A perfect fucking fit.

My Brayshaw token.

Strong and solid, unbreakable and whole. Threat without words, fear without movement.

I pull them close, reading the words scrolled beside them.

Family runs deeper than blood.

Proof of these words are my brothers, my father. Raven.

My family, none by birth.

My fist tightens.

We all serve a purpose.

Maddoc is the lead, he holds the key, but never steps ahead.

Royce is the warrior, he bares the crest but never tries to rule.

I am the anchor, I hold the brass knuckles, the loops signifying the fusion of our family—full circles, never one stronger than the other, a reminder we are equals. Always.

But maybe our dad got it wrong.

Maybe he saw what doesn’t exist.

My family trusted me to make the right choices, fell in line with me, and I let them down. More than once.

I’m not sure how long I sit before the back door opens and Maybell steps out.

I go to stand, but she calls out, “Don’t go gettin’ up, boy. I can make it down these steps just fine on my own.”

A chuckle leaves me, but a sigh quickly follows.

She makes her way over, sitting on the small stone wall framing the swings in. “I knew, when all the girls were suddenly dying of thirst and needed in the kitchen, one of yous was back here.”

A small grin forms, and I shake my head, glancing at the kitchen window a moment. Slowly, my eyes slide to one of the most important people in our lives.

“She’s gone and your journal isn’t working,” Maybell guesses correctly, understanding softening her eyes. “Tell me what’s on your mind, boy.”

I look to the old sand at my feet. “What you said to me before, about how once we choose that’s it, there’s no going back, no changing our minds.”

“Sealed in the heavens and etched along the walls of hell.”

I nod. Yeah. That.

“I chose Mallory first,” I say. “Isn’t that the answer to all this? The glue. Where my anchor fell?”

A wolf only has one mate in his lifetime.

She sits silently for a long minute, only speaking once I force my gaze to hers.

“The way I see it, that’s where the anchor broke from the chain, crashed to the deepest part of the sea where only one person will be brave enough to go. This person will dive headfirst into the dark waters, not caring to make it back to the surface, because to fix what’s broken in you is worth the risk of losing everything, even life.”

I open my hand, twisting my wrist, and study how the sun reflects off the brass. A golden rainbow.

My jaw tics.

“And that glue you speak of? That’s classic Captain right there, my nurturing, loving, deep thinking boy.” My eyes find hers again, and she gives a small smile. “You hurt, are confused, for the girl who doesn’t deserve it, the struggles of a man who loves his daughter with the sun and moon, the air and the fire of the earth. She may have done what she did, but that will never take away from how this girl gave you the most important person in your world. You may hate her, but you’re grateful, and it tears you apart and, sorry to tell you, boy, but it will never stop tearing you apart. It’s proof of your heart, Captain Brayshaw. It’s what makes you, you.”

A hint of ache sneaks into my frozen body, and I welcome it.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I wish I was as sure as you, Maybell, ‘cause right now all my mind is telling me is to fix what’s broken, but I have no clue where to start, no idea what I should attempt to fix first or at all.”

She pushes to her feet and comes to stand in front of me.

I lift my head, meeting her deep brown eyes.

“Tell me this, boy. If there are two bleeding souls, and only enough thread to mend one. Who do you heal?”

“What if neither of them deserves it?”

She nods. “What if I told you one of those souls was yours?”

A desperate, selfish ache forms in the pit of my stomach at her words.

Suddenly she’s holding out a small envelope addressed to her.

My brows snap together. “What is that?”

“Don’t know.” She pins me with a steady, strong-minded gaze. “It’s not mine.”

She points to the very edge where a small anchor is drawn.

It’s for me.

My chest wall expands out, and slowly, I push to my feet, now towering over her.

“It came in the mail a couple days ago. I thought it was odd, it was in the lockbox, but then I looked at the back.”