Wild Hunger (The Phoenix Pack, #7)(54)
Frankie just shook her head. “Is everything okay? Did the meeting have anything to do with Drake?”
Piling food on his plate, Trick explained, “Trey wanted to let me know that Morelli called him with a warning.”
She frowned. “What kind of warning?”
“Drake’s gone missing. Or, more likely, he’s gone AWOL.”
“Meaning he could come after you again.” Her wolf’s upper lip curled. “I’d say it was good of Morelli to warn you, but he’s probably done it so he can deny blame for whatever Drake does or doesn’t do next.”
“That was my thought. We’ll find out soon enough. For now, let’s eat.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Frankie had never been to a shifter funeral before. It wasn’t much different from those held for humans, except that there were no clergy members reading out scriptures. Instead the Bjorn Alpha, Josh—who was also one of Dante’s older brothers—had spoken of what a warm, supportive pack member Iris had been and then voiced his wishes that she rested well. After that, other Bjorn wolves and relatives began to take turns speaking, sharing funny or touching stories.
Frankie listened intently to the stories, eager to hear more about her grandmother. Focusing on them also helped her ignore the curious glances and whispers coming from the Bjorn wolves.
People sniffled and sobbed, even as they chuckled at the anecdotes. One thing was clear—Iris had been well loved by these people. It wasn’t surprising; the woman had won Frankie’s affection quickly. Right then her heart felt heavy, and there was a huge lump in her throat. Yeah, the tears were building. Hoping to ward them off, she took a deep breath and drew in Trick’s scent and the smells of earth, fresh flowers, and sun-warmed stone.
Right then, his warm hand supportively engulfed hers. He never strayed far from her side. He was always touching, kissing, and soothing her. When he wasn’t holding her hand, he was massaging her nape, cupping her elbow, splaying his hand on her back, or resting it on her shoulder. Frankie soaked in his support, needing his strength.
His presence also reassured her wolf, who didn’t like being on Bjorn territory, which surprised Frankie. She had been born there. She’d spent the first three years of her life there. But her wolf wasn’t moved by that. Nor was she comforted by some of the scents that she vaguely recognized. Then again, graveyards weren’t exactly comforting places.
All in all, this particular graveyard seemed to be pretty well maintained. There were several rows of carved headstones, some granite, some marble, some concrete. Most were well kept and had decorative flower beds and framed portraits. Others were cracked and discolored, with patches of overgrown grass and dead wreaths. She wondered if the neglect signified that the people buried there hadn’t been well liked by the other members.
Frankie hadn’t failed to notice the marble headstone beside Iris’s: “CHRISTOPHER BROOKS, BELOVED SON AND BROTHER.” His grave showed no signs of neglect and wasn’t covered in graffiti, as she might have expected. He’d killed his mate and himself, after all. Maybe the headstone had been left alone out of respect for Iris, Alfie, and Lydia.
Speaking of Lydia . . . Frankie briefly glanced at her. The female was leaning into Cam, shoulders bowed, eyes raw, silent tears coursing down her face. She’d insisted that Frankie stand at the front of the mourners, among the other people who’d been close to Iris. Honestly, it made Frankie feel like a gawker, since she hadn’t known Iris well enough to grieve as deeply as they were, but Lydia had refused to budge on it.
Considering the two packs had once been one and there was some serious history there, Frankie would have thought that there would be some glaring or posturing going on. Instead everybody was reasonably civil. For the most part, though, the packs remained divided even at the graveside. The Phoenix wolves stood on the left, and the Bjorn wolves stood on the right. Only a few wolves had breached that invisible line and—
The whispering of her name snapped Frankie out of her thoughts. She didn’t look to see who was murmuring about her now. Instead she stared straight ahead and squeezed Trick’s hand. His thumb brushed over her knuckles. She wanted to force a cough to clear the thick lump in her throat, but she didn’t want to make any noise or draw more attention her way.
When the service finally reached its end, Lydia tossed some dirt on top of the smooth casket. Uttering something under her breath, she gave a quick, watery smile. Then she walked into her mate’s open arms. Others followed suit, throwing soil on the casket and whispering things. Frankie . . . well, she kind of just stood there, feeling lost.
As if sensing that, Trick pulled her to him, carefully brushing her hair out of her face. “Let’s go wait for the others in the SUV so you can privately let go of that sob that’s stuck in your throat.”
God, he read her so well it was frightening at times. “I’m okay.” Hell, her voice cracked. He kissed her; it was a mere brush of lips, but that gentleness made her feel treasured.
“No one expects you to be okay, least of all me.” Placing one hand on her back, he began to guide her toward the SUV, but they both halted at the sound of someone calling her name.
Frankie turned to see Clara fast approaching, dabbing her eyes with a crumpled tissue. “Frankie, I’m so glad you came.” The woman enfolded her in a massive hug. Pulling back, she said, “I shouldn’t be such a mess. Iris is with Alfie now, and that was what she wanted. But I’ll miss her. This is my mate, Cesar.”