28

A saying I'd heard plenty of times growing up was, "People don't change." You could shower them with love, give them second chances, offer them every opportunity to be better—but at their core, they remained the same.

I used to fight against that idea. I wanted to believe that people could grow and that with the right push, they could choose a different path. I wanted to believe it, but the harsh reality was people could only change if they wanted to, not because of someone else.

And that was the problem with Solomon—he never wanted to change.

No matter how many times I reached out, no matter how many chances I gave him, he always found a way to prove that he was still the same person he'd always been. Reckless. Self-serving. Unapologetic.

Even now as he sat across from me, he looked unbothered as if he hadn't done any wrong; as if his actions didn't risk my mate's safety.

Maybe I'd been a fool to think there was still something worth saving.

Maybe I'd just been holding on to a version of him that no longer existed—or maybe he'd never been that person at all, and I was only seeing him clearly for the first time.

I exhaled slowly, willing myself to stay calm. Losing my temper wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't make Solomon regret what he'd done. It wouldn't erase the damage he'd caused.

"I don't even know what to say to you," I admitted, my voice quieter than I intended. "Every time I think you can't sink any lower, you prove me wrong."

Solomon stared aloofly at me from across the table, his expression unreadable. If my words affected him at all, he didn't show it.

"Is that really why I'm here?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "So you can sit there and be disappointed in me?"

"No," I admitted. "I wanted you here so I could see for myself."

"See what?"

"If that pup who'd follow me around, begging to train with me, was still in there somewhere," I told him.

Solomon's lips twitched, not quite a smirk, but something close. "And?"

I held his gaze, searching for something—anything—that might change my mind. But all I saw was the same cold detachment, the same indifference.

"I think I already have my answer," I murmured.

His eyes flickered, but it was gone too fast for me to read. "So, what now? Are you going to try and fix me, big brother? Make me into something I'm not?"

"No," I said, voice firm. "I'm done trying."

Something about those words made Solomon's expression harden. His fingers tapped idly against the wooden surface, his only sign of agitation. It wasn't from regret. It was something else—maybe anger, maybe just indifference. But whatever it was, it was the last straw. He wasn't sorry. He wasn't even close.

I continued, my tone steady. "You're reckless. You only care about yourself. You put my mate in danger, knowing exactly what that would mean to me." I inhaled sharply, feeling the weight of what I was about to say. "You don't belong here anymore."

You don't belong here anymore. The words felt cold and foreign. They felt wrong, knowing our parents always dreamed of us growing up together in this pack.

Solomon didn't flinch at my words. He didn't apologize and didn't try to justify his actions. He just stared at me with those calculating eyes, as if he were weighing his next move. His fingers tapped steadily against the table, the sound irritatingly rhythmic.

The tapping stopped abruptly, and for a long moment, Solomon didn't speak. Instead, he shook his head and pushed his chair back as if he were about to stand up, but before he could, I stopped him.

"Tell me how we got here," I pushed. "How did we get to this point, Solomon? We were close—"

"I hate you," Solomon interrupted.

I blinked, thrown off by the sudden admission. "What?" My throat tightened at the words. "You—what?"

"I've hated you for a long time, Slater," he repeated, his eyes finally locking onto mine. "It's not the answer you were looking for but it's the truth."

I stared at him, feeling the air around us grow colder with each passing second. His words cut through me sharper than anything I had expected. I'd thought it was anger, maybe resentment, but hate—that was different. That was something deeper.

And maybe there was something wrong with me, but instead of trying to figure out why or understand him, I smiled. I fucking smiled because it was the first time he admitted it.

All the defiance, the reckless choices, the constant push and pull—it wasn't just resentment or bitterness. It was hatred.

"Good," I said simply, leaning back in my chair. "At least now you're being honest."

Solomon's expression didn't shift, but something in his posture did. Like he hadn't expected me to take it so easily. Maybe he thought I'd argue, demand an explanation, or try to change his mind. But what was the point? He'd said his piece.

"I wanted us to always be close," I admitted to him. "You're my brother. It was what our parents wanted. I figured—or, maybe I just hoped—that this was a phase. A small rebellion you'd grow out of, but the truth is you're terrible."

He scoffed as if my words were some gross exaggeration, but they weren't and he knew it. He rolled his eyes and I moved forward so he had to face me. Had to look me in the eyes.

"Our parents would've hated the person you've become," I coldly told him.

There was a pause. No words were said, nobody moved. He just stared at me and I let my words sink into his bones. Solomon's expression didn't waver at first, but I saw it—the briefest flicker of something behind his eyes. A crack in his carefully constructed indifference.

He masked it quickly, scoffing again as he leaned back, arms crossing over his chest. "That's rich, coming from you," he muttered. "You think you're any better than me? Acting like you're some perfect son, some righteous alpha. But you're just as bad, Slater. Worse, even."

I let out a humorless laugh. "Yeah? How's that?"

"Because at least I know what I am," Solomon said, his voice steady, sharp as a blade. "I don't pretend to be something I'm not."

I tilted my head, studying him. "You really believe that, don't you?"

His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I don't believe it. I know it."

I exhaled slowly, shaking my head. "Then I guess that's the difference between us."

Solomon raised a brow, waiting.

I met his gaze, unflinching. "I know what I am too, Solomon. The difference is—I don't hate myself for it."

I'd spent a lot of my childhood detesting what I was; wanting to be someone different but I adapted and I still was. I wasn't going out of my way trying to ruin lives because I wasn't happy with the hand I was dealt.

"Do you even know what it's like to be happy?" I asked him, genuinely curious. "Were you ever?"

Solomon didn't answer right away. His fingers resumed their slow, steady tapping against the table, his gaze dropping for the first time since we started this conversation.

For a second, I thought he might actually consider the question. Might actually give me something real.

Then, he huffed a laugh—empty, bitter. "Happiness is just something people pretend to have to make life feel less pointless."

I studied him, searching for any sign that he didn't fully believe what he'd just said. But there was nothing. No hesitation, no crack in his voice. Just certainty.

"That's a miserable way to live," I said quietly.

His jaw ticked. "Yeah, well, it's an honest one."

I leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. "Is that why you are the way you are? Because you don't think happiness is real, so you don't bother trying for it?"

Solomon's lips pressed together in a thin line. He looked away.

For the first time since he walked into this room, he didn't have a comeback.

I wasn't sure what I expected—some grand realization, maybe, or an actual confession. But I should've known better. Solomon wasn't the type to admit weakness, not even when it was staring him in the face.

Instead, he scoffed, shaking his head. "You really think you've got me all figured out, don't you?"

"I don't think I have you figured out at all," I admitted. "That's the problem."

Something flickered across his face—irritation, maybe, or something deeper. But before I could read into it, he stood abruptly, shoving his chair back.

"This was a waste of time," he muttered.

He started to move toward the door, but I stopped him before he could fully reach it because if I was going to take the initiative to banish him, I was going to do it the right way.

"Solomon Crest, by my authority as Alpha, I hereby exile you. As of this moment, you are no longer a member of this pack and are not welcome on these lands. If you are caught trespassing, you will be treated as any other outsider—with force." He started walking, but I could tell by the way he subtly tensed that his nonchalant demeanor was just a façade. Even if he didn't care, I knew it had to be killing his wolf just as it was mine. "You have one hour to vacate the premises. After that, if you are still here, I will treat you as a threat."

I could feel it the moment the words left my mouth. The bond, linking us as pack members snapped and a pain flared inside of me. I knew the other pack members had to be feeling it but on a duller level. In a pack like ours, banishment was rare but it was necessary here. I didn't want anyone to think he was welcome if he happened to show up again in the future.

A sharp, nearly imperceptible breath escaped Solomon, and for the first time, his composure wavered. Just a flicker—his fingers tightening around the doorknob, the barely noticeable clench of his jaw.

His wolf felt it, too.

I knew what it was doing—snarling, clawing at him from the inside, furious at the forced separation. It didn't matter if Solomon himself didn't care. His wolf did.

But Solomon didn't let it show. He only inhaled slowly through his nose, exhaled just as slow, and then, with one last glance over his shoulder, he opened the door.

He didn't look back as he walked out.

I stayed seated long after he was gone, staring at the empty space he had occupied, feeling the dull ache in my chest where the bond had once been.

I told myself it was for the best.

I told myself I'd done what needed to be done.

But my wolf still paced uneasily beneath my skin, unsettled in a way I hadn't expected.

Maybe because no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise...

Losing a brother still felt like losing a part of myself.

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