Accidentally Pregnant By My Alpha Best friends (Madeline) novel Chapter 68

68–Into His Basement

Madeline:

I asked the driver to drop me off at the address.

And I began to realize it was much farther from the usual pack houses, all the way near the border of the pack.

There stood a lonely house surrounded by dying trees and overgrown grass.

Even as I stepped onto the front porch, the floorboards creaked beneath my feet.

I knocked gently on the door, then looked around in confusion, growing impatient.

“Come in,” came a voice from inside.

It was old and shaky, yet it sounded as if he already knew I was coming, because he didn’t ask who I was, he simply invited me in.

As I was about to step inside, the voice continued, “Do you see the groceries outside? Bring them in when you come.”

My hand was on the doorknob when the request came.

I looked around for the groceries and, sure enough, found several bags piled near a large vase.

I picked them up, turned the doorknob, and stepped into the small, vintage–style house.

Right at the entrance, a staircase led to the upper floor, and beneath it was a door to the basement.

On the right was the kitchen, and on the left, a living room, where an old man sat in a wheelchair, gazing out the window.

“Hi,” I greeted, walking into the living room and awkwardly placing the groceries on the table.

“Don’t put them there. Could you please keep them in the kitchen?” he instructed without turning around.

I noticed his wheelchair and figured he must have a nurse who came by to help him.

“By the way, I’m the woman who wanted to know about the diary,” I explained, in case he thought I was the

nurse.

He chuckled softly and turned toward me.

He looked kind old man with big glasses, overgrown hair, and a white beard.

“I know. Actually, I don’t know when she’ll come, and I didn’t want the groceries to go bad,” he said.

Smiling, I walked toward the right side of the house, where the kitchen was.

Inside, everything was clean and neatly arranged.

I began unloading the groceries, putting food in the refrigerator and cleaning supplies in the storeroom.

It only took about ten minutes.

When I returned, the old man was smiling, holding an old diary in his hands.

“Have a seat, please,” he invited.

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I sat across from him.

“The other day I was in the library and read about wolves, but I noticed that one particular wolf type had missing pages,” I mentioned with an awkward smile.

“I know you,” he said.

My smile faded slightly.

“I’m sorry, we’ve never met,” I murmured quickly.

“Oh no, I’ve seen you on TV. You’re the human researcher, the savior, right?” he added.

I laughed awkwardly.

“Yeah, I’m just trying,” I replied. “So, do you have the pages about the grey wolf?” I asked, bringing the conversation back to the topic.

“The Grey Wolf, a mystery in itself,” the old man began, almost zoning out. “You know, I have spent most of my life curious about wolves. I would go from pack to pack, place to place, meeting those said to be unique and different.”

He paused, reminiscing about his adventurous years.

“But there was one wolf I could never figure out. Every time someone told me about a Grey Wolf, I went there, and it was gone by the time I arrived.”

He flipped through the pages of the diary.

“Look, these packs all once claimed to have a Grey Wolf. I never came across one myself. I only heard stories.”

He stopped and glanced at me, noticing my puzzled expression.

“So

you

don’t have any information on the Grey Wolf? Then what did you write in the book?” I asked, watching him nod with appreciation, as if he was glad I cared about his work.

“I did write about it,” he continued, “but only what I heard from the witnesses. Later this year, I realized I wasn’t satisfied. I needed to see one for myself, to finally write about it, to know how the wolf would respond to stress, pain, anger, joy, sorrow, all of it.”

The old man looked heartbroken, as if his life‘

biggest mystery had slipped away.

Behind him, I noticed awards covering the wall and shelves.

“All these, I won during my research on wolves. They are my pride,” he said proudly. “I never got married, never had children, never even had a girlfriend, never found my mate. This was my passion, the only thing I cared about,”

He spoke with pride, and his achievements were truly impressive, but I couldn’t understand how someone could be so devoted to his work that he gave up everything else.

Still, I supposed everyone had their own choices.

“Wow, you must have been very popular back then,” I commented.

He nodded happily.

“Yeah, kids these days aren’t so interested in learning about their origins. But I was a curious child. And look at

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this empty box.”

He pointed toward the box.

“The council told me that if I could find information about the Grey Wolf, they would give me a lifetime medal and call me the Father of Werewolves, the one who knows everything about them.”

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