Pursuing My Rejected Luna by Cara Anderson novel Chapter 262

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Ch. 32

Noah

I’m broken. Like, literally broken. My brain refuses to work properly and I have no fucking idea why.

I’m leaning against the wall, in the middle of the hallway of all places, trying to read the message on my phone for the third time because I’m so distracted the words won’t make sense. What that distraction might be… I choose not to examine too closely.

So here I am, in the last place anyone should think to look for me, when Liam appears from nowhere like some sort of apparition sent to haunt me. He has dirt on his knees and a smudge on his cheek, like all little boys should. I hide my smile behind my hand until I can manage to school my expression.

He has something clutched in both hands and he’s marching down the hall with the purposeful air of a small person who has an agenda and is determined to execute it.

He doesn’t see me at first, too focused on whatever he’s carrying–paper, I realize, folded crookedly, the edge pointing out at all angles. He’s looking at the floor ahead of him with the concentration of someone transporting something fragile. Something precious.

Then he looks up and stops dead in his tracks. He stares up at me, a judgmental look in his eye like a tiny little juror deciding if I’m guilty of something. A dry chuckle escapes at that thought because, let’s face it, I probably

1. am.

“Are you the Alpha?” he asks, scrutinizing me from head to toe.

“Yes,” I nod. “Guilty as charged.”

“My mama says you’re the person who decides things.” He scrunches up his little nose as if something about that doesn’t seem quite right to him. And on days like today, same little man, same.

“Your mama is right.”

He thinks about this. Nods once, apparently satisfied that the information is confirmed. But he doesn’t leave. Just stands there, watching me.

What does it say about my Alpha that this four–year–old little boy’s critical gaze makes me want to squirm? Lucky for me, no one has to know.

He holds out the paper he’s been clutching. I take it and unfold it curiously. It’s a crayon drawing–three figures of the kind that establish importance through size. A medium figure in the middle, a small figure to the left, and a taller figure on the right. All of them have faces that are essentially circular with features added. All of them are standing in what might be a house or might be a field; the background is ambiguous at best.

“That’s Mama,” Liam says, pointing at the medium figure. “That’s me.” The small one. “That’s you.”

That’s the last thing I expect him to say and I’m pretty sure I just choked on my spit. Because where the fuck would he get an idea like that?

I look at the drawing for a moment, like it might hold the answer to why I’ve been included in a four–year–old’s family portrait. I have no vocabulary befitting a response to this category of event.

“You made me a drawing,” I mumble instead.

“You gave me your toast, so I made you a picture.” He shrugs as if gifting me with a picture after feeding him bread is a logical sequence of events. He pauses, apparently organizing the next item on his list. “Mama says you

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decide who stays.”

she’s right about that too.” I answer carefully, not entirely comfortable where this conversation may be leading. Why do I get the distinct impression I’m being managed by a preschooler?

“We want to stay.” He states matter–of–factly. No argument or list of reasons why. Just that.

“So you like it here?” I crouch down to his level, wondering why I’m engaging in this conversation even as I ask the question. And why is it suddenly so important to me that he does?

“I love it here!” He exclaims. “I can eat whenever I want and Mara gives me snacks between meals so I never get hungry. Theo is my friend. I like to play with him. And nothing leaks here.”

“That is important.” I agree, my heart clenching just a bit at the thought of him living somewhere less safe and dry.

He nods again but he still doesn’t leave. Apparently he has multiple items to cover with me and he hasn’t checked them all off his list quite yet. I wait patiently for him to decide the next topic but it feels like ants crawling under my skin when his face darkens, my Alpha screeching at me to fix it.

“She cries sometimes,” he finally says what’s on his mind and the ants calm immediately, my Alpha hanging on his every word. “When she thinks I’m asleep,” he adds. “I’m not always asleep.”

“Does she,” Not a question but he takes it as one anyway.

“Yeah.” He sighs, looking at the drawing in my hands. Not at me–at the drawing. “I think she’s trying hard.” He says it with the gravity of a four–year–old who is far too aware of adult problems for his age. And he’s not asking for my agreement. Just delivering his assessment to the person he’s decided needs to hear it. “She makes mistakes but she tries. I thought you should know.”

He looks up again, meeting my eyes. Then he walks away, back toward wherever he came from.

But I find I still can’t move from this stupid hallway.

Cara Anderson Author

Thank you for reading! I want to let you know I am traveling out of the country and will be helping care for a family member for the next couple of months. I will do my best to maintain a consistent updating schedule but please be patient with me if I should miss here and there. Thank you!

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Ch 33