He rocked the headset look.
Even so, Dev pulled it off his head as his sister's ranting in French reminded him of his mother's and an unexpected surge of grief tore through him. How he missed the sound of his mother bitching at him in French....
Who would have ever thought? Of all the things to miss.
I must be sick in the head. And yet his mother's sharp voice haunted him from the past.
You need to grow up, Devereaux.... You're not a cub anymore. Haven't been one in over two hundred years. Why you bait your brothers so and make me lose my mind? Mon Dieu! You are ever my bane when you misbehave. Just once, can't you counsel your tongue and do as I ask? How can we rely on you if you insist on acting like a boy child? Did you learn nothing? Dev flinched as he saw her face in his mind while she read him his daily riot act.
It was a face he'd never see again and a voice that would one day all too soon fade completely from his memory.
How he hated change.
For over a hundred years, he'd taken his post at Sanctuary's door, watching as all manner of beings came and went. A sentinel in more ways than one, he'd let the humans pass without stopping them. But to the preternatural patrons who came here, he always explained the rules of Sanctuary and interrogated them to determine how much of a threat they'd be if they attacked--as well as determine who their allies were.
Just in case.
Now he stood post to make sure their enemies didn't finish destroying the club they'd only just put back together from the fight that had scarred them all.
I miss you, Maman. He missed his father just as much.
Stuff they could replace. Boards could be nailed back in place and counters remade. Smoke damage repaired.
But his parents...
They were gone forever.
And that made him furious as more grief racked him. It'd taken all of his strength not to go after the lycanthrope pack that had attacked them. If not for the knowledge of it causing the Omegrion--the ruling council for the werebeasts--to hunt down his remaining family and kill them in retaliation, he wouldn't have hesitated. But that he could never chance. He would not be responsible for the death of a single family member.
Not even his brother Remi.
He'd seen too many of his family killed in front of him....
I really want to leave.
It was a thought that was becoming more and more appealing. Ever since they'd reopened Sanctuary after the battle and fire, he'd been struck hard with wanderlust. The only reason he'd stayed here as long as he had was that his mother had asked him to remain with the family and help protect his younger sister.
Now that his mother was dead and Aimee was mated...
Staying wasn't as necessary as it'd been before. Every day he felt the pull to leave and make his own way in the world. He was a bear and it was the nature for most males to find a mate and start their own pack.
What am I doing here?
They didn't really need him. When the battle had come to their door, they'd learned fast just how many allies they had. And that number had been impressive. Sanctuary would stand forever. He didn't have to stay here to protect the door.
And yet...
I really hate change.
You're just restless. You'll get over it. You'll see. Besides, he didn't want a mate. Ever. Life was difficult enough trying to please himself. Gods help him if he ever had to try and please someone else.
It was just so much had happened over the last few months that it'd shaken his foundation. He felt lost...like his moorings had been sliced and he was left adrift without an engine or paddle. He'd never dealt well with change and so many changes had been thrust on him that he just wanted to leave it all behind and start fresh somewhere else.
Find someplace where he felt like he belonged again--even if he had to go to the past to do it. Someplace where he wasn't looking for his parents to come around the corner or be sitting in their favorite seats. Where memories didn't haunt him.
Or more to the point, hurt him.
The roaring sound of a racing bike broke through his melancholy thoughts as it approached from down the street. It was a Busa. He could tell by the throaty groan of the engine--they had a unique sound that was unmistakable to anyone who knew their bikes. Many of his Were-Hunter brethren used motorcycles as a means of transportation, including him and his brothers. Unlike a car, it was easier to teleport with their powers, and on the street, there was nothing faster that could maneuver out of the way of their enemies.
Or after them.