Alphas didn’t feel pain. They didn’t feel loss. They sure as hell didn’t show it. He’d needed to get away from the leather binder lying open on the desk and the dark recollections it stirred. Memories wrapped around his throat like fingers, tightening into a slow choke. As if it were yesterday, not thirty-some-odd years ago, he shuffled into this very same office and stopped at the sight of silent tears tracking down his father’s unshaven face. One by one, drops splattered onto his mother’s photo. Greg looked up at the sound of his approach, eyes red and instantly furious. Peter stood straighter, holding his father’s gaze despite what he’d been taught. Features hardening and fists balling, his father went into a rage. The first of many to come. He pushed up from his chair, his bulk and height an imposing force. Growling low in his throat, Greg hurled the nearly empty whiskey bottle he clutched. Heavy glass collided and shattered at the wall a few feet from where Peter stood.
