A Mate's Revenge

Recovering from another death escapades, my breath hitched in frustration and pain as the low inaudible voices from our vehicle was becoming clear enough.

I’ve lost count of how many times my mate has offered me to the rogue wolves in the pack. They would stab me multiple times, and on several occasions they would tie me to a bicycle and drag my body around just to please him and his mate. His damned mistress.

To be precise, this is the ninety-nineth time.

That’s how many deaths I’ve clawed my way back from—each time to the sound of his voice, colder than the winter moon, telling someone to "deal with it."

The most recent one was when he didn’t hesitate to shove me straight into the path of a rampaging rogue in its beast form. Just to shield her—his radiant Debbie—from a splash of blood.

"She’s sensitive," he growled, not even glancing at my crumpled body. "Debbie can’t stomach the scent of carnage right now."

Someone lifted my limp form and tossed it into the bed of a rusted pickup like I was just another piece of trash from the battlefield.

“Make sure she doesn’t bleed out here,” Trixie added, wiping his hands on a silk handkerchief. “I don’t want the stench fouling the ride.”

I didn’t fight. My bones cracked with every breath. I curled into the shadows, listening to the low murmur of voices, muffled by metal and dust.

“She always comes back,” someone scoffed. “Bet she’ll mutter ‘sorry’ again when she does. Ninety-nine times now, yeah?” I could easily recognize the voice. It belonged to Tisha, Debbie's evil sister.

Another voice, amused. “I’ll put fifty million on it.” That voice belonged to Chelsea, Debbie's best friend.

"That snitch..." I muttered in my quivering voice. I remember when I caught her and Trixie having sex together while Debbie was at the hospital. Foolish Debbie. I don't want to talk about how trashy they are. I let out a scoff.

They didn’t know it was remaining one last time. Death number one hundred would sever the bond. The Moon Goddess herself would let me go. I wouldn’t return for him again.

No more love. No more pain. No more begging to be seen.

When my lungs filled with air again, it wasn’t relief I felt—it was fury.

The bed of the truck reeked of rust and rot. Dried blood clung to my ribs like old paint.

From the cab came the sound of heaving. Debbie’s nausea was always louder than it needed to be.

The engine screeched to a halt. Gravel bit into the tires.

A door slammed. Trixie’s boots crunched toward me. He stared down like I was something he’d rather step over than acknowledge.

“You’re alive.”

The tone in his voice was more serious to make it a question. He was making a complaint.

“Get out. Debbie’s going pale from the smell.”

I didn’t argue. I pushed off the bed, my fingers slipping in the congealed mess beneath me.

My shirt—what was left of it—was already soaked. Still, I wiped the blood from the rusted metal as best I could. Debbie hated filth. Once, she refused to wear shoes after they touched a patch of dirt.

Trixie had forced me to crawl ahead of her, skin to stone, to keep her steps clean.

As I finished, his voice came again, low and almost… placating.

“Behave. Once Debbie delivers the heir, maybe I’ll—”

She gagged again.

And he forgot I existed. He turned, rushing back to her side, one hand shielding her swollen belly, the other brushing her hair back as though the world revolved around her morning sickness.

He barked into his comm: “Send another ride. Ten minutes.”

He was breathless—anxious, even. The last time I saw that kind of panic in his eyes was the first time I died for him.

A fight had broken out in the forest during full moon training. He’d been dragged into the lake by a feral shifter. I dove in, claws first, dragging him to the shore.

My lungs gave out. My heart followed.

He had screamed for help then. Promised anything.

“I’d trade places with her! Just bring her back!”

But that was then. Before the pattern became a rhythm.

Three deaths. Then ten. Then ninety-nine.

By the hundredth, he didn’t flinch anymore. I was just another object in his orbit, used to keep Debbie smiling.

A breeze sliced through the clearing. I stepped down from the truck, every bone aching.

“Hey.” His voice, sharp and familiar, sliced through the air behind me. “Forgot something?”

I didn’t look back.

“...Sorry.”

My voice was flat. Mechanical. He always made me say it.

Sorry for bleeding.

Sorry for breathing.

Sorry for being.

I started to walk.

Too obedient this time, I suppose. He sounded almost pleased.

“Truck’s filthy. Clean it. We’ll wait for the new ride.”

They stepped out together. Trixie kept his arm around her, shielding her like she was a crown jewel. His eyes were full of her—never once flicking toward me.

I remembered once being the one he protected.

Three moons after I conceived, my wolf pup barked at Debbie. She shrieked. Claimed trauma.

Trixie snapped his fingers. Two trained hounds were released. They didn’t stop until I couldn’t stand. Until the child inside me was nothing but a memory.

Afterward, he knelt by Debbie’s side and said, “There’ll be other children. But if I don’t punish her, she’ll never learn.”

I never conceived again. The healers said the damage was... final.

But maybe that was freedom.

I limped behind them, my steps barely audible under their laughter. The front gates opened.

The housekeeper—Mrs. Smith—stood in my way. Her eyes flicked over me, her face tightening.

“The young master said… Miss Debbie’s scent is too refined. She can’t bear the smell of blood. You know how she gets.”

I nodded. I didn’t plead.

Mrs. Smith turned on the hose.

Ice-cold water slammed into me. I hit the stone tiles, arms wrapped around my gut, barely breathing.

Ten minutes. Maybe more.

When the torrent finally stopped, I crawled inside.

Past the doors I once opened freely.

Past the rooms I once called mine.

Dripping, invisible, broken.

I found the downstairs bathroom, shut the door, and peeled off what was left of me.

Then I sat beneath the sink, knees to chest, heart to silence.