Three days. Three endless days of hiding in the shadows like a ghost haunting her own past, watching the man I'd mourned live a life that should have been ours.
I crouched behind the old oak tree that bordered the Moonveil pack house, my legs cramped from hours of motionless observation, my heart bleeding with each stolen glimpse of Conrad's happiness. The bark bit into my palms as I gripped it for support, fighting the constant urge to run to him, to shake him until he remembered who I was.
Who we were.
Through the kitchen window, I watched him pour coffee into two mugs—one black, one with cream and sugar. Just like he used to make mine. But now he handed the sweetened cup to Giselle, who accepted it with a radiant smile that made my chest burn with jealousy so fierce it tasted like copper.
My wolf whimpered constantly now, a low keen of anguish that never stopped. She pressed against my ribs, desperate to reach our mate, confused by his rejection, slowly going mad from the severed connection.
"You're being ridiculous," I whispered to myself for the hundredth time. "He doesn't remember you. He lost his wolf. The bond is broken."
But the rational explanations crumbled every time I saw him laugh.
Conrad threw his head back as Giselle told some story, his eyes crinkling at the corners the way they used to when I made him smile. But this laughter was different—lighter, more carefree. He looked... unburdened. Like a man who'd never carried the weight of leadership, never felt the crushing responsibility of being the future Alpha of Silvermoon Pack.
Like a man who'd never loved me at all.
Giselle rose from her chair and moved to stand behind him, her delicate hands massaging his shoulders. He leaned into her touch with such natural ease that I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and he caught her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss her palm.
The intimate gesture shattered something inside me. Conrad had never been that spontaneously affectionate with me. Our relationship had always carried the weight of duty, of expected mate bonds and pack politics. But with her, he looked... free.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the image, but it was burned into my retinas. When I opened them again, they were gone from the kitchen. Moments later, I heard Giselle's delighted laughter drifting from upstairs, followed by the unmistakable creak of bedsprings.
My stomach lurched. I pressed my face against the rough bark, letting it scrape my cheek as punishment for my masochistic vigil.
The second day was worse. I watched Conrad work in their garden, his shirt off in the afternoon sun, that familiar scar gleaming silver on his shoulder. Giselle brought him lemonade and he pulled her down for a playful kiss that turned heated, right there among the tomato plants.
He'd never kissed me like that. Never looked at me with such unguarded desire.
By the third day, I was hollow-eyed and shaking, surviving on nothing but stubborn determination and the masochistic need to understand. I'd positioned myself beneath the open window of what appeared to be Conrad's study, hoping to catch some clue, some explanation for this impossible situation.
That's when I heard it.
The familiar buzz of a mind-link connection, that subtle shift in the air that every werewolf recognized. Conrad's voice, clear and casual, as if he were discussing the weather.
"The plan worked perfectly, James. Better than we ever imagined."
My blood turned to ice. James—Beta James Ross. Giselle's brother.
"She's still playing the grieving widow?" Another voice, rougher, amused.
"Like a dream," Conrad replied, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "Myra's been managing all my pack duties, caring for my parents, keeping my memory alive with such touching devotion. It's actually quite convenient."
The world tilted sideways. My hands pressed flat against the ground, trying to anchor myself as reality shifted beneath me.
"The rogue attack was inspired," James continued. "Hiring them to make it look real, then having you 'die' during the rescue—brilliant. She never suspected a thing."
"The hardest part was not laughing when she cried over my 'body,'" Conrad said, and the casual cruelty in his voice made bile rise in my throat. "Though I have to admit, watching her pledge eternal devotion to my memory was... satisfying. She always was pathetically loyal."
"And now you get to live freely with Giselle while she maintains your pack and your reputation," James chuckled. "The perfect crime."
"The perfect freedom," Conrad corrected. "No more pretending to care about her research, no more listening to her boring theories about werewolf healing. No more duty. Just Giselle and whatever life we choose to build."
Something died inside me then. Not just my heart—that had been dying slowly for three days. Something deeper. The last shred of the woman who'd believed in mate bonds and true love and the inherent goodness of the man she'd devoted her life to.
I rose from beneath the window on legs that felt like water, my movements silent and precise. The mate bond in my chest writhed once more, then went completely still. Not severed—that would have caused agony. Just... quiet. Like it was holding its breath.
I walked back to my car without looking back, my mind crystal clear for the first time in two years. Conrad Williams was dead to me. Had been dead to me for two years, apparently. The man I'd mourned had never existed at all.
But I was very much alive.
And I had work to do.
