Micah’s POV
I stared at the last letter my mother gave me before I left home.
“I hope you’ll realize how wrong you are, my princess. When that time comes, come back to your mother…”
She was right. She had always been right. Tears blurred my vision. I missed her so much—her voice, her warmth. Mama, I wish you were here. I hope Papa forgives me for cutting ties with you.
You were right, Mama. I did love the wrong man. The wrong Were.
I grabbed a piece of paper and began to write, then whistled softly through my hand. It had been fourteen years since I last called Mon—my black hawk.
I wasn’t sure if he’d still come, but deep down, I knew he never left me.
Moments later, a dark shape glided through the sky and landed gracefully on the window sill. His sharp black eyes watched me with quiet loyalty. I fed him a strip of dried beef, and he took it gladly. I hugged him close, pressing a soft kiss on his head.
“Mon, deliver this to Mama,” I whispered.
I tied the rolled letter to his leg, and he gave me one last look before spreading his wings and flying off into the sky.
After he left, I climbed down from the attic and went back to cleaning the second floor. When I passed by Renan’s chamber, memories stabbed through me—the first time I walked in and saw him with Maurice. Their bodies entwined, his eyes meeting mine as if daring me to react.
Eight years since I discovered their affair. Eight long years. I should’ve left then. But my foolish heart kept hoping hoping that love would heal what was already dead. I tried to make it work for the sake of my sons. But all he did was tear my heart apart, piece by piece, until nothing was left.
Whatever small fraction of love I had for him was gone now. Completely gone.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. My stomach growled, but I didn’t care. It had been three days since I last ate. The only thing I’d managed to swallow was a strip of meat—for Mon.
I missed my wolf. I missed me. I wasn’t whole anymore.
The next morning, while cleaning Renan’s room, I found something on his desk, it was an invitation.
The Empire’s Grand Ball.
It was the same invitation I once dreamed of receiving. I used to imagine walking beside him in that grand hall, the entire werewolf realm watching us as I stood proudly as his Luna. But that dream never came true.
The names written on the invitation made my stomach twist.
Renan Monreer and Maurice Lorne.
It was supposed to be me.
I remembered our fights before—his excuses that Maurice was there for “pack business.” I believed him. Foolishly believed him. Until the truth became too loud to ignore.
The sound of water stopped. Renan stepped out of the bath, a towel hanging low around his waist as he dried his hair. His body was sculpted, all muscle and perfection too good-looking for the monster he really was.
“What are you staring at?” he sneered. “Look at yourself, Micah. No one would want you. You look old, thin, pale. You smell disgusting. You deserve it for killing my son.”
His words hit like venom, but I stayed silent. I had no tears left for him.
He grabbed my hair suddenly, yanking my head back. “What’s this?” he barked, eyes landing on a knife under his pillow. “Are you trying to kill me?”
The cold steel pressed against my neck.
“It’s not mine, Alpha,” I said quietly. “Why are you accusing me?”
He laughed bitterly. “Not yours? I don’t believe you. You’re a liar and a murderer.” He pushed me hard, and I fell to the floor.
“I regret ever making you my mate,” he spat. “I regret marrying you, loving you. You make me sick, Micah. You’re nothing but an evil, crazy woman.”
His words no longer cut deep. Maybe because the pain had already numbed everything inside me.
“Why would I hurt you, Renan?” I asked softly. “I still love you.”
He pinned my leg down, his grip so strong I thought he’d break it.
“Love?” he scoffed. “You think that word fixes anything? You think saying it changes what you did? You’ll never be worthy of love, Micah. Never.”
I was tired. Too tired to cry. I looked at myself in the broken mirror. My eyes were lifeless, my face pale and hollow. My brown hair was dry, tied carelessly behind me.
I used to be beautiful. I used to be cherished, pampered, loved—the daughter everyone believed would carry our bloodline’s strength.
Now, I was nothing.
Then, I heard the familiar flutter of wings. I ran to the window. Mon landed gracefully.
He carried a letter and a small pouch tied to his leg.
“Thank you,” I whispered, kissing his head.
I untied the letter and gave him two strips of meat, but he nudged them back toward me, refusing to eat. My throat tightened. My eyes stung with tears.
Mon cared more for me than the people I once called family.
I opened the letter, and the moment I saw my mother’s handwriting, the tears finally fell.
