I Returned from the Dead to Destroy My Mate

The seamstress's needle pricked Isla's waist for the third time in as many minutes, drawing a sharp intake of breath that she quickly stifled. She stood motionless on the raised platform, arms extended like a scarecrow, while yards of ivory silk pooled around her feet. The Luna ceremonial gown—her Luna ceremonial gown—felt more like a costume than a dream come true.

"Could you hold still, dear?" Mrs. Hunt's voice carried that particular edge of disappointment Isla had learned to recognize before she could walk. Her mother sat in the velvet chair by the window, one hand pressed to her temple as if Isla's very existence caused her physical pain. "You're making this impossible for poor Margaret."

"Sorry," Isla whispered, though she hadn't moved. She never moved during these fittings. Three years of caring for a blind mate had taught her the art of becoming invisible, of taking up no space at all.

Chloe reclined on the fainting couch—because of course there was a fainting couch in the seamstress's room—one delicate hand draped across her forehead. Her adopted sister had arrived twenty minutes late, claiming a headache, yet somehow managed to commandeer all of their mother's attention.

"The neckline is too severe," Chloe murmured, her voice breathy and soft. "It makes Isla look so... harsh. Don't you think, Mother? A Luna should appear gentle. Approachable."

Isla caught her reflection in the full-length mirror. The dress was beautiful—intricate beadwork cascading down the bodice, sleeves that would catch the moonlight during the ceremony. But Chloe was right. The high collar did make her look stern. Unapproachable. Everything a Luna shouldn't be.

"You're absolutely right, darling." Mrs. Hunt rose from her chair, circling Isla like a vulture assessing carrion. "Margaret, can we soften this? Perhaps a sweetheart neckline instead? And the waist needs to be taken in another two inches. Isla, have you been eating properly? You look bloated."

Isla's wolf stirred restlessly beneath her skin. She hadn't eaten properly in weeks. The Fading Wolf Syndrome had stolen her appetite along with her energy, leaving her hollow and weak. But she couldn't tell them that. Couldn't admit that her mate's indifference was literally killing her.

"I'll adjust my diet," she said instead, keeping her voice level. Agreeable. The way a good Luna should sound.

Chloe sat up slightly, wincing as if the movement pained her. "Oh, Isla, I didn't mean to criticize. You know how I worry about you. You've been working yourself to exhaustion taking care of Alpha Orion. Perhaps you should rest more? Let others help?"

The suggestion was poison wrapped in silk. If Isla stepped back from caring for Orion now, weeks before their ceremony, the pack would whisper. They'd question her devotion. Her worthiness.

"I'm fine," Isla said, though her reflection in the mirror told a different story. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. Her cheekbones had grown sharp, her collarbones prominent beneath pale skin. She looked like a ghost wearing a wedding dress.

"Well, you don't look fine." Mrs. Hunt's fingers dug into Isla's shoulder, turning her roughly. "Honestly, Isla, the entire pack will be watching. Can't you make an effort? For once?"

For once. As if Isla hadn't spent the last three years making nothing but effort. As if she hadn't abandoned her singing career—the voice that had made her famous throughout the werewolf territories—to become a full-time caretaker. As if she hadn't poured every ounce of her soul into a mate who could barely stand to touch her.

"I'll try harder," Isla heard herself say, the words automatic. Hollow.

Margaret cleared her throat uncomfortably, pins bristling from between her lips. The older woman had been the pack's seamstress for forty years. She'd seen everything, heard everything. The pity in her eyes made Isla want to scream.

"There now, almost finished," Margaret said gently, making one final adjustment to the hem. "You can step down, dear."

Isla descended from the platform carefully, her legs unsteady. The dress whispered against the hardwood floor as she moved toward the changing screen, desperate to escape the suffocating attention.

"Oh, before you go—" Chloe's voice stopped her. "Could you bring Alpha Orion his afternoon coffee? I know you make it just the way he likes. I tried yesterday, but he said it wasn't quite right."

The request landed like a slap. Chloe knew Orion's coffee preferences. Had been learning them, apparently. Practicing.

"Of course," Isla said, because what else could she say? She was the devoted mate. The selfless Luna-to-be.

Twenty minutes later, Isla carried a silver tray down the Alpha wing's corridor, the scent of dark roast coffee mixing with the lavender oil she'd added—Orion's favorite combination. Her hands trembled slightly, exhaustion pulling at her bones, but she steadied herself. She could do this. She'd done this a thousand times before.

She was three feet from Orion's study when his voice drifted through the heavy oak door. Her enhanced hearing picked up every word with crystalline clarity.

"I'm telling you, Marcus, I can't keep pretending." Orion's voice carried a frustration she'd never heard directed at her, but had often felt radiating from him during her care. "The ceremony is in two weeks, and I feel nothing. No spark. No desire. Nothing."

Isla froze, her wolf going utterly still.

"You accepted the bond," Marcus Sullivan's voice—Orion's father—was sharp. Impatient. "You have a duty."

"Duty." Orion laughed, the sound bitter. "Yes, that's all it is. Duty and gratitude. She took care of me when I was helpless, and now I'm trapped in a bond I never wanted. But my heart, my wolf—everything in me yearns for Chloe. Her gentle spirit, her softness. That's what a Luna should be. Not this... obligation."

The tray slipped from Isla's fingers.

The crash of shattering porcelain echoed through the corridor like a death knell, coffee spreading across the marble floor in a dark, bitter pool. Isla stared at the mess, her mind unable to process what her ears had just confirmed.

Her mate didn't want her.

Had never wanted her.

And he wanted her sister instead.

The study door flew open. Orion stood in the threshold, his newly restored eyes—Tommy's eyes, though she didn't know it yet—widening as he took in the scene. Isla, trembling and pale. The destroyed coffee service. The truth hanging in the air between them like smoke.

"Isla," he said, and even her name sounded like a burden in his mouth. "How long have you been standing there?"