"How could I?" I blurted out to the empty room. My knuckles turned white against the polished oak table. "Only Damon Blackthorn is my Alpha. A pure werewolf should only love their Fated Mate for life."
No response. The grandfather clock ticked in the corner.
"Show yourself," I demanded, spinning around.
Silence.
I pressed the heels of my hands against my temples. This wasn't the first time. That strange, dark whisper had plagued my mind multiple times over the past few weeks. It always struck when Vivian Ashford was around.
Just two weeks ago, Vivian had strutted into our estate for a dinner meeting.
She bypassed the guest chairs entirely. She slid right into my designated seat at Damon’s right hand. She leaned over, pressing her chest against his arm while pointing at a map on the table.
I didn't cause a scene. The Ashford family controlled the werewolf commercial markets. Damon needed their trade routes. A proper Luna didn't disrupt her Alpha’s business. I quietly moved to the lower end of the table.
Vivian swirled her wine glass. She looked down the mahogany surface at me.
"Serena," Vivian said, a sickly sweet smile stretching her red lips. "You look exhausted. Running this house must be so taxing for an ordinary human."
"I manage just fine," I replied.
"Do you?" She tilted her head. "Because the person truly suited for Damon has always been me. Everyone in the pack knows it."
I kept my eyes on my empty plate. "Damon chose me as his wife."
"Out of obligation," Vivian countered. "Wolfless werewolves deserve to die. You drag down the entire pack's strength."
She took a sip of her wine, her eyes gleaming with malice.
"If I gave birth to a pup like that," Vivian added, "I'd strangle it myself at birth. It's a mercy, really."
My fingers curled into my palms. My nails dug into my skin.
Then, the voice slithered into my mind.
*"Stare at that dining knife."*
I blinked, my eyes darting to the silver blade resting beside my napkin.
*"Pick it up. That spoiled brat can't fight you. Kill her."*
A foreign heat rushed through my veins. My muscles tightened. An unknown, violent energy pulsed under my skin, begging to be released. My hand twitched toward the silver handle. My fingers brushed the cold metal.
"Enough," Damon snapped.
I flinched, pulling my hand back.
He didn't look at me. His gaze remained fixed on the map. "Stop with the pointless talk. Let's discuss next year's partnership map."
The strange energy evaporated instantly. My shoulders slumped. I felt entirely drained, as if I had just run ten miles.
I convinced myself I was losing my mind. The stress of this marriage was finally breaking my brain. I needed a doctor.
The next morning, I grabbed my purse from the hallway console. I had an appointment at the pack clinic.
The front door swung open. Noah bounded inside, giggling wildly. Vivian followed right behind him, carrying a stack of designer shopping bags.
"Mom, bring fruit," Noah ordered. He dropped his jacket on the floor and kicked his shoes off. "Pour some tea for Aunt Vivian."
I stepped over his discarded coat, picking it up. "Noah, hang your things up. And I can't right now. I booked a hospital appointment for today. I need to leave."
Vivian scoffed. She tossed her glossy hair over her shoulder and dropped her bags on the sofa.
"Still dreaming of curing your wolf?" she asked, crossing her arms.
"I am going for a regular checkup," I said.
"Stop dreaming," Vivian mocked. "Without your bloodline and luck, you wouldn't even be fit to tie my shoes. You are a genetic dead end."
I gripped my purse straps tighter. "This is my house, Vivian. You don't get to speak to me that way."
Vivian smirked. She picked up a glass of cranberry juice from the breakfast cart. She maintained unbroken eye contact with me. With a flick of her wrist, she tipped the rim.
The red liquid splashed directly onto her white silk blouse, staining it instantly.
"Oops," Vivian gasped, feigning horror. "Look what you made me do."
"I didn't even move," I said.
"I have no suitable clothes now," Vivian whined, looking down at Noah. "I guess I can't go to your parent-teacher conference today, sweetie."
Noah spun around. His face flushed red with anger.
"Mom, it's all your fault!" he shouted, pointing a small finger at my chest.
I stared at my own son. "Noah, you watched her pour it on herself."
"You always ruin everything!" Noah yelled. "You make Dad mad, and now you made Aunt Vivian ruin her favorite shirt!"
"Noah, that is enough," I said, stepping forward.
He shrank back, hiding behind Vivian's legs. She placed a protective hand on his shoulder, glaring at me as if I were the threat.
"Don't yell at him," Vivian scolded. "He's just a child speaking the truth."
"He is my son," I snapped.
"Not in any way that matters," she shot back.
Noah grabbed Vivian's hand. "Aunt Vivian, go pick clothes from Mom's room."
"Noah, no," I warned. "Those are my private things. You do not invite people into my bedroom."
"She doesn't deserve to wear pretty dresses anyway," Noah told Vivian, ignoring me completely.
He turned his furious glare back to me.
"My classmates say a monster without a wolf only deserves to wear a maid's dress and kneel on the floor," Noah spat.
The hallway fell dead silent.
A cold, hollow chuckle escaped my throat. I didn't yell. I didn't cry. I just laughed. A dry, scraping sound that echoed off the high walls.
Vivian raised an eyebrow, taking a step back.
"Go ahead," I told them, waving a hand toward the stairs. "Take whatever you want."
I turned my back on my son and walked out the front door.
The clinic waiting room smelled of bleach and old magazines. I sat on the crinkling paper of the examination bed for an hour. My foot tapped against the metal step.
Dr. Thorne finally walked in. He held a manila folder. He didn't offer a greeting. He just stared at the papers, flipping a page, then another.
"Well?" I asked, my patience wearing thin. "Is it exhaustion? Stress?"
He closed the folder. He ran a hand over his tired face.
"Is it a mental breakdown?" I asked, thinking of the dark voice in my head. "Am I going crazy?"
Dr. Thorne pulled a stool over and sat down. He kept his hands folded over the manila folder.
"I wish it were that simple," he said.
"Then what is it?"
"Mrs. Blackthorn, I'm sorry."
He set the report on the metal counter. He refused to meet my eyes.
"What is it?" I pressed. "Just tell me."
"Your blood sample shows severe abnormalities," Dr. Thorne said, his voice entirely flat. "Your white blood cell count is plummeting, and there are markers we've never seen in a werewolf's chart before."
"I don't have a wolf," I reminded him. "My charts are always different."
"Not like this," he replied. "We ran the tests three times to be absolutely certain."
I gripped the edge of the examination table. "Certain of what?"
Dr. Thorne finally looked up. His eyes held nothing but pity.
"We can almost conclude this is an extremely rare, terminal illness."
The sterile white walls of the clinic seemed to close in on me. I was dying. And the only people waiting for me at home were a son who hated me and a husband who wanted me gone.
