Chapter 1
Leila
The sterile scent of antiseptic stung my nostrils, mingling with the metallic tang of my own blood. I lay on the operating table, its cold surface biting into my skin through the flimsy gown, a slab of ice beneath a dying flame.
Pain tore through me, each contraction a jagged blade twisting in my gut.
I was 27, a Lycan Princess, and yet here I was, unraveling on this frigid bed, my life seeping out in crimson rivers. The room hummed with the relentless beep of machines, a mocking pulse against my fading one.
I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms, but the physical agony was nothing compared to the hollow ache gnawing at my soul.
With the last scraps of my strength, I reached out through the Mindlink, my mental voice a frail whisper -
“Lucas, please.”
The plea trembled in the dark expanse of my mind, but it met only silence, a wall as unyielding as stone.
He had blocked me again, severed the bond that should have tethered us.
My mate, my Alpha, had cast me aside like a discarded rag. Too weak to try again, I rasped his name aloud, “Lucas,” the sound barely a breath, scraping past my dry lips. The nurses flinched, their pitying eyes darting away as if my despair were contagious.
One of them, her face soft and lined with sorrow, fumbled with my phone and dialed his number.
My keen Lycan hearing caught the double ring before his voice sliced through the line, sharp and cold as a winter wind. “What is it?” he snapped.
Beyond his words, I heard the sultry wail of jazz, the clink of glasses, the murmur of careless laughter. The Royal Country Club. He was there, sprawled in luxury, no doubt with Josephine draped across him like a prize pelt. Her scent - sickly sweet, like overripe fruit - seemed to coil through the phone, taunting me. My fists tightened, the beep of the machines quickening as rage flared hot in my chest. That green-tea bitch, stealing what was mine, flaunting it for five wretched years.
“How many times have I told you not to call me?” Lucas’ voice was a lash, each syllable dripping with disdain.
My heart shattered, fragments scattering like glass across the floor of my mind. The nurse’s voice trembled as she spoke, “Alpha Lucas, your wife is about to die due to heavy bleeding. Please come and see her for the last time!”
A trill of laughter spilled from the receiver - Josephine’s, bright and brittle as breaking crystal. “What’s wrong, Luke? Who’s so ignorant to call you so late?” she cooed, her mockery a needle in my raw wounds. More laughter followed, his friends’ voices weaving a tapestry of indifference.
Five years I’d endured it - the whispers, the sidelong glances, the shame of being the Luna whose mate paraded his mistress openly. And now, as I bled out, childless and broken, he wouldn’t even grant me a final glance.
The nurse’s eyes widened, pleading, but Lucas’s reply was a death knell.
“Call me when she dies,” he said, his tone flat, final, a blade driven through the last thread of hope I’d clung to. The phone slipped from her hand, clattering to the floor, and I turned my face away, unable to bear her pity. What had I done to earn such hatred? The pain - physical, searing, and the deeper, soul-crushing kind - swallowed me whole. The machine’s beep stretched into a long, piercing wail, and I died, hatred burning in my veins like wildfire.
Darkness folded around me, and my life flickered past in jagged shards. I saw myself as a child, the Lycan King’s spoiled darling, twirling in silk dresses, my laughter ringing through the halls. Then came Lucas, his shadow falling over my college years, his presence a thrill that set my heart racing. At the full moon ball, when the mate bond snapped into place, joy had flooded me, pure and bright. But our wedding night stained that memory - his eyes, once promising love, glinted with possession, control. After that, every look he gave me was laced with disdain, every touch a claim rather than a caress. Five years of sleepless nights, of loneliness so thick it choked me, of shame I swallowed like bitter wine.
My body grew lighter, the pain fading as cold, brilliant moonlight enveloped me. I knew this rite - the Return to the moon, the werewolf’s final journey. The Moonlight Goddess would judge me, cleanse my sins, and let me dissolve into eternal light. I braced for it, resigned, when a voice broke through, warm as a summer breeze. “Why are you here?”
Tears welled in my eyes, spilling over. “I couldn’t win my mate’s love,” I choked out. “I couldn’t give him a child.”
The moonlight shifted, forming hands that brushed my tears away, tender as a mother’s touch. “Leila, my child,” the voice said, “you are too young, too sad, too angry. You should not die now.”
“I hate that I lived my whole life for a heartless mate!” I cried, the words tearing free. “If I could do it again, I’d never repeat that mistake. I’d live for myself!”
A wave of light surged into me, warm and alive, flooding my cold, empty shell. “You have my blessing,” the voice murmured. “Go back. Rewrite your life. This time, live for yourself.”
-
The moonlight vanished, and my eyes snapped open. The air smelled of fresh linens and faint lavender, a stark contrast to the blood and antiseptic of before. I lay in a bed, soft and familiar, the Luna’s chamber in Lucas’ house.
Tina, my maid, stood beside me, her voice cutting through the haze. “Luna, tonight Alpha Lucas will take you to the auction. Please choose a dress that suits you.”
I stared at her, then at the room - the carved wood, the drapes, the layout unchanged from five years ago. My gaze darted to the mirror. My face was younger, unlined, my body whole and strong.
I pinched my leg, the sharp sting grounding me. It hurt. It was real. I was reborn, tears of disbelief and gratitude pooling in my eyes.
Damn, I’m back.
