Chapter 9
Blake’s head snapped up, hope flaring in his bloodshot eyes.
“Lena, I was blind before–I thought I was just some
st some repayment for Grandfather’s debt. But I see clearly now. I’ll spend the rest of my
life making it up to you.”
His trembling fingers brushed my doorstep. “We’re still young. We can have more pups-
The slap echoed through the porch before I even realized I’d moved.
“You’re still trampling on everything we had!” My voice shook with decades of pent–up fury. “Of all the ways to rebel against your family, why choose this? Why break me? Because I was the easiest target?”
This Alpha never understood that everything was irrevocably lost. Our love had long been shattered by his own hands, just like our two daughters. It was all too late–forgiveness could never bridge the chasm created by death’s cruel measure.
Tears carved paths through the stubble on his hollowed cheeks. The great Alpha reduced to silence.
I tried to smile. Failed. Saltwater betrayal spilled down my face instead.
“If you’re truly sorry, Blake Wilder, then let me go. Let our daughters rest in peace.”
“The band is already severed. Sign the deal or don’t -I’m never coming back.”
The door slammed so hard the windowpanes rattled.
Dawn revealed an empty porch. Just the bond–breaking deal lying there, his signature slashed across the bottom like an open wound.
When I met Sierra at the Moonbeam Café weeks later, the silence between us weighed more than the sugar cubes she kept stirring into untouched tea.
The updates came haltingly:
The Obedience Den–shuttered. Its torturers now facing lifetime pack bans.
Blake–found unconscious in a liquor–flooded bedroom, his wolf howling so loudly neighbors thought it was a rogue attack. The healers diagnosed something even silver bullets couldn’t fix a soul sickness.
As for Hannah? A neat stack of embezzlement records saw her incarcerated before her abortion scars had even healed.
Sterra’s fingers twitched toward mine. “He asks for you in his lucid moments. Would
you-
“No.” The word left no room for negotiation
She exhaled through her nose “Grandpa warned me not to come. Said reopening wounds helps no one. But I needed shaky breath. “You’ll always be family. And I pray someday, and you’ll find it in your heart not to hate him.”
The coffee turned to ash on my tongue.
you
to
know…”
Suddenly I was eighteen again, watching golden–hour light gild Blake’s blush as he whispered: “Fated or not, I choose you.”
Had he meant it?
It didn’t matter now.
I drained my cup and stood, the chair screeching like a dying animal.
No promises. No lles.
Just the truth neither of us could outrun:
Sorge wounds never heal.
Never.
