A Mate's Revenge

“Selena.”

He said my name like he was testing it on his tongue, checking if it still meant anything.

I lifted my eyes to the rearview mirror and met his stare—flat, still, unreadable. My face didn’t move. Not a twitch. I gave him nothing.

But he didn’t need words.

He remembered.

I used to hum to the old chants under my breath. When the others rolled their eyes, I kept singing. Not loud—just enough. Reverent. Intimate. Like I was offering something. Like I believed it mattered.

I said those harmonics were older than any of us. That they carried the pulse of something not dead yet.

And now?

I sat in silence, arms folded, coat zipped to the throat. A passenger. A body. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak.

But silence has weight, and mine wasn’t gentle. It pressed into the car, made the air taste like metal.

Trixie’s fingers shifted on the steering wheel, subtle, but telling. His jaw moved, just once, like he was grinding back words he didn’t want to let loose.

Then his hand darted forward, sharp and certain, and killed the chant mid-breath.

The quiet that replaced it wasn’t relief. It was severance. Like snapping a cord you’ve been holding too tight.

Debbie didn’t notice. Or maybe she did, but she chose not to acknowledge it. She adjusted her seatbelt, patted the curve of her stomach like it might start a conversation.

“I was thinking Elara, if it’s a girl,” she said, all breathy enthusiasm. “Has a moon ring to it, right? Elara Jagger. Strong, but pretty.”

She laughed—light, practiced, just a bit too loud for the space. A laugh she’d used before. Probably with him.

Beside her, Trixie’s face didn’t flinch. Didn’t nod. Didn’t turn.

He wasn’t there with her.

Not really.

He stared ahead like the road was gone and he was still driving.

But his eyes found me again, briefly, in the mirror. A glance that didn’t ask anything outright. Just lingered, as if staring long enough might draw out a response I didn’t have to give.

I looked back at him, expression blank.

No hatred. No warmth. Just silence.

Because whatever thread used to bind us—it had thinned.

The wolf in me no longer responded to his voice.

Outside, the gravel slowed under the tires. The forest peeled back to reveal the outpost. Fog pressed against the windows, thick and damp, like breath on glass. Somewhere above, unseen, the mountain loomed—quiet, sharp, waiting.

Two guards stepped forward, dressed in slate-black armor, hands behind their backs. They didn’t speak. Just nodded once to Trixie and opened the reinforced steel door. It slid aside with a dull grind, the weight of it vibrating faintly through the car floor.

Inside, the air changed.

Everything was clinical. Sharp. Cold.

White lights buzzed softly overhead, and the walls were painted that sterile shade of not-white, the kind that made your skin itch if you looked too long. You could smell the burn of silver in the air—thick, biting, like it wanted to crawl into your lungs.

Dr. Hemlock appeared without ceremony, gliding from the corridor like something exhaled by the building itself. Tall, pale, sharp-edged in a way that made you think of scalpels. His gloves still steamed from whatever sterilization bath he’d dipped them in. The scent that clung to him wasn’t just disinfectant—it was processed death.

“Alpha Trixie,” he greeted, nodding without warmth. “We’ve run five trials this week. Tissue sample batch 29-B is showing faster-than-expected cellular regrowth. She’s still yielding. Remarkably.”

He didn’t look at Trixie when he said it. He looked at me.

I didn’t meet his stare.

Trixie did.

His expression didn’t shift, but something behind it did. His voice came out quiet, even.

“Results only.”

Hemlock didn’t push. He adjusted his clipboard, spine rigid, tone clipped.

“There’s a problem. The anomaly in her blood—the regenerative curve—is unraveling. We’re past the peak. Every minute we wait, we lose viability. At this rate… there’ll be nothing left to study. No recovery window.”

He paused. Glanced again at me, more careful this time.

“We’re reaching the end.”