My Husband Took Our Son's Life

Ronan's face, which had initially shown a flicker of guilt, hardened in an instant. His expression turned cold as he instinctively positioned Adeline behind him, shielding her while his eyes darkened with accusation. "Anastasia, what are you doing? She’s your sister!"

I locked eyes with Adeline, barely restraining my rage. "You better watch your mouth."

Adeline widened her eyes, feigning innocence as she leaned closer to my mate, her presence making my wolf bristle with unease. "Alpha, I don’t want to come between you two. If my sister refuses to admit that Kieran is faking his illness, then I’ll just drop it."

Disbelief surged through me. My brow furrowed as I turned to Ronan, my voice shaking. "You think Kieran is faking it too?"

His silence was answer enough. He didn't believe me. He never did.

Then, I caught him scanning the room, his eyes searching for our son. But Kieran was nowhere in sight. "Where did you hide him this time?" His voice dripped with suspicion, laced with an accusation that cut me deeper than any blade.

If only he came home more often, he would see the reality—the table littered with medicine bottles, the never-ending pile of medical reports from our wolf healers, the sleepless nights Kieran endured. But instead, he chose to believe Adeline's lies—the poisonous words that painted Kieran as a manipulative child rather than the sick, fragile boy he truly was.

I remembered the day Kieran confided in me, his small voice trembling as he told me he didn’t have much time left. His last wish was simple: to see the ocean one final time. He had always been enchanted by the sea, mesmerized by its endless waves and mysteries—a love passed down from the stories his late grandmother used to tell him. But we lived far from the coast, and the only way to make his wish come true was to get Ronan to agree.

So I had begged him. No, I had humiliated myself—kneeling before him, clutching the fabric of his pants as I pleaded. "Please," I had whispered, my voice breaking. "This will be the last thing I ever ask of you. I swear… after this, I’ll set you free."

Ronan had looked down at me then, something flickering in his gaze. Was it relief? Satisfaction? I couldn't tell. "You mean that?" he had asked, his voice void of warmth, calculating.

"Yes," I had murmured, closing my eyes as tears streamed down my face, feeling the last remnants of my dignity shatter.

The bitter truth was that when Ronan was young, he had lost his parents in a rogue attack, leaving him a lone wanderer. I could still recall the day I found him—a frail, half-starved boy lying unconscious on the forest floor. I had been just a child myself, playing among the trees, when I stumbled upon him. He was nothing but skin and bones, his body covered in grime, his lips cracked from thirst.

My heart had clenched painfully at the sight. "You poor thing," I had whispered, brushing aside the tangled strands of hair from his dirt-streaked face. "You must be starving."

His hollow eyes had flickered open, filled with a fear that spoke of countless nights spent alone. Something in me had fractured at that moment. I couldn’t leave him there. I couldn’t let him die.

Reaching for his frail hand, I had pulled him up with all the strength my small arms could muster. "Come with me," I had said, my voice filled with quiet determination. "I’ll take care of you."

When I brought him home, my parents—Alpha Theron and Luna Faye Leclair of the Obsidian Howl Pack—had been wary. My father’s stern voice still echoed in my memories. "Anastasia, he’s a stranger."

But I had refused to back down. "Please, Father," I had begged, desperation tightening my throat. "He has no one else. If we don’t help him, he’ll die!"

My mother, always the gentler soul, had looked at Ronan with quiet pity. "Theron," she had murmured, placing a hand on my father’s arm. "He’s just a child."

Even then, my father had hesitated, his expression unreadable. He had not been easily swayed. And so, I had done the only thing I could think of—I went on a hunger strike.

For days, I refused to eat, growing weaker with each passing moment. But I had remained steadfast, determined to prove that I would not relent until they agreed. Eventually, my father had sighed in resignation. "Alright, Anastasia," he had said, his voice laced with reluctance. "We’ll take him in."

That day, I had thought Ronan became my brother.

Or so I had believed.