My Mate's Vanishing Truth

Dr. Kenzo Brooks, the healer who had been overseeing Alpha Wesson Hansen’s treatment for the past three years, handed me a stack of papers as I sat in his office. The room was sterile, the faint scent of antiseptic lingering in the air, but it did little to calm the unease settling in my chest.

"Luna Freya," he began, his voice measured but serious, "over the years, Alpha Wesson has often murmured your name in his sleep. We suspect he might have unresolved feelings toward you. Please take a look."

I stiffened, my grip tightening on the armrests of the chair. "That’s impossible," I replied immediately, my tone sharp. Alpha Wesson and Luna Zhuri had always been deeply devoted to each other, their bond as strong as the day they marked one another. And Damien and I—we had been mated for seven years, our relationship unwavering until Ryan’s tragic passing.

"Please, don’t be upset," Dr. Brooks said gently, though his calm demeanor did little to soothe me. "These are just our observations. The documents contain specific details. See for yourself."

Reluctantly, I opened the files. They were filled with Alpha Wesson’s diagnosis and treatment records, and my name appeared frequently throughout. Dr. Brooks had highlighted three key documents, and I began with the first—a transcript from a hypnosis session.

"Alpha Wesson, who is the most important person to you?" the healer’s voice echoed in the transcript.

"Freya," came the response, clear and unwavering.

"Why? Isn’t she your daughter-in-law?" the healer pressed.

"She isn’t. She’s the one I care for deeply."

My hands trembled as I read the words. Under hypnosis, werewolves rarely lied—it was a truth universally acknowledged among our kind. But I couldn’t reconcile this with the man I knew. Alpha Wesson had always been a pillar of strength, a leader who adored his mate and respected the bond Damien and I shared.

I forced myself to move on to the next document, a psychological test filled out by Alpha Wesson. The question caught my eye: "What do you think of your son?"

The answer was brief: "He is a part of me."

I frowned, turning to Dr. Brooks. "What’s wrong with this response?"

"The answer itself is fine," he explained, "but the handwriting is different. It’s unlike the rest of the answers in the test. We compared it with other samples, and it clearly matches your mate’s, Alpha Damien."

My stomach churned. "My mate’s handwriting?"

"Yes," Dr. Brooks confirmed, though he offered no further explanation. "We can only guess at the reasons."

The third document was a manuscript, chaotic with scribbles yet eerily deliberate. Phrases leaped out at me: "Tell her." "Can’t do that." "Will wake up." Encouraged by Dr. Brooks, I noticed the handwriting seemed to be from different individuals, the strokes distinctly varied. Then, in a corner even Dr. Brooks had overlooked, I found two words: "Wait for me." It was my handwriting.

Leaving the office, I felt disoriented, as if the ground beneath me had shifted. Dr. Brooks patted my shoulder reassuringly as I left. "It’s common for our patients to exhibit these traits. Don’t let it get to you, or you’ll drive yourself crazy. It might be a prank."

But his words barely registered. An increasing unease gnawed at my mind, and I walked aimlessly, unconscious of time passing. My wolf stirred faintly in the back of my mind, a silent presence that offered no comfort. Eventually, I found myself standing before a slightly open hospital room. The door bore the name "Alpha Wesson Hansen."

As I was about to enter, I peered through the crack. What I saw jolted me awake.

Through the gap, I saw a sophisticated, almost otherworldly machine, with a young man at its center. It was my mate, Alpha Damien, but he looked much younger than he had when I’d last seen him. Metal tubes protruded from his head, and the sight sent a wave of nausea crashing over me.

My heart tightened, and I rushed to open the door. But the moment I did, Damien vanished from the hospital bed, leaving only the hum of machines in his wake.

A nameless fear crept over me as I approached the bed, my steps unsteady. The various machines in the room were all operational, their displays flickering with numbers. And as I neared that peculiar bed, I found a sheet of paper. It was a handwritten manuscript—in my handwriting.