Silver Wolf's Second - Mate Bond

The cottage reeked of mildew and abandonment.

I stood in the doorway, clutching the single bag that held everything I owned—everything Michael hadn't already thrown away or given to Paisley. The structure sagged like it had given up years ago, its roof patched with mismatched shingles, windows clouded with grime. This was where they sent omegas who'd failed their pack. Where they stored broken things.

Where they'd sent me.

My leg throbbed as I limped inside, each step sending sharp pain up my spine. The floorboards creaked ominously under my weight. One room. A sagging bed frame with a stained mattress. A rusted sink that dripped brown water. No heat. The November wind whistled through gaps in the walls I could see daylight through.

I set my bag down and felt my knees buckle. I caught myself on the bed frame, but barely. The severed mate bond pulsed like an open wound in my chest, constant and agonizing. Three days since the rejection, and it hadn't dulled. If anything, it burned hotter.

*Wolf?* I called inward, desperate. *Please. Talk to me.*

Silence. She'd gone dark the moment Michael threw the necklace into the lake. Dormant. Maybe dying. Maybe already dead.

I was alone. Truly, completely alone.

The days blurred together after that. I couldn't eat—everything tasted like ash. Sleep came in fitful bursts haunted by dreams of Michael's face as he stepped over me, walked away, chose her. I'd wake gasping, the phantom pain of the breaking bond fresh all over again.

My body weakened rapidly. Without my wolf's healing, the old leg injury flared worse than it had in years. I could barely walk to the cottage's single window without needing to rest. My reflection in the grimy glass showed a stranger—hollow-eyed, gaunt, fading.

Part of me wondered if this was how it would end. If I'd simply disappear in this forgotten cottage, and no one would notice until the smell became a problem.

On the fifth day, I heard footsteps outside.

I dragged myself upright from the bed, my heart—stupidly, desperately—leaping. Maybe Michael had come. Maybe he'd realized—

Paisley pushed open the door without knocking. She wore a cream cashmere sweater and designer jeans, her blonde hair perfectly styled. The artificial vanilla scent rolled off her in waves, so thick I immediately started coughing.

"Oh good, you're alive," she said, wrinkling her nose as she surveyed the cottage. "I wasn't sure. You look absolutely dreadful, Ashley."

I said nothing. I had no strength for whatever game she was playing.

She circled the small space like a predator, running one manicured finger along the grimy windowsill. "I just wanted to check on you. Make sure you were... settling in." Her smile was poisonous sweetness. "It's cozy, isn't it? Perfect for someone of your new status."

"What do you want, Paisley?"

"Want?" She laughed, high and cruel. "Nothing from you. You have nothing left to give." She moved closer, and the artificial scent intensified until I could barely breathe. "I wanted to thank you, actually. For making it so easy. Michael needed someone strong by his side, not a broken toy limping around, reminding him of his failures."

The words hit like physical blows, but I refused to let her see me flinch.

"That limp," she continued, tilting her head in mock sympathy. "Does it hurt? After all these years? Must be exhausting, dragging that useless leg around. No wonder Michael finally saw sense."

My hands clenched at my sides. My wolf stirred—barely, weakly—at the insult, but couldn't rise to defend us.

Paisley pulled something from her designer purse. My journals. The ones I'd kept for twenty years, filled with letters to Michael I'd never sent. My private thoughts, my hopes, my breaking heart documented over decades.

"I found these in your old room," she said, flipping through one carelessly. "Such devotion. Such pathetic, desperate devotion." She met my eyes. "I'm going to burn them. Tonight. At the bonfire celebration."

"Those are mine—"

"Were yours." She tucked them back in her purse. "Everything you were is gone now, Ashley. You're nothing. A broken omega in a broken cottage. And soon, everyone will forget you ever existed."

She left in a cloud of that sickening vanilla scent, her laughter echoing even after the door slammed shut.

I collapsed onto the bed, shaking. Not from anger. From the horrible realization that she was right. I was fading. Disappearing. My wolf silent, my body failing, my entire identity erased.

Three weeks crawled by.

I forced myself to move, to function, driven by pure stubborn refusal to die in this cottage. When word reached me that a pup in the lower pack houses was sick—fevered, weak—I gathered what little strength I had. I was still a healer. That, at least, Paisley couldn't take from me.

The forest near the border held the herbs I needed. Silverleaf and moonblossom, growing deep in the shadowed places. I'd gathered them a hundred times before.

But I'd never been this weak before. This hollow.

The walk to the forest edge took twice as long as it should have. My leg screamed with every step. My senses, normally sharp, felt dulled and distant. I couldn't smell the usual forest scents properly. Couldn't hear the bird calls that should have warned me.

I found the silverleaf growing in a small clearing and knelt awkwardly, my bad leg refusing to cooperate. The herbs blurred in my vision. When had I last eaten? Yesterday? The day before?

I didn't smell them until they were already there.

Rogues.

Four of them, surrounding the clearing. Their scents hit me all at once—unwashed, feral, hungry. My wolf tried to rise in warning but couldn't, still dormant, still dying.

I struggled to stand, but my leg gave out. I fell hard, herbs scattering from my trembling hands.

The largest rogue stepped forward, lips pulling back from yellowed teeth.

"Well," he growled. "What do we have here?"