The White Wolf He Rejected For A Mistress

Caroline POV:

Three days later, I was back in the Pack House. I signed myself out Against Medical Advice. Staying in that hospital, surrounded by the scent of antiseptic and pity, felt too much like lying in a morgue. I moved like a ghost through the hallways of the mansion I had designed but never truly lived in.

I found Blake in his study. He was pacing, his pheromones sour with irritation.

He stopped when he saw me. He didn't ask how I was. He didn't look at the bandages wrapping my shoulder where the silver burns were still raw.

He was holding my diary. The one detailing my "Escape Plan"—logistics, bank accounts, safe houses.

"Is this a joke, Caroline?" He tossed the notebook onto the mahogany desk. It landed with a heavy thud. "Running away? It's a pathetic ploy for attention. Typical of a latent wolf. You have no wolf spirit, so you resort to human dramatics."

He didn't know my wolf was dead. He thought I was just 'latent'—a wolf who had never shifted. He didn't know I was a White Wolf, a rare bloodline that matured late. Or rather, I had been.

"It's not a ploy, Blake," I said, leaning against the doorframe for support. My leg was still weak. "It's a notification."

"I am the Alpha of the Blood Moon Pack," he growled, his eyes flashing gold. "I have a duty to protect the weak. Ariana has a damaged wolf soul. She cannot shift. She needs me. You... you are capable. You are an architect. You are strong. Why are you so jealous of a woman who has lost everything?"

"I lost my child three days ago, Blake," I said softly.

He froze. For a second, genuine confusion crossed his face. "What?"

Before he could process it, a mental scream tore through the room. It was Ariana, projecting via the Mind-Link so loudly that even I, with my severed connection, could feel the psychic backlash.

Blake! Help! The gallery! They threw fire! The Rogues!

Blake's head snapped up. The confusion vanished, replaced by instant, conditioned panic. Fire was the one thing wolves feared almost as much as silver.

"Ariana," he breathed.

"Blake, wait," I said, stepping forward. "We need to talk about the baby. About the blood you refused to give."

"Not now!" He roared, pushing past me. The force of his shoulder clipped my injured arm. I gasped, stumbling back. "She's in danger, Caroline! Get out of my way!"

He sprinted down the hall.

I opened my phone and opened the digital backup of the Ledger.

He abandoned the conversation about his dead child for her false alarm.

-10.

I limped after him. I had to see it. I had to see the choice he made with my own eyes.

By the time I reached the downtown art gallery, smoke was billowing from the entrance. It wasn't a Rogue attack. I could smell the accelerant—commercial gasoline. Rogues didn't use gas; they used magic or brute force. This was staged.

Blake didn't care. He rushed into the flames.

I stood by the curb, the heat licking at my face. Minutes later, he emerged. He was carrying Ariana bridal style. She was coughing, clinging to his neck, but she was spotless. Not a burn on her.

"Oh, Blake, I was so scared," she wailed, burying her face in his chest.

Above them, the structural beam of the gallery entrance—weakened by the fire—groaned.

"Look out!" I shouted.

Blake looked up. He saw the beam falling. He saw me standing in its path. He saw Ariana in his arms.

He pivoted. He used his Alpha speed to shield Ariana, turning his back to the debris.

The burning wood crashed down. It missed him. It hit me.

A heavy, flaming chunk of timber struck my thigh, knocking me into the gutter. The embers seared through my jeans, burning into the skin that was already struggling to heal from the silver poisoning.

I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood to keep from screaming.

Blake looked over his shoulder. He saw me lying in the ash. His eyes widened.

"Caroline?"

"My lungs..." Ariana whimpered in his arms, though her breathing was clear. "The smoke..."

Blake looked at me, then at the woman in his arms. He tightened his grip on her.

"Medics will be here in two minutes," he said to me, his voice tight. "Stay there."

He turned and walked away, carrying the unharmed mistress to the ambulance, leaving his wife burning in the gutter.

I pulled my phone out with shaking hands.

He walked through fire for her. He left me to burn.

-20.