They Only Felt the Bond After I Died

The cold stone floor of the wine cellar pressed against my cheek, but I couldn't feel it anymore. I floated three feet above my own corpse, watching the blood pool beneath my head grow sticky and dark in the dim light filtering through the basement window.

My neck was a mess of torn flesh where fangs had ripped through skin and muscle. The wine rack I'd crashed into still bore traces of my blood, dark droplets staining the expensive bottles my father collected. Three hours. I'd been dead for three hours, and no one had even noticed I was missing.

Above me, the main house blazed with light and laughter. Through the floorboards, I could hear the clink of champagne glasses and the murmur of congratulations. Father was throwing Ivy her Luna announcement party—my little sister was finally getting everything she'd ever wanted. The Alpha of the neighboring pack had chosen her as his mate, and tonight was her moment to shine.

I tried to move toward the stairs, but my spirit felt tethered to this basement, to my broken body lying in its pool of congealing blood. The irony wasn't lost on me. Even in death, I was trapped in the shadows while my family celebrated upstairs.

The basement door creaked open, and heavy footsteps thundered down the wooden stairs. My brother Conner's familiar scent filled the air—pine and aggression, always aggression.

"Harper!" His voice echoed off the stone walls. "Where the hell are you hiding now?"

I watched him scan the wine cellar, his eyes passing right through my translucent form. He didn't even glance at the dark corner where my body lay crumpled between two wine racks. The shadows were too deep, and he was too focused on his anger to look carefully.

"Typical," he muttered, turning to stomp back upstairs. "Playing her stupid disappearing act on Ivy's big night."

I followed him up, my spirit drifting behind his solid form. The main floor was a stark contrast to the dark basement—crystal chandeliers cast warm light over elegant guests in formal wear. The scent of expensive perfume and catered hors d'oeuvres filled the air. Pack members from both our territory and the neighboring one mingled freely, their voices creating a pleasant hum of conversation.

Ivy stood in the center of the living room, radiant in a flowing silver gown that caught the light with every movement. Her dark hair was swept up in an elaborate style, diamond earrings—our mother's earrings—sparkling against her neck. She was everything a future Luna should be: beautiful, confident, beloved.

Conner pushed through the crowd toward my bedroom. I drifted after him, watching as he shoved open my door without knocking. My room was exactly as I'd left it that morning—bed unmade, clothes scattered across the chair, my journal lying open on the desk.

He grabbed the leather-bound book, his eyes scanning the page. I'd been keeping track, marking off days like a prisoner counting down to freedom. Today's entry was simple: the number 99.

"What kind of weird shit is this?" Conner flipped through several pages, all containing nothing but numbers in descending order. 100, 99, 98, 97... He didn't understand. How could he? He'd never bothered to pay attention to my life when I was alive.

With a disgusted snort, he tossed the journal to the floor. The pages fluttered open, revealing months of my careful countdown. Ninety-nine days until my eighteenth birthday. Ninety-nine days until I could legally leave this pack and never look back.

Now I'd never see that day.

Conner pulled out his phone and hit my number. Somewhere in the wine cellar, my cell phone buzzed against the stone floor next to my lifeless hand. Up here, he heard nothing but my voicemail greeting.

"Harper, you little bitch," he snarled into the phone. "I don't know what game you're playing, but you better cut it out right now. Ivy wants her blueberry macarons—you know, those fancy French cookies you're always making to show off? She wants them for her Luna night, and you're going to make them."

He paced across my small room, his boots leaving muddy prints on the carpet. Through my window, I could see more cars arriving, their headlights sweeping across the front yard.

"I'm giving you one hour," Conner continued, his voice rising with each word. "One fucking hour to get your ass back here and into that kitchen. This is Ivy's night—the most important night of her life—and if you do anything to ruin it, I swear to the Moon Goddess, I will make you regret it for the rest of your miserable existence."

He ended the call and stormed back toward the party. I tried to scream at him, to tell him I was dead in the basement, but no sound emerged from my spectral form. I was nothing but a silent observer now, watching my family continue their celebration while my body grew cold below their feet.

Back in the living room, Father had climbed onto a chair, raising his champagne glass high. Beta Marcus Mills commanded attention even in a room full of powerful wolves. His silver hair was perfectly styled, his expensive suit tailored to perfection.

"Friends, family, honored guests," he began, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. "Tonight we celebrate not just my daughter Ivy's engagement, but the strengthening of bonds between our packs."

Applause rippled through the room. Ivy beamed up at him, her future Alpha standing proudly beside her with his arm around her waist.

"Some of you may have noticed that my other daughter isn't here tonight," Father continued, and my spirit tensed. "Harper has always been... difficult. Prone to dramatic gestures and attention-seeking behavior."

A few guests chuckled knowingly. They'd all heard the stories—Harper the troublemaker, Harper the disappointment, Harper who never quite fit in.

"But tonight isn't about her tantrums," Father said firmly. "This time, no one is going to chase after her or beg her to come back. Let her sulk wherever she's hiding. Let her miss this important family moment. Maybe a little hunger and loneliness will teach her some respect."

More murmurs of agreement from the crowd. I watched Ivy's face—did I see a flicker of concern there, or was it just the champagne making her eyes bright?

"She'll come crawling back tomorrow morning," Father concluded, raising his glass higher. "They always do. Now, let's toast to Ivy and her bright future!"

The crowd cheered and drank, and I felt something inside my spirit break all over again. Even dead, I was still the family disappointment. Still the one they could dismiss and ignore.

But Father was wrong about one thing. Tomorrow morning, when the guests were gone and the house was quiet, someone would finally venture down to the wine cellar. They'd smell the sweet, sick scent of decay drifting up through the floorboards.

Then they'd find me, and they'd realize that some disappearances aren't just teenage rebellion.

Some disappearances are permanent.