When My Mate Chose His Mistress

My lungs burned with every breath. The cold spring wind sliced through my thin clothes as I ran deeper into the dark woods. I didn't care about the boundary lines. I didn't care about the warnings Conrad always gave about the southern border. I just needed to get away from the pack house. I needed to escape the scent of vanilla and the memory of Buster's tail thumping happily against Elsie's floor.

Tears blurred my vision. Branches whipped across my face, scratching my cheeks, but I didn't slow down. The mate bond inside my chest was screaming. It felt like a physical chain, pulling me back toward a male who had just replaced me without a second thought.

A dry twig snapped loudly to my left.

A low, guttural growl vibrated through the trees. I skidded to a halt. My boots slipped on the damp, dead leaves.

Three massive wolves stepped out of the shadows. Rogues. Their fur was matted with dirt and dried blood. Their yellow eyes were hungry and wild. They had been testing the Black Moon Pack's weakened perimeter, looking for an easy target. I had just run right into their trap.

Usually, my inner wolf would rise to the surface. She would bare her teeth and prepare to fight. But inside my mind, there was only a terrifying, hollow silence. She was already gone. Watching Conrad give away our dog to his chosen mate had been the final blow. My gentle wolf had curled into a tight ball of pure agony and shut down completely.

The lead rogue lunged.

Heavy paws slammed into my chest, knocking the air from my lungs. Claws tore through my shirt and sliced deep into my shoulder. I hit the frozen ground hard. My head cracked against a hidden rock, making my vision swim with black spots.

The physical pain was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the agony of my shattered soul. As the rogue's jaws snapped toward my throat, the last thread of my consciousness gave way. I didn't fight back. I didn't cry out for my mate. I just closed my eyes and let the dark water pull me under.

***

Vague sensations drifted through the blackness. Angry shouts in the distance. The heavy thud of pack warriors' boots hitting the dirt. The sharp scent of blood and crushed pine needles.

Then, absolute silence.

I opened my eyes.

The ceiling was stark white. The harsh smell of rubbing alcohol and bitter healing herbs hung heavy in the air. A steady beep echoed from a heart monitor near the bed.

I didn't panic. I didn't cry. The weeping, broken girl who had run blindly into the woods was gone. She was buried deep, resting in a dormant sleep where no one could ever hurt her again.

I am Demi.

I had been waiting in the cold shadows of this mind for fifteen years. I was born in a pitch-black rogue den when a terrified eight-year-old girl realized her father wasn't coming to save her. I was the part of her psyche that fractured off. The part that didn't need to be loved. The part that only needed to fight back.

I sat up slowly. My right shoulder throbbed, wrapped tightly in thick white bandages. I noted the pain, but I didn't care about it. Pain was just data.

I turned my head and scanned the room. Two doors. One led to the main pack hallway, the other to a sterile supply closet. There was one large window on the far wall. We were on the first floor. A clear, easy exit if I needed it.

I raised my hand. My fingers brushed the side of my neck. The mate mark. The raised silver scar that bound this body to Conrad Black. Layla used to touch it like a sacred prayer. I dragged my fingertips over it like a soldier inspecting a shrapnel wound. It was an ugly liability. But looking at the closed door, I realized it was also a weapon. A very sharp one, if used correctly.

The door handle clicked.

I dropped my hand to my lap and sat perfectly still.

A man walked in holding a silver clipboard. Soren Ashby. The pack healer. He had kind eyes and a quiet, steady demeanor. He closed the door softly behind him and turned toward the bed.

"Layla," he said gently, stepping closer. "You're awake. Try not to move too much. The rogues got a good swipe at your shoulder before the border patrol reached you."

I didn't answer. I just watched him.

Soren reached out to check the IV line taped to my wrist. As he leaned in, his eyes met mine.

He froze.

His hand stopped inches from my arm. The clipboard in his left hand trembled slightly. Soren was a healer. He was trained to read auras and sense shifts in energy. He knew the soft, submissive warmth Layla always carried into a room.

That warmth was gone. I let my aura slip out, just a fraction. It was cold, dominant, and heavy. It didn't ask for permission. It commanded the space, pressing against his chest like a physical weight.

Soren swallowed hard. He took a slow, deliberate step back. The kindness in his eyes shifted instantly into deep, instinctual caution. He realized in a heartbeat that the wolf looking back at him was not the one he knew.

"Who are you?" he whispered. His voice was tight.

"I am the one who woke up," I said.

My voice was smooth, flat, and completely steady. There was no trembling. No leftover tears.

Soren's chest rose and fell in a sharp breath. He didn't push the question. He was smart enough to know when he was standing in the presence of a predator.

"Who else has the right to be in this ward?" I asked. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to.

Soren blinked, still staring at me like I was a dangerous stranger wearing Layla's skin. Because I was. "Just me," he answered carefully. "And my medical assistants."

"Has anyone else been notified?"

He gripped his clipboard tighter, his knuckles turning white. "The border patrol reported the attack directly to the Alpha. Alpha Conrad is on his way right now. He should be here any minute."

I looked away from Soren. I turned my gaze toward the heavy wooden door that led to the hallway. My pulse didn't flutter. My heart didn't ache. I felt absolutely nothing for the male walking toward this room, except a cold, calculating anticipation.

He broke my other half. Now, I was going to break him.

"Good," I said quietly.