“A mistake—”
“A failure of the ritual—”
Their voices blur together, skepticism and fear crashing over one another, but I barely hear them. Because suddenly, everything makes sense. I felt the pull the moment I opened my eyes and saw her standing beside the hospital bed. The way my wolf calmed in her presence. The way my body reacted every time she touched me, or every time I touched her. The pain of walking away from her two years ago, pain that never dulled, never truly healed.
It wasn’t merely a coincidence.
It was fate.
I wasn’t protecting her by leaving. I was rejecting my mate.
My hands curl into fists against my sides as realization settles like a blade between my ribs. The valley may doubt. The council may resist.
But Sophie Torres is my fated mate, and this time, I can’t run. This time, I won’t let fear make the choice for me. This time, I will have to claim her.
There’s no escaping fate, even if none of us know what this means for the greater threat that lies ahead.
Chapter 4 - Sophie
I leave the hospital later than I should, the sky already bruised into deep blues and blacks that tell me I’ve misjudged time again. Sundays do that to me. They stretch and warp, heavy and slow, until the night arrives without warning and I’m suddenly standing outside with my bag slung over my shoulder, wishing I could peel the day off my skin and leave it behind.
I hate Sundays. I’ve hated them ever since that one particular Sunday that broke my life cleanly in two, though I’ve never said it out loud. Sundays carry too much quiet, too much space for memories to creep in where they don’t belong.
As I step into the cold night air, the automatic doors slide shut behind me, and I feel that familiar tightening in my chest. The subtle dread that has nothing to do with my double shifts and everything to do with the way Sundays end comes creeping back, and no amount of working seems to take my mind off what happened.
The memory haunts me as vividly as his face was in that dream last night, except it wasn’t a dream, and more like a nightmare. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves and push aside his memory, shaking my head as I look up.
The streetlights hum softly above the nearly empty road, their glow reflecting off the asphalt as I walk toward the crossing. My feet ache, my shoulders feel permanently hunched from hours of holding myself together for patients who needed me—probably less than I offered, but I gave my all just to distract myself—and all I want is to go home and disappear into sleep.
Instead, a sensation crawls up my spine, quiet but insistent, like fingers trailing just close enough to be felt. I slowinstinctively. The feeling is unmistakable. I feel it prickling the fine hairs at the back of my neck. I’m not alone. Someone is watching me. I tell myself I’m overtired, that my nerves are fried from too many emergencies and not enough rest, but my pulse betrays me, thudding harder as I approach the curb.
That’s when I see him.
He’s standing on the opposite side of the street, directly beneath a streetlight as if the universe itself decided to shine a spotlight on him. For a moment, my brain refuses to process what my eyes are seeing. My heart slams violently against my ribs, the breath ripping from my lungs so fast that it leaves me feeling dizzy, as if the world around me is spinning. Or maybe I am.
No.
It can’t be. Not here. Not now. Not on a Sunday, of all days.
Damian stands there like he never left my life at all, hands in the pockets of a dark jacket, posture achingly familiar, broad shoulders squared as if he’s bracing for impact. He looks solid. Real. Too real to be believable that he’s there. I blink once, then again, then a third time, waiting for him to vanish the way stress-induced hallucinations are supposed to.
He doesn’t.
My feet lock in place, the street suddenly feeling too wide, too exposed, as if crossing it would tear something open that I’ve spent two years stitching closed. I don’t know if he’s looking at me or past me, and I don’t want to find out. If I cross the street, I’ll confirm that he’s real, and I don’t think I can survive that confirmation—not with everything Sundays already take out of me.
So, I turn sharply, heart pounding in my chest, and duck down the narrow alley beside the building, telling myself I’m being ridiculous, that there’s no way he’s really there. He hasn’t shown his face for two years, so why would he now?
Shaking my head and hugging my chest more tightly, I slip further into the alley, the darkness closing in fast around me, swallowing the streetlights, and the cold deepens, biting through my clothes with a sharpness that makes my skin prickle.
Something cold and wet brushes my arm, and I stop in my tracks, my breath misting in front of me as I gasp in shock.
The sensation is so wrong, so utterly unnatural, that for a split second, it feels like my body empties. My breath locks in my throat, terror flooding my veins as every instinct screams danger, and yet my muscles refuse to move. I don’t even have time to scream before strong hands wrap around my waist and yank me backward with brutal force.
Heat crashes into me, solid and undeniable, as I’m pulled out of the alley so quickly that my feet barely touch the ground. I gasp, panic flaring, but the grip doesn’t hurt; it anchors me into a strange sense of safety. Whoever has me moves with frightening speed and certainty, dragging me into the open street as if they know exactly what they’re doing.
When we hit the glow of the streetlight, I tear myself free and spin around, fury surging in to replace the shock, because anger is easier than fear, easier than the sudden ache cracking my chest open. And there he is. Damian Hans, breathing hard, blue eyes sharp and alert in a way that sends a chill straight through me. I snatch my arm back and glare at him accusingly, furious, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to steady it.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” I demand. There’s no need to be pleasant or amicable. Not when seeing him again,after two years, resurfacing the memories I thought I’d buried. I was only fooling myself; I can see that now. My anger is directed at him, but it’s also there because I thought I was stronger—strong enough to withstand seeing him again without melting inside.
