Chapter 3

During my coma from the severe injuries, I kept reliving what happened six years ago.

The memories came flooding back like a tide, as vivid as if they had happened yesterday.

Six years ago, the Hale family was on the verge of collapse. It was the darkest period in werewolf society, when conflicts between families had reached a boiling point.

The old Alpha of the Hale family—Nathan's father—was a highly respected werewolf leader.

But that very status made him a target for other ambitious families.

That winter, after a pack council meeting, the old Alpha was ambushed.

It was a night of bloodshed. Werewolves from rival families had lain in wait, ready for the old Alpha's convoy to pass.

They used weapons forbidden among our kind—silver, the only thing that can truly harm a werewolf.

The old Alpha died on the spot. Nathan was gravely wounded.

I received the news while abroad, in the middle of my final interview for healer certification.

The moment I heard Nathan was hurt, I didn't even finish the interview. I booked the first flight back immediately.

By the time I reached the Hale family's medical center, Nathan had been in a coma for three days and nights.

He lay in the hospital bed, his face pale as paper. Bandages covered his body, the worst wound a slash from shoulder to chest—left by a silver dagger. The skin around it had turned an unnatural grayish-black, the telltale sign of silver poisoning.

What made it even more terrifying was that his wolf was teetering on the edge of losing control.

The healers surrounded his bed, their expressions grave.

The head healer, an elderly man, shook his head. "His wolf is too powerful. Without consciousness, he can't control his beast. If we can't find someone capable of calming him, he'll completely lose control within three days and become a mindless creature of slaughter."

In that state, a feral Alpha would become a threat to the entire pack.

When that happened, the pack elders would have no choice—for everyone's safety, they would have to put him down.

The Hale family was devastated. No one could calm a feral Alpha. That required extraordinarily powerful pheromones and absolute trust.

What Nathan needed most at that moment was a special life-mate.

Werewolves have a traditional—and forbidden—life-mate bonding ritual. A life-mate's pheromones are the only thing that can truly calm an Alpha on the brink of losing control. But it creates a connection on the soul level—a bond that binds lives together.

I stood by his bedside, looking at Nathan lying there unconscious. Beads of cold sweat dotted his forehead. His brow was furrowed in pain, and occasionally he would let out agonized whimpers—sounds that tore at the heart, like a wounded lone wolf crying out for a companion.

I remembered a pack gathering where Nathan had once helped me—when I was being tormented for being unable to shift back to human form.

He was just a boy back then. He got all scuffed up chasing away my tormentors, but his eyes were bright and clear when he looked at me and said, "Little Quinn, your wolf form is really beautiful."

That was the first time my heart stirred for him.

Now, the boy who had once made my heart race lay in a hospital bed, hovering between life and death.

I turned to the Hale family elders. "I'm willing to become his life-mate."

Everyone froze.

The old healer frowned. "Miss Clara, do you understand what that means? The life-mate bond is extremely painful. You'll have to use your own life force to sustain his wolf. It will cause permanent damage to you."

"I know," I said, my voice calm. "But I'm willing."

"Why?" Mrs. Hale—Nathan's mother—grasped my hand, tears in her eyes. "Child, you're still young. You don't have to sacrifice yourself for our family."

I looked at Nathan on the bed and said softly, "Because he's Nathan. I can't just stand by and watch him die."

That night, with the pack elders as witnesses, I completed the mate ritual with the unconscious Nathan.

It was the most forbidden and sacred rite among werewolves. I bit open my own wrist and let my blood drip into his mouth, establishing the initial blood bond.

Then I wrapped my pheromones around his wolf, teetering on the edge of madness, and slowly, inch by inch, pulled him back from the brink.

The process was agony beyond description.

A feral Alpha's wolf nature is violent, dangerous, aggressive. My pheromones weren't strong enough; I had to use my own life force to calm him.

I stayed by his side for an entire month, feeding him my blood every day, warming him with my body heat, soothing him with my pheromones.

For that month, I barely slept. The moment I let my guard down even slightly, his wolf nature would stir, trying to break free of control. I had to constantly release my pheromones, using my life force to anchor his sanity.

I lost twenty pounds. My hair fell out in clumps. My nails became brittle and yellowed.

The pack healers warned me repeatedly: if I kept this up, I would permanently damage my foundation. I might even lose my wolf form entirely.

But I persevered.

Because I could see it was working. Nathan's wounds were slowly healing. His wolf nature was gradually settling. His breathing went from ragged to steady. The color returned to his face.

One morning, a month later, sunlight streamed into the hospital room. I had slumped over the edge of his bed, on the verge of losing consciousness from exhaustion. Suddenly, a warm hand stroked my hair.

I jerked my head up and saw Nathan's eyes open.

He smiled weakly, his voice hoarse. "Who are you?"

"I'm Clara," I said, tears streaming down my face. "Clara Quinn. I'm your... your wife."

*Wife?* He looked startled for a moment, then his gaze fell to the mark on my neck—the mate mark he had instinctively left while unconscious, proof that we had completed the bond.

He was silent for a long time. Then he took my hand gently and said, "Thank you, Clara. I will fulfill my duties as your mate."

In that moment, I thought I had won my gamble.

In the days that followed, Nathan treated me well. He gave me everything I wanted. He defended my position within the pack. The alliance between the Quinn and Hale families became the most powerful force in werewolf society.

But he never loved me.

His tenderness was gratitude. His care was obligation. His mark was duty.

He never fell for me. Never let me see his wolf. Never completed a true soul bond with me.

Our marriage was built, from the very beginning, on nothing but my one-sided love.

And now, six years later, with Iris's arrival, he had finally found someone he was willing to lose control for.

The cruel irony was this: in Nathan's mind, my six years of devotion had been twisted into calculated deception.

He believed I had forced myself on him as his mate while he was unconscious. That I had schemed against him. That I had exploited the Hale family's crisis.

And Iris—the lone wolf who claimed to have saved his life—was his true benefactor.

How bitterly ironic.