After I Died, My Alpha Begged Me to Come Back

The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth as another wave of agony tore through my abdomen. My wolf whimpered somewhere deep inside, a broken sound that echoed the fracturing of my very soul. This was the eighteenth time. Eighteen forced terminations. Eighteen times my body had been violated, my potential children ripped away before they could even form.

The stone bed beneath me was cold, unforgiving, much like the pack healer who stood over me with clinical detachment. Elder Moira's weathered hands moved with practiced efficiency, but I could see the concern creeping into her ancient eyes as she pressed a blood-soaked cloth against my lower abdomen.

"The bleeding won't stop," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. But in the suffocating silence of the healing chamber, every word rang like a death knell.

My vision blurred, darkness creeping in from the edges. Through the haze, I heard the soft beep of Moira's communication device as she placed the call I'd been dreading.

"Alpha Ryker," her voice was steady, professional. "Your mate's condition is... critical. The procedure has caused severe hemorrhaging. She needs immediate—"

The voice that cut through the speaker was like ice water in my veins. Cold. Distant. Utterly devoid of any emotion that might suggest he cared whether I lived or died.

"Is she dead yet?"

Four words. Four simple words that shattered what remained of my already broken heart.

Moira's intake of breath was sharp, audible even through my fading consciousness. "Alpha, she's your mate. She needs—"

"Answer the question, Moira." Ryker's tone carried that familiar edge of authority that had once made me feel protected. Now it only made me feel like prey. "Is she dead?"

"No, but—"

"Then don't call me again until she is."

The line went dead.

The silence that followed was deafening. Even Moira, who had served this pack for over a century, seemed stunned by the casual cruelty in her Alpha's words. I felt her hand tremble slightly as she pressed another cloth to my wound.

But I wasn't shocked. Not anymore. This was who Ryker had become. This was who he'd always been, underneath the facade I'd been too young and too foolish to see through.

As my life ebbed away, my mind drifted back to the beginning. To when I was eight years old and still believed in fairy tales.

I could see it so clearly now—the grand hall of my father's estate, filled with the warm glow of chandeliers and the laughter of allied pack leaders. I'd been hiding behind one of the massive marble pillars, watching the adults in their formal attire, when he'd found me.

Ryker had been twenty-five then, already an Alpha, already carrying himself with that dangerous confidence that would later prove to be my downfall. But to my eight-year-old eyes, he'd seemed like something out of a storybook—tall and strong, with those piercing gray eyes that seemed to see everything.

"What are you doing hiding back here, little wolf?" he'd asked, crouching down to my level with an amused smile.

I'd been too shy to answer, but he hadn't seemed to mind. Instead, he'd reached into his jacket and pulled out a delicate silver chain, from which hung a crescent moon pendant that caught the light like captured starfire.

"This is for you," he'd said, fastening it around my small neck with gentle fingers. "When you're older, this will protect you. A promise from me to you."

I'd touched the pendant reverently, my young heart swelling with something I didn't yet understand. "Will you really protect me?"

His smile had been warm then, genuine. "Always, Ivy. I promise."

What a lie that had turned out to be.

The memory shifted, fast-forwarding twelve years to the night that destroyed everything. I was twenty, wearing that same silver pendant, standing in the doorway of another grand ballroom. But this time, the atmosphere was different. Tense. Dangerous.

Ryker was doubled over near the refreshment table, his face pale and slick with sweat. Someone had poisoned him—a rival pack's attempt at assassination. The wolfsbane in his system was driving his wolf into a frenzy, and without an outlet, it would kill him.

Harper, his childhood friend and the woman everyone expected him to choose as his Luna, stood frozen in horror as Ryker's condition deteriorated. She loved him, that much was obvious, but she was terrified of his wolf in this state.

I hadn't hesitated. Clutching the moon pendant he'd given me all those years ago, I'd approached him with the naive belief that love could conquer anything.

"Ryker," I'd whispered, touching his fevered forehead. "Let me help you."

What followed was a night of passion born from desperation, not love. His wolf had claimed me, marked me, bound us together in ways that couldn't be undone. And in my foolish heart, I'd thought it meant something.

The next morning, Harper had found us tangled in the sheets, my neck bearing Ryker's claiming mark. The look of betrayal and devastation on her face still haunted me. She'd run from the room, tears streaming down her cheeks, and I'd tried to follow.

But I never caught up to her. None of us did.

They found Harper's body three hours later, torn apart by rogue wolves in the forest. She'd been running blind, heartbroken, and had stumbled into their territory.

Ryker blamed me. For Harper's death. For the bond that trapped him. For existing.

And for the past five years, he'd made sure I paid for it. Over and over again.

The heart monitor's steady beeping was growing fainter now, more erratic. Moira's voice seemed to come from very far away as she called for assistance, but I knew it was too late.

As the darkness closed in around me, my last coherent thought was a desperate wish: *If I could do it all over again, I would never have fallen in love with him. I would never have saved him that night.*

The long, flat tone of the heart monitor filled the room.

Then, suddenly, I was gasping.

My eyes flew open, and instead of the sterile healing chamber, I found myself staring at an ornate ceiling I recognized all too well. The scent hit me immediately—expensive cologne mixed with wolfsbane and the musk of an Alpha in distress.

I sat up abruptly, my heart racing, and turned to see him.

Ryker lay on the bed beside me, his shirt unbuttoned and clinging to his sweat-dampened skin. His face was contorted in pain, his breathing labored. The same gray eyes that had haunted my nightmares were now clouded with fever and the effects of the poison coursing through his system.

This was the hotel suite. The night everything went wrong. The night that started my five years of hell.

I was twenty again.

And somehow, impossibly, I had been given a second chance.