Mia POV

When my eyes opened, the first thing they registered was an unfamiliar mottling of light on the ceiling. A heavy woollen blanket was tucked tightly around my body, its weight a suffocating presence. The memories from before I lost consciousness were like scattered beads from a broken string, until the faint clink of a skillet on the stove from the kitchen pulled reality back into focus. I pushed the blanket away, my bare feet meeting the cool wood of the floorboards.

Dreams had pulled me back into the past. I was seven years old again. A massive, feral rogue wolf was charging at me, its jaws snapping. A young Ethan jumped in front of me, taking the bite meant for my throat. His blood splashed on my face.

Then, the dream shifted. I was eighteen. It was my first Shift. I stood in the forest, trembling. Ethan walked up to me. The moment his fingers brushed my arm, the Recognition Ritual hit us. His scent came first, a violent snowstorm mingled with the sharp perfume of crushed cedarwood. Then a physical surge, my blood turning to boiling liquid in my veins, my heart a trapped bird hammering against its cage of ribs. A profound sense of peace washed over my wandering soul, a feeling of absolute completion. My inner wolf roared in my mind, a deafening sound: Mine! Finally, the electric touch; where his skin met mine, sparks of pure lightning danced, sending violent shivers down my spine.

He looked at me, his eyes wide, and stuttered, “Y-you... you are my mate.”

A sharp ringing sound shattered the dream. I woke up with a gasp. It was a message through the Mind-Link.

Mia, Ethan's voice echoed in my head. It is too late. I am dropping Tiffany off at her apartment. Do not wait up.

I stared at the dark ceiling. I picked up my phone. I typed: Did you get the cake? I stared at the words for a long time. Then, I slowly deleted them. I typed: Okay.

I closed my eyes, and cold tears slipped down my temples.

The next morning, I woke up in our large bed. I was covered in thick blankets. He must have carried me here in the middle of the night.

I got out of bed and walked to the kitchen. Ethan was standing by the stove, cooking eggs. On the center of the dining table sat a huge, beautiful matcha cake.

He turned and saw me. He immediately released a wave of Alpha pheromones. It was a heavy, pine-scented aura meant to soothe and comfort an Omega. “Morning,” he smiled, using a teasing, affectionate tone. “You are getting heavy, you know? My arms hurt from carrying you.”

He was trying to recreate the warm mornings we used to have. I looked at the cake. He had remembered after all. I felt a tiny, pathetic flicker of hope. I reached my hand out to open the cake box.

Smack! Ethan slapped my hand away. He hit me hard enough to leave a red mark on my pale skin.

“Do not touch that,” he said, his voice suddenly cold. I pulled my hand back, staring at the red skin. “I woke up early to buy that for Tiffany,” he explained, turning back to the stove. “She loves matcha.”

The flicker of hope turned to ash.

“If you are hungry,” he pointed to the large refrigerator, “there is a nutrient potion in the door. Drink that. You look pale.”

I walked to the fridge and opened it. I picked up the glass bottle. The moment I unsealed the cap, a sharp, metallic scent hit my nose.

Silver. Silver is the only element that can severely harm a werewolf. It burns our skin and poisons our blood.

Memories from when I was eighteen flooded my mind. Ethan had carelessly bought a cheap healing potion for me. It was contaminated with traces of silver and wolfsbane. I drank it. My inner wolf was ripped to shreds. I lay in the Healers' ward for three days, screaming blood, almost dying.

I turned to look at him. “Ethan,” I said, my voice completely flat. “Do you remember what happened when I was eighteen?”

He frowned, flipping an egg. “What do you mean?”

“This potion contains silver,” I said.

He froze. He looked at the bottle, then at me. A brief flash of genuine horror crossed his eyes, his posture stiffening as the memory threatened to surface. But then he blinked, and the artificial fog of Tiffany's lingering scent—a cheap mimicry of my own younger pheromones—seemed to wash over him again, burying his guilt under layers of Alpha pride and sheer carelessness.

“Oh,” he said lightly, shrugging his shoulders. “It's just a generic healing potion from the supply closet. I grabbed whatever was on the counter. You know I don't check the labels, Mia. Just throw it away and eat some bread.”

He forgot. He almost killed me once, and he forgot.

I looked at the bottle, then at the man. A strange, peaceful silence filled my heart. The last thread holding my soul to his simply vanished.

“Okay,” I said quietly. But inside, my wolf began to stir—not in pain, but in preparation.