Though only his back was visible, I recognized him. Daniel wore the shirt I had gifted him, the one with the crest of our pack embroidered on the collar. April 21, the very day we lost our first pup—while I lay alone in the pack hospital, my mate had been celebrating another she-wolf’s birthday.
My hand trembled as I scrolled through her posts. Each photo flaunted luxury gifts identical to things I owned. The only difference was the scent of jasmine—her signature perfume. Then, her most recent post appeared: an ultrasound image. She was pregnant.
I felt bile rise, and my hand flew to my belly. As I tried to breathe through the rage, my phone buzzed with new messages. Photos and videos from her flooded in, all depicting her and Daniel—laughing, playing, living the life of a couple. Each video burned deeper than the last, every photo digging into my heart like claws.
In one video, Daniel stood by the ocean, calling her “my Carina.”
“Do you love me?” she asked in the video, her voice soft.
The man I had loved for years, the Alpha of our pack, replied with the warmth I hadn’t seen in forever.
“Always, Cara. Forever.”