Not the lovely, relaxing embrace of rest but a heavy, crushing blackness that smashed in from all sides. Lyra slid in and out of consciousness, each flash of awareness bringing a fresh wave of nausea, not from her wounds, but from the words that resonated in the void: "Elara is already with you, Lyra. Our future is determined."
It was a terrible twist of fate, a penalty she couldn't fathom. She had struggled, had bled, had risked her life for a future that, clearly, had already been snatched away from her. The mating connection, once a lively buzz, was now a dead calm. A huge, echoing abyss where warmth and connection had before existed.
When complete consciousness ultimately returned, it was with a jolt that had nothing to do with physical anguish. The antiseptic air of the hospital was a sharp reminder of her reality. She was motionless on the mattress, the bandages tight around her chest, a cold compress on her forehead. Sunlight, weak and cruel, rushed through the high window, teasing the melancholy in her soul.
She pulled herself up, agonizing as her ribs screamed. Her wolf appearance was gone, her body now its frail human shell, testimony of the depth of her injuries and, maybe, the shock that had seized her. She wore a thin, rough-spun shift. Her clothing was gone, possibly discarded due to the blood.
A pitcher of water and a wooden cup lay on a little table near the cot. Her hand trembled as she reached for it, her fingers brushing against the cold porcelain. She poured herself a drink, the water tasting like ash on her tongue.
The infirmary was quiet. Too quiet. No Wren bustling about, no murmured conversations of other patients. It looked as if the entire world had forgotten her. But that wasn't true. Thorne hadn't forgotten her. He had just dumped her.
With pup. The words twisted like a knife. Not only replaced but replaced with a certainty, a future already blossoming.
A surge of impotent rage burst through her. She wanted to yell, to lash out, to break down the walls that held her captive in this purgatory. But she was too frail. Her body still screamed betrayal, but her spirit, albeit wounded, was beginning to awaken.
She hung her legs over the side of the cot, testing her weight. Dizziness swept over her, but she steadied herself against the wall. She had to get out. She couldn't stay here, stewing in her pain, waiting for... what? Another declaration? A final, frigid dismissal?
She observed a pair of large, oversized pants and a tunic in an adjacent cabinet, probably left for recuperating patients. They hung loosely on her body, a harsh reminder of how much weight she'd dropped, how vulnerable she felt. But the outfit afforded her a semblance of her old self, a tiny barrier against the stark vulnerability of her brokenness.
As she walked nearer the hospital entrance, a familiar perfume, faint but persistent, slid under the aperture. Thorne. He was close. Her heart, despite everything, gave a betraying lurch. Then, another aroma, sweet and cloying, clung to his. Elara.
Lyra halted, her fingers hovering above the doorknob. Could she face them? Could she endure to see them together again, now with the full, horrible weight of Thorne's words upon her? The concept drove a fresh flood of nausea through her.
But sticking here was not an option. She was Lyra, Luna of the Moonstone Pack, not a discarded toy to be packed away. She wouldn't cower. Not even from him.
She pushed the door open, bracing herself.
The infirmary was a small expansion of the main packhouse corridor, typically a bustling thoroughfare. Today, everything was uncomfortably quiet. Footsteps resonated from deeper down the corridor, murmurs of voices. She heard Thorne's deep rumble, then a softer, clearly feminine giggle. Elara.
Lyra sucked a cautious breath and started walking, her bare feet silent on the smooth oak floor. Each step was a defiance, a fierce reclaiming of her turf. She sprinted towards the sounds, towards the main rooms of the packhouse, her thoughts a tangle of fear, wrath, and a building, desperate thirst for answers.
She neared the intersection of the main hall, a wide, bright room that generally buzzed with pack activity. And there they were.
Thorne stood by the large fireplace, his back to her, conversing with two pack warriors. He was providing orders, his voice strong and forceful. Elara was seated close on a soft mat, petting a tiny, fluffy pack dog, her laughing delightful and melodious. She appeared utterly calm, fully at home.
Lyra's breath hitched. Elara's sleek grey fur was immaculate, her eyes bright, her movements elegant and unburdened. She looked nothing like the wounded, ragged creature Lyra believed herself to be. She was the picture of a beautiful, pleased Luna. The glaring disparity between them was a shock to the gut.
No one had seen Lyra yet. They were too engrossed in their world. Lyra remained immobile, an invisible ghost. She watched Thorne's powerful shoulders, the familiar posture of his head, and the way he pointed with his hands. So familiar yet suddenly utterly foreign.
Then, one of the troops Thorne was speaking to shifted his weight and caught sight of Lyra standing there. His eyes enlarged, his lips lowering slightly. His shocked shout grabbed Thorne's attention.
Thorne turned, his gaze roving the corridor, halting quickly as he recognized Lyra. His eyes, ordinarily warm and friendly, were chilly, almost distant. For a small second, Lyra thought she saw a flash of something she couldn't explain - surprise, maybe a tinge of distress – before his expression sank back into its typical grim stoicism.
Elara, sensing the rapid shift in mood, peered up from the pup. Her gorgeous eyes met Lyra's. There was no innocent misunderstanding this time. Instead, a faint, almost microscopic smirk graced Elara's lips, gone as fast as it arrived, replaced by her typical tentative attitude.
Lyra felt a chilly bolt dart through her. That smirk. It was so subtle, so ephemeral, yet it transmitted volumes. It was hardly the expression of an innocent, ignorant pawn. It was the look of someone who recognized just what they had done.
The entire gravity of the betrayal slapped into Lyra, not simply the physical act of replacement but the horrifying understanding that Elara may be far from the innocent victim she seemed to be. A new, terrifying concept sprang into Lyra's mind, what if a faulty connection didn't only fool Thorne but purposefully twisted them?
Thorne took a step towards Lyra, his countenance a mask of his normal Alpha authority. "Lyra," he murmured, his voice flat, lifeless. "You are awake."
He wasn't welcoming her. He wasn't concerned. He was embracing a fact.
"Thorne," Lyra managed, her voice hoarse, trembling yet contained a budding force. "What have you done?"
Before he could answer, Elara, still caressing the dog, said, her voice deceptively calm but cutting through the silence of the hallway. "She needs to understand, Alpha," she mumbled, her eyes rapidly moving towards Lyra, a hint of something icy in her depths. "The pack must move forward."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. A simple statement, but at that time, offered by her, it seemed like a concealed threat, a frigid rejection.
And Thorne, her mate, only nodded.
Lyra peered, the rage and doubt struggling within her. This wasn't only about a mate connection. This was something worse, something orchestrated. The ultimate foe may not be the rogues she had faced in the woods, but the placid, presumably innocent she-wolf resting quietly by the fire and the Alpha who had so readily trusted her.
Her eyes constricted. This was not the end. This was only the beginning of a different conflict.
She had to know. She had to underst and. And she would make them tell her.