Three days. Three endless days of hiding in the shadows like a ghost haunting her own past, watching the man I'd mourned live a life that should have been ours.

I crouched behind the old oak tree that bordered the Moonveil pack house, my legs cramped from hours of motionless observation, my heart bleeding with each stolen glimpse of Conrad's happiness. The bark bit into my palms as I gripped it for support, fighting the constant urge to run to him, to shake him until he remembered who I was.

Who we were.

Through the kitchen window, I watched him pour coffee into two mugs—one black, one with cream and sugar. Just like he used to make mine. But now he handed the sweetened cup to Giselle, who accepted it with a radiant smile that made my chest burn with jealousy so fierce it tasted like copper.

My wolf whimpered constantly now, a low keen of anguish that never stopped. She pressed against my ribs, desperate to reach our mate, confused by his rejection, slowly going mad from the severed connection.

"You're being ridiculous," I whispered to myself for the hundredth time. "He doesn't remember you. He lost his wolf. The bond is broken."

But the rational explanations crumbled every time I saw him laugh.

Conrad threw his head back as Giselle told some story, his eyes crinkling at the corners the way they used to when I made him smile. But this laughter was different—lighter, more carefree. He looked... unburdened. Like a man who'd never carried the weight of leadership, never felt the crushing responsibility of being the future Alpha of Silvermoon Pack.

Like a man who'd never loved me at all.

Giselle rose from her chair and moved to stand behind him, her delicate hands massaging his shoulders. He leaned into her touch with such natural ease that I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and he caught her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss her palm.

The intimate gesture shattered something inside me. Conrad had never been that spontaneously affectionate with me. Our relationship had always carried the weight of duty, of expected mate bonds and pack politics. But with her, he looked... free.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the image, but it was burned into my retinas. When I opened them again, they were gone from the kitchen. Moments later, I heard Giselle's delighted laughter drifting from upstairs, followed by the unmistakable creak of bedsprings.

My stomach lurched. I pressed my face against the rough bark, letting it scrape my cheek as punishment for my masochistic vigil.

The second day was worse. I watched Conrad work in their garden, his shirt off in the afternoon sun, that familiar scar gleaming silver on his shoulder. Giselle brought him lemonade and he pulled her down for a playful kiss that turned heated, right there among the tomato plants.

He'd never kissed me like that. Never looked at me with such unguarded desire.

By the third day, I was hollow-eyed and shaking, surviving on nothing but stubborn determination and the masochistic need to understand. I'd positioned myself beneath the open window of what appeared to be Conrad's study, hoping to catch some clue, some explanation for this impossible situation.

That's when I heard it.

The familiar buzz of a mind-link connection, that subtle shift in the air that every werewolf recognized. Conrad's voice, clear and casual, as if he were discussing the weather.

"The plan worked perfectly, James. Better than we ever imagined."

My blood turned to ice. James—Beta James Ross. Giselle's brother.

"She's still playing the grieving widow?" Another voice, rougher, amused.

"Like a dream," Conrad replied, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "Myra's been managing all my pack duties, caring for my parents, keeping my memory alive with such touching devotion. It's actually quite convenient."

The world tilted sideways. My hands pressed flat against the ground, trying to anchor myself as reality shifted beneath me.

"The rogue attack was inspired," James continued. "Hiring them to make it look real, then having you 'die' during the rescue—brilliant. She never suspected a thing."

"The hardest part was not laughing when she cried over my 'body,'" Conrad said, and the casual cruelty in his voice made bile rise in my throat. "Though I have to admit, watching her pledge eternal devotion to my memory was... satisfying. She always was pathetically loyal."

"And now you get to live freely with Giselle while she maintains your pack and your reputation," James chuckled. "The perfect crime."

"The perfect freedom," Conrad corrected. "No more pretending to care about her research, no more listening to her boring theories about werewolf healing. No more duty. Just Giselle and whatever life we choose to build."

Something died inside me then. Not just my heart—that had been dying slowly for three days. Something deeper. The last shred of the woman who'd believed in mate bonds and true love and the inherent goodness of the man she'd devoted her life to.

I rose from beneath the window on legs that felt like water, my movements silent and precise. The mate bond in my chest writhed once more, then went completely still. Not severed—that would have caused agony. Just... quiet. Like it was holding its breath.

I walked back to my car without looking back, my mind crystal clear for the first time in two years. Conrad Williams was dead to me. Had been dead to me for two years, apparently. The man I'd mourned had never existed at all.

But I was very much alive.

And I had work to do.

The application form stared back at me from my laptop screen, cursor blinking in the empty fields like a heartbeat. Dr. Elena Vasquez's Werewolf Physiological Research Institute—the most prestigious and secretive program in our world. I'd dreamed of joining their ranks once, back when I still believed in futures that stretched beyond mate bonds and pack duties.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Name: Myra Baker. Age: 26. Previous Research Experience: I paused, memories flooding back of late nights in university labs, of breakthrough theories about werewolf healing that had made my professors take notice. All abandoned for a love that had been nothing but elaborate theater.

"Educational Background," I typed steadily, "PhD in Werewolf Biology, summa cum laude, Northwestern Supernatural University. Thesis: 'Accelerated Healing Mechanisms in Lycanthrope Cellular Regeneration.'" The words felt foreign after two years of disuse, like speaking a language I'd almost forgotten.

The video interview request came back within hours. My hands shook as I clicked accept, smoothing my hair and adjusting the camera angle in my small apartment—the same one I'd rented after fleeing Moonveil territory, unable to return to the pack house that now felt like a mausoleum of lies.

Dr. Vasquez appeared on screen, her silver hair pulled back severely, dark eyes sharp with intelligence. "Ms. Baker. Your credentials are impressive, though there's a significant gap in your recent research activity."

"I... I lost my mate two years ago," I said, the practiced lie falling from my lips before I could stop it. "I needed time to grieve, to care for his family. But I'm ready now to return to my work."

Something in my voice must have broken then, because Dr. Vasquez leaned forward slightly. "The loss of a mate can be devastating to a werewolf's sense of self. Many never recover their drive for independent achievement."

"I need to rediscover who I am," I whispered, and for the first time in days, I spoke complete truth. "I need to remember what I'm capable of beyond... beyond just being someone's other half."

Dr. Vasquez studied me for a long moment. "Our program is demanding. We work on cutting-edge research that challenges traditional werewolf medicine. Are you prepared to dedicate yourself completely to science?"

"Science never betrayed me," I said quietly. "It never lied to me or made me question my worth. Yes, I'm ready."

"Welcome to the team, Dr. Baker."

Three days later, I stood before the gleaming research facility nestled in the Colorado mountains, my single suitcase feeling pathetically light in my hand. The building rose from the forest like something from a dream—all glass and steel and promise.

The security guard checked my credentials and handed me a badge. "Dr. Montgomery is waiting to give you the tour," she said with a smile. "Lucky you—he doesn't usually handle orientations personally."

Dr. Montgomery. The name tugged at something in my memory, but I couldn't place it until I stepped into the main laboratory and saw him.

"Leon?" The name escaped me in a breathless whisper.

He turned from the microscope he'd been adjusting, and those familiar green eyes—kind, intelligent, patient—met mine with an expression of such profound relief that my knees nearly buckled.

"Hello, Myra," he said softly. "I've been waiting for you."

Leon Montgomery. My graduate advisor. My mentor. The brilliant professor who'd guided my early research with such gentle encouragement, who'd believed in my theories when others dismissed them as too ambitious. He looked older now, more distinguished, with silver threading through his dark hair, but those eyes were exactly as I remembered.

"You're here," I breathed, unable to process this impossible coincidence. "But you were at Northwestern, you were—"

"I've been directing this program for three years," he said, moving closer with that same careful grace I remembered. "Ever since you left university to join Silvermoon Pack."

He stopped just within arm's reach, his gaze searching my face with concern. "You look tired, Myra. Thin. What happened to you?"

I couldn't speak. Couldn't explain that the life I'd chosen over research had been built on lies, that the mate I'd prioritized over my dreams had never existed at all.

Leon seemed to understand my silence. "Come," he said gently. "There's something I want to show you."

He led me down a corridor lined with state-of-the-art laboratories, past equipment I could only dream of accessing. At the end of the hall, he stopped before a door marked "Private Research Lab 7" and pulled out a keycard.

"I had this prepared when the program started," he said quietly, swiping the card. "I always hoped..."

The door opened, and I gasped.

It was my laboratory. Not similar to my old workspace—it was exactly my laboratory, recreated down to the smallest detail. My research notes were pinned to the bulletin board, my favorite coffee mug sat beside the sink, even the small succulent plant I'd kept on my desk was there, thriving under grow lights.

"You kept it all," I whispered, moving into the space like I was entering a shrine to my former self.

"I kept everything," Leon said from the doorway. "Your research, your theories, your unfinished experiments. I never stopped believing you'd come back to finish what you started."

I ran my fingers over the familiar equipment, over notebooks filled with my own handwriting from another lifetime. "Leon, I—"

"You don't have to explain," he said quietly. "I know about mate bonds. I know how they can consume everything else. But you're here now, and that's what matters."

I turned to face him, this man who'd preserved my dreams when I'd abandoned them, who'd waited three years for me to remember who I was beneath the weight of false devotion.

"I don't know if I can still do this," I admitted. "It's been so long, and I feel so... broken."

Leon stepped into the lab, his presence filling the space with quiet strength. "You're not broken, Myra. You're just remembering how to be whole."

Before I could respond, an alarm echoed through the facility. Leon's expression darkened as he checked his phone.

"Security breach at the main entrance," he said grimly. "Someone's demanding to see you. Someone claiming Alpha authority."

My blood turned to ice. Through the lab's window, I could see a familiar figure striding across the courtyard, his commanding presence unmistakable even at a distance.

Conrad had found me.