Elara's gentle words, "Thorne, someone's here," sliced through the calm like a beautifully polished razor. All eyes jerked towards the gloomy edge of the meadow where Lyra stood, a ghost of her former self. For a beat of quiet, the tableau was frozen. Thorne, Elara, and the other pack members were visible at the packhouse door, all looking. And Lyra, a silhouette of misery and dirt, spilling upon the immaculate woodland floor.
Then, anarchy ensued.
"By the Moon! It's Luna Lyra!" a young warrior, Kael, was the first to yell, his voice thick with surprise and a shiver of amazement. He pulled away from the group, transforming swiftly, his brown wolf coming towards her with frantic speed.
Other pack members followed, their muttering building into a horrified chorus. "Luna Lyra is alive!" "She made it back!" Relief, raw and genuine, flooded across several of their features. They had grieved her, murmured about her courage, and now, here she was, a monument to their strength, or so they imagined.
Kael reached her first, falling to his human form beside her, his face pale with anxiety. "Luna! Gods, you're a disaster! We thought... we thought you were gone!" He stretched out, his hands lingering, wondering where to touch the bleeding fur without inflicting additional agony.
"The healers! Someone fetch the healers!"
Lyra scarcely noticed his words. Her stare was riveted, immovable, on Thorne. He hadn't moved. He stood, his countenance inscrutable, his muscular form a sharp silhouette against the packhouse lights. And yet, his hand lingered on Elara's arm. Elara, whose cautious gaze was now fixated on Lyra, a combination of dread and something Lyra couldn't quite discern. Guilt? Fear?
"Get her to the infirmary, quickly!" Thorne's voice, when it came, was clipped, devoid of the frantic relief Lyra had ached for, expecting. It was the Alpha's demand, not the mate's frantic appeal.
Her heart, already wounded, splintered more. He's not rushing to me.
Two more pack members, hefty guardians, approached her, their demeanour harsh but efficient. "Easy, Luna," one growled, reaching to assist her. "We'll get you inside."
"No!" Lyra hissed a deep, guttural sound that astonished even herself. The scream was visceral, full of agony and rebellion. Her wolf disliked being treated like a casualty, particularly while her mate remained unmoved. She attempted to get away, but her legs were giving out.
"Luna, you're losing too much blood," Kael encouraged, his voice soothing but forceful. "Let us help."
Before she could struggle anymore, they delicately raised her, her damaged body protesting every inch. The motion caused her vision to grey, but she pushed herself to keep her eyes open, to keep watching Thorne.
He was finally moving, but not towards her. He was chatting to Elara, a quiet exchange that made Lyra's blood run cold. She watched Elara nod, then discreetly move back, retreating into the shadows near the packhouse entrance.
As they carried Lyra towards the hospital wing, she heard the discussion of the pack members.
"She looks bad, but she's alive! Thorne will be so relieved!"
"I heard the rogues were ferocious. Lyra always was a warrior."
"Do you think... do you think the bond is really broken now?"
The final question, spoken by a female warrior, impacted Lyra like a physical blow. It was the unsaid dread, the terrible prospect that had appeared before her eyes.
They lay her gently on a cot in the infirmary. The aroma of herbs and antiseptics permeated the air. A younger healer, Wren, gasped when she realized the extent of Lyra's injuries. "By the Ancestors! She's seriously injured. Get me the blood replenisher, fast!"
Wren worked with practised precision; her brow wrinkled with anxiety. She cleansed the deepest lacerations, her touch surprisingly delicate, and started applying poultices composed of strong herbs. Lyra felt the warmth spread through her wounds, a comforting salve, but it did nothing to assuage the chilly dread in her spirit.
"Alpha Thorne will be here soon, Luna," Wren muttered, apparently attempting to soothe her. "He'll want to see you."
Lyra said nothing. She merely gazed at the ceiling, visualizing Thorne, his hand on another she-wolf's arm.
A few minutes later, the hospital door opened. Lyra's heart surged, a glimmer of that old expectation, that desperate hope, lighting inside her. He's here. He'll explain. He'll hold me.
Thorne walked in, his face stern, his massive presence filling the tiny room. He didn't hurry to her side. He halted at the foot of her bed, his eyes raking over her bandaged figure, clinical and impersonal.
"How are her injuries, Wren?" he inquired, his voice low but flat. Not the voice of a concerned partner.
"Extensive, Alpha," Wren answered, her voice quiet. "Several deep claw marks, severe blood loss, and bruises. But she's powerful. She'll heal."
Thorne nodded slowly. He finally glanced at Lyra, his eyes dark, inscrutable. There was no comfort there, no soft care, simply a cold, objective appraisal.
"Lyra," he murmured, his voice calm but ringing with an authority that offered no room for debate. "We need to talk."
Her breath stopped in her throat. The words she had hoped for, He'll explain, now seemed like a sentence. He wasn't here to soothe her. He was come to deliver a judgment.
Wren, noticing the change in mood, gently excused herself, leaving them alone. The stillness extended, filled with unsaid accusations and a chilling finality.
Lyra, still unable to shift, could only lay there, defenceless, exposed. She met his look, her own eyes burning with a combination of grief, perplexity, and a budding rebellion.
"Thorne," she rasped, her throat constricted. "Who was that?"
His jaw stiffened. He went closer, not near enough to touch but close enough for her to see the harsh line of his lips, the grim set of his face.
"That," Thorne remarked, his voice devoid of emotion, "was Elara. She's my second chance mate."
The world swirled. Lyra's eyes widened, a wordless scream forming in her chest. Her mate link, already weak, wilted to a brittle thread, threatening to shatter altogether. The air in the room suddenly seemed too thin to breathe.
"What?" she managed, the word a harsh, cracked whisper.
Thorne's eyes intensified, meeting hers without flinching. "Your injuries," he emphasized, his voice painfully plain. "They severed our mate link. The Moon given me a second opportunity, Lyra. And I took it."
The cold, unavoidable reality came over her, a tidal wave of treachery that drowned out the searing agony of her wounds. She looked at him, the man she had loved, had died for and saw a stranger.
"No," Lyra gasped, tears finally blinding her vision, not from her injuries but from the huge gash in her spirit. "You can't..."
Thorne merely remained there, his face expressionless, a wall between them. The promise of consolation, of healing, of love broke into a million irreparable shards. Her body could be recovering, but her heart had just been irreversibly damaged.
My mate. My Alpha. My everything.
He had discovered another. He had replaced her. And in his eyes, there was not a sign of sorrow.
Lyra felt the thread of her relationship with him unravelling, breaking. The final tie to the guy she knew was disintegrating. She gazed, stunned, as Thorne turned, his shape blurring as he went towards the door.
He stopped, his palm on the frame, his words a low, last blow. "Elara is already with pup, Lyra. Our future is determined."
He went out, leaving Lyra alone in the sterile calm of the hospital, the aroma of antiseptics replaced by the stink of new suffering. The door snapped shut, trapping her in with her broken hopes.
The buzz was gone. The pull was gone. The thread, ultimately, broke.
Lyra closed her eyes, and a solitary, silent tear made a trail through the filth and blood on her face.
With pup.
That was the last thing she heard, The world fell black.