My Mate Bought My Cure for Her

The taxi dropped me off at the familiar gates of our Bellevue home, and I stood there for a moment, gathering what little strength I had left. The accelerant had dulled the worst of the pain, but I could feel it lurking beneath the surface like a predator waiting to strike.

As I approached the front door, the sound of laughter drifted through the evening air—warm, genuine laughter that I hadn't heard in our home for months. I paused with my key halfway to the lock, listening to the melody of piano notes dancing through the walls.

When I pushed open the door, the scene before me felt like stepping into someone else's life.

Killian sat at our black grand piano, his strong fingers moving gracefully across the keys while Aiden perched beside him on the bench, his small hands trying to mimic his father's movements. The coffee table was adorned with delicate pastries arranged on our finest china—tiny éclairs, perfectly piped cream puffs, and miniature tarts that looked like they belonged in a French patisserie window.

"No, buddy, like this," Killian said softly, guiding Aiden's fingers to the correct keys. "Feel the music, don't just play the notes."

I stood frozen in the doorway, my purse slipping from my numb fingers to land on the marble floor with a soft thud. In seven years of marriage, I had never—not once—seen Killian touch that piano. When we'd bought this house, he'd dismissed it as "pretentious furniture" and suggested we get rid of it. I'd kept it because it had belonged to my grandmother, but it had sat silent and untouched, gathering dust like so many other pieces of my past.

And the pastries. My God, the pastries. They were exquisite, professional-quality creations that spoke of hours of careful preparation. When had my husband learned to bake? When had he developed the patience for such delicate work? In all our years together, the most elaborate thing I'd ever seen him make was scrambled eggs.

"Daddy, you're so good at this!" Aiden giggled, his face bright with adoration. "Can you teach me the song about the princess next?"

"Of course, little man. We'll make you a piano master."

The tenderness in Killian's voice was like a knife twisting in my chest. When was the last time he'd spoken to me with such gentle affection? When was the last time he'd looked at me the way he was looking at our son—like he was the most precious thing in the world?

They noticed me then, their heads turning in perfect synchronization. Aiden's smile faltered slightly, and Killian's expression shuttered closed like blinds slamming shut against sunlight.

"Oh." Killian cleared his throat, his hands stilling on the keys. "You're home."

The warmth that had filled the room moments before evaporated like morning mist, leaving behind the familiar chill that had become our normal. I watched my husband's face transform from the loving father I'd just witnessed into the distant stranger he'd become over these past months.

"Hi, Mommy," Aiden said, but he didn't jump up to hug me like he used to. He stayed pressed against his father's side, suddenly shy in a way that broke my heart.

"Hello, sweetheart," I managed, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. "That sounded beautiful. I didn't know Daddy played piano."

Killian's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me anymore, Scarlett."

The accusation hung in the air between us, sharp and cutting. As if my ignorance of his hidden talents was somehow my fault. As if I hadn't spent years trying to connect with him, only to be met with walls and deflection.

"We need to talk," he said, standing up from the piano bench and straightening his shoulders in that way that meant he was preparing for battle. "About Mira."

Of course. It always came back to Mira.

Aiden looked between us with those wide, innocent eyes that missed nothing. At six years old, he was already learning to read the tension that crackled through our house like electricity before a storm.

"Mira's condition is getting worse," Killian continued, his voice taking on that clinical tone he used when he wanted to sound reasonable and responsible. "The pack elders have consulted with specialists, and they believe her weakness syndrome requires... additional support."

I said nothing, just waited for him to get to the point. The accelerant was making my heart race, or maybe it was the familiar dread of another conversation about how we all needed to sacrifice more for poor, fragile Mira.

"They've recommended that I establish a temporary mental bond with her," Killian said, the words coming out in a rush like he was ripping off a bandage. "My Alpha strength could help stabilize her condition, give her the support she needs to recover."

A temporary mental bond. The euphemistic language almost made me laugh. He was talking about the most intimate connection two wolves could share, a merging of minds and souls that was traditionally reserved for mates or the deepest family bonds. And he was presenting it like a medical prescription.

"It's just for treatment purposes," he added quickly, as if that somehow made it better. "Purely therapeutic. The elders assured me it wouldn't affect our mate bond."

Lies. All of it, lies wrapped in the language of duty and medical necessity. But I found I didn't have the energy to fight anymore. The old Scarlett would have raged, would have demanded to know why his sister-in-law's health was more important than his wife's feelings. But that Scarlett had died somewhere between the diagnosis and the accelerant.

"Mommy!" Aiden suddenly piped up, scrambling off the piano bench to stand beside his father. "Mira Auntie is so sad and sick! She cried yesterday when she thought no one was looking. You should let Daddy help her!"

I stared down at my son, this beautiful boy I'd carried for nine months and raised with every ounce of love in my body. Just a week ago, he'd whispered to me that "Mira Auntie ate your special chocolates from the blue box when you weren't home." He'd been my little ally then, my confidant who noticed when things went missing or when Mira's stories didn't quite add up.

Now he was looking at me with something that felt dangerously close to accusation, as if I was the villain for not immediately agreeing to let his father bond with another woman.

"Please, Mommy?" Aiden's voice was small and pleading. "She's so pretty when she's not crying."

Pretty when she's not crying. Even my six-year-old had learned to measure women's worth by their decorative value and emotional availability.

I looked at Killian, who was watching me with barely concealed anticipation. He wanted this. He wanted the excuse, the permission, the moral high ground that would let him do what he'd probably already decided to do anyway.

The old me would have screamed. Would have thrown things and demanded explanations and fought tooth and nail for what was mine. But what was the point? I had seventy hours left to live, give or take. Why spend them in a war I'd already lost?

"Okay," I said simply.

Killian blinked, clearly caught off guard by my easy agreement. "Okay?"

"Yes. Help Mira however you think is best."

The relief that flooded his face was so obvious it was almost insulting. This was what he'd wanted all along—my blessing to betray our marriage vows in the name of family duty.

"And Killian?" I added, my voice steady and calm. "I want to dissolve our mate bond."

The silence that followed was deafening. Even Aiden seemed to sense the gravity of what I'd just said, his small face scrunching in confusion.

"Scarlett," Killian said slowly, "that's... that's permanent. Once a mate bond is severed, it can never be restored."

"I know."

"Are you sure you want to—"

"I'm sure."

He studied my face for a long moment, searching for something I wasn't sure he'd ever find. Finally, he nodded. "If that's what you want."

What I wanted. As if any of this was about what I wanted.

That night, I moved my things to the guest room down the hall. The bed was smaller, the mattress firmer, but it felt like the first honest space I'd occupied in months. No more pretending to sleep beside a man who dreamed of someone else. No more lying awake listening to him murmur another woman's name in his sleep.

I was drifting in and out of restless sleep when laughter pulled me back to consciousness. The digital clock glowed 3:17 AM, and the sound was coming from down the hall. From our bedroom. From what used to be our bedroom.

Mira's laughter. Light and musical and satisfied in a way that made my skin crawl.

I slipped out of bed and crept to my door, opening it just a crack to peer down the darkened hallway. The master bedroom door was slightly ajar, spilling a thin line of golden light across the hardwood floor.

As I watched, the door opened wider, and Mira emerged wearing my silk pajama set—the ivory one with the delicate lace trim that I'd bought for my anniversary last year but never got to wear because Killian had forgotten the date entirely.

She moved with languid satisfaction, her hair tousled and her lips curved in a smile that spoke of secrets and victories. When she noticed me standing in my doorway, her smile widened into something predatory.

"Oh, Scarlett," she said, her voice pitched just loud enough to carry down the hall but soft enough to sound innocent if anyone else heard. "Can't sleep?"

She paused in front of my door, close enough that I could smell Killian's cologne clinging to the silk that should have been mine.

"Maybe I should ask Killian to make you some warm milk," she continued, her tone dripping with false concern. "Oh wait—he only does that for me now."