My Mate Forced Me to Watch My Father Die

The bond seized me at 6:47 on a Thursday evening, three steps from my father's infirmary door.

I had the medication tray balanced on my hip — the small blue vial Elara measured out every night, the folded towel, the water glass Patrick liked cold. I could see the doorframe. I could hear the rasp of his breathing through the crack. And then Elijah's Alpha tone slammed down through the mate bond like a hand closing around the back of my neck.

*Stay in the pack house. Do not leave. That is a command.*

My legs locked mid-step. The tray tilted. The glass hit the floor and shattered white across the boards, and I couldn't bend to pick it up. I couldn't turn. I couldn't cross the threshold twenty feet ahead of me where my father was waiting for the vial in my hand.

"Elijah." I forced the mind link open. My voice inside the bond was thin, breathless — the wolfsbane gardenia in my skin choking every attempt at strength. "Elijah, Patrick needs his session. The healer was supposed to be here at seven."

The bond crackled with fragments — pack voices, wind, someone shouting about Thea Robinson, panic attack, redirect Elara now — and then Elijah's irritation slid across my mind like oil on cold water.

*Not now, Madeline.*

"Elijah, please, the storm — his lungs — "

*I said not now.*

And then he was gone. The bond stayed open just enough for me to feel the warmth of his attention pouring in another direction, toward another house, another woman. I pressed both palms against the empty air in front of me and it held like glass. I pushed harder. My arms shook. Somewhere far under my ribs, a suffocated pressure stirred — Seraphine, though I did not know her name yet — a formless hum of *no no no* buried too deep to reach my throat.

Outside, the blizzard doubled. I could hear it slamming the shutters. I could hear my father's breathing thinning through the door I could not cross.

I slid down the wall.

I stayed there for hours.

I tried every argument the mind link would carry. *He'll die. Send Elara back. Send anyone. Let me go to him myself, I don't need a healer, just let me sit with him.* The bond returned nothing but the faint nauseating hum of Elijah's focus elsewhere — Thea's voice threading through the static, small and trembling and perfectly pitched. I pressed my thumb to the inside of my wrist and counted my pulse. I counted the shatters of glass on the floor. I counted the seconds between each of my father's audible breaths until I could not hear them anymore.

Somewhere near midnight the command loosened. Elijah had fallen asleep, I think. The wall in front of me thinned, then dissolved, and my legs came back to me all at once and I ran.

Three steps. Four. The infirmary door.

Patrick was cold.

His hand was resting on the small worn notebook he always kept in his coat pocket — the one he'd given me when I was seven, the one with the single sentence on the first page. His fingers were curled around it like he'd been reaching for it at the end. His mouth was slightly open. His eyes were closed.

I did not scream. I did not fall. Something inside my chest made a small clean sound, like a thread snapping, and then it was quiet.

I sat down on the edge of the cot and I put my hand over his. It was already stiffening. I stayed like that until the grey started leaking in through the window.

Then I stood up.

I walked back to the Luna's quarters. I ran the shower as hot as it would go. I scrubbed the gardenia oil from my skin with both hands and a rough cloth until my shoulders bled, until my hands shook so hard I couldn't hold the cloth anymore — not from grief, from something chemical clawing its way out of me, the burn under my skin turning into something raw and alive and *mine*. Underneath the gardenia, faint and wild, I smelled lavender for the first time in three years.

I dried off. I walked to the closet.

Twelve white dresses. Chosen by him. Chosen to look like her.

I took the first one off the hanger and I put my hands into the seam at the neck and I pulled. The fabric split with a sound like tearing paper. I did the next one. And the next. I did not cry. My hands moved with a precision I did not recognize as my own. When I was done there was a mountain of white on the Luna's bed — his bed, our bed, her bed — and my palms were bleeding a little from the beading.

I dressed in black. Plain black. My clothes, from the bottom of a drawer he had never opened.

I walked to the infirmary one more time. I took the notebook from Patrick's cold coat pocket. I put it in my own.

Then I walked downstairs.

The great hall was already filling. Marcus, the Beta, was near the doors, his face still slack with early-morning confusion. Elijah stood at the far end in yesterday's clothes, gardenia clinging to his collar like smoke, and when he turned and saw me his mouth opened to say my name.

I opened mine first.