The Reborn She-wolf

I'm Daphne Sinclair, the so-called prized she-wolf of House Sinclair, eternally bound to Theodore Ashford, the heir of the Ashford pack. For three years, we've shared a bed, but our dreams couldn't be further apart. Hate pulses between us, raw and jagged. More than once, we've both fantasized about ending the other's life. When mountain rogues tore me apart, my mate Theodore was off at the Blossom Den, throwing back drinks and charming twelve dancers. As my consciousness faded, a spectral envoy from the underworld stopped me at the edge of the River of Souls. "Daphne," it said, voice like a cold wind, "your unresolved obsessions bind you. You cannot cross into rebirth. The underworld grants you ten days back in the mortal realm to sever your ties and find peace." Before I could respond, a blinding white light yanked me away. When my eyes fluttered open, I stood on the deck of a pleasure barge Theodore had rented out. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the air. "To Theodore!" someone crowed. "Free at last from that vile she-wolf Daphne!" My heart lurched. My legs wobbled beneath me. I couldn't believe it-while I was being tortured to death by rogues, my mate was here, throwing a party. "Daphne! You've got some nerve showing your face!" A familiar voice sliced through the haze, and a strong hand clamped around my throat. I stared into Theodore's eyes, blazing with unmasked loathing and fury. In all the days I'd been held captive, he hadn't sent a single enforcer to find me. I mocked myself silently for ever thinking he cared. The crowd's jeers piled on. "Didn't you send word you were killed by rogues?" one sneered. "Talk about commitment!" another laughed. "Staging a kidnapping with rogues just to keep Theodore from Cordelia's birthday feast? What is this, a zombie act or a ghost's encore?" "I didn't-" I started, but the hand on my throat tightened, cutting me off. Theodore's eyes burned crimson, and I felt it in my bones-he wanted me dead. Just as my vision blurred, a soft voice broke through. "Theodore, stop." The grip loosened. I gasped, sucking in air, and my gaze landed on her-Cordelia Sinclair, my adoptive sister, the darling of House Sinclair. Theodore's moonlit obsession, the she-wolf he'd always loved. "See that?" someone whispered loudly. "If Daphne hadn't meddled years ago, Cordelia and Theodore would've been bound in harmony by now." "She broke Cordelia's heart, sent her running. And now, the moment Cordelia's back, Daphne pulls this fake kidnapping stunt. She's the worst she-wolf in Sylvoth Town!" I looked at them, Theodore's icy elegance beside Cordelia's gentle warmth. Both in matching white, even their jade pendants identical. Once, I'd have stormed between them, marked Theodore's face with a kiss to stake my claim. But now? I just stood there, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. I'd spent years bending over backward for my biased parents, for a mate whose heart belonged to another. All for nothing. I died alone, my body left unclaimed. I remembered the rogues' ransom demands. First, I wrote to my father, stationed at the pack's war camp. No reply came by nightfall. Then to my mother. Her response, delivered by a servant, was a single line: "Daphne, Isobel says if you keep pulling these stunts to undermine Cordelia, you can rot out there. Don't sully House Sinclair's name." The third letter went to Theodore. He sent a coffin. The rogues had laughed, their leader snarling, "Some prized she-wolf you are, House Sinclair's daughter, Theodore's mate! Three blood-soaked pleas, and not one soul came for you. Your life's worth less than a stray dog's!" Then came the dagger, its cold steel piercing my heart, blood seeping into my dress. I touched my chest now, the phantom pain still sharp. Cordelia approached, her eyes flickering with surprise before settling into a practiced, gentle smile. "Daphne, why didn't you come home? When word spread you'd been killed by rogues, Mother and Father were so heartbroken they collapsed. We've had three healers in already." She paused, voice soft as silk. "Whatever's wrong, tell me. I'm your sister. I'd give you anything." Her words, light as air, pinned the 'faked death' lie on me. But I'd really been taken. I couldn't stand her crocodile tears. I shook off her hand and turned to leave, but Theodore grabbed my wrist, his grip bruising. "Where do you think you're going to pull another stunt?" "Even if you were really dead," he growled, "I'd just pour spoiled broth on your grave. Not a single tear." My wrist ached, my heart worse. My eyes caught the string of polished prayer beads on his left hand. Three years ago, when Theodore nearly died from a fall, I braved a blizzard to kneel on nine thousand stone steps at Frostpeak Temple to beg for those blessed beads to keep him safe. Without a word, I reached out and yanked the tassel off. The beads shattered, scattering across the deck. My first obsession with Theodore-broken. The crowd gasped. Theodore's heart seemed to stutter, though his face stayed cold. Someone laughed, "Daphne, you broke it yourself! Don't go crying to Theodore later!" My eyes held no sorrow, no anger. "Don't worry. I won't." The laughter choked. The air grew heavy. Theodore's expression darkened, his grip tightening. "You'd better mean that," he said, voice like a winter storm. "Keep clinging to me, and I'll make sure you beg for death and get no mercy." My body trembled, a dull ache blooming in my chest. I'd already tasted hell in the rogues' hands. Death hadn't scared me then, and pain wouldn't now. He pressed closer, voice low. "Nothing to say? Guilty?" "Believe what you want," I said flatly. I pulled free, ignoring the crowd's stares, and knelt to gather the scattered beads, one by one. Then, without another word, I walked away. No point in explaining. Theodore wouldn't believe me anyway.