Four

Xavier 

Seeing Sasha after three agonizing months of searching for her—or, more accurately, for her body, which we had been told had drowned—hit me with a flood of emotions I couldn’t contain.

Part of me wanted to pull her into a tight embrace, to feel her warmth and assure myself she was real. But another part of me, the part that remembered the sleepless nights and my daughter Adelaide’s tears, wanted to punch her lying mouth. 

My hands trembled, and I squeezed the wheel tighter to steady myself. The pain she had caused Adelaide and the endless questions of “When will Mommy come back?” made my chest burn with anger.

How could she abandon her child and leave us drowning in heartache, only to show up now as if nothing had happened?

But something primal clawed. Discovering that my missing wife had returned, bringing back the same bond I’d felt the first night we met at the hotel—the one that had vanished when we met again, left me utterly confused. 

After the bond disappeared, I convinced myself it was never confirmed. Now it was back, stronger than ever, filling the car with her scent of wildflowers and musk, a fragrance uniquely hers. It overwhelmed my senses and drove me to the brink of painful pleasure.

I couldn’t breathe. I gritted my teeth and clenched the steering wheel to stop the pounding sensation in my heart. The mystery was clear—Sasha was my mate. She had always been my mate. Pushing aside thoughts of the lost bond and our failing marriage, I focused on the present.

Adelaide chatted happily in the backseat. “Mommy, Aunt Beatrice redecorated my room and got me more toys and a doll last week—it’s pink, like your favorite color!”

I glanced at Sasha through the rearview mirror. Her hands rested limply in her lap, and she remained blank. She didn’t respond to our daughter's updates, only offering a weak smile.

My jaw clenched as I met her gaze in the mirror. “You’re quiet for someone who reappeared out of nowhere,” I said coldly.

Her eyes flicked away. “I’ve told you—I’m not who you think I am. This is a mistake.”

I slammed the brakes harder than necessary at a red light, earning a startled gasp from Adelaide. 

“You disappear for months, leave our daughter motherless, and now you dare to deny who you are?”

“Daddy, stop yelling at Mommy!” Adelaide said to me, protective of her mother.

I turned back to face the road, and my shoulders heaved with barely suppressed rage. 

“Daddy, you’re driving too fast.”

I exhaled sharply, easing my foot off the gas. Through the mirror, I studied Sasha again. She looked different—thinner like life had drained out of her. Her once-glossy hair was pulled back in a simple braid, and her clothes were plain—a green blouse and black skirt.

Sasha would never have been caught dead wearing such ordinary clothes.

The familiar driveway came into view, and I stopped the car. I stayed in the driver’s seat for a moment, gripping the wheel as I tried to compose myself. The rage and the mate bond all felt like too much.

The front door opened, and my sister, Beatrice, stepped out dressed in scrubs. Her eyes landed on Sasha, and her mouth fell open in shock. Her hands flew to her mouth, and she rushed forward as if she had just seen a ghost. 

“Sasha?” Beatrice whispered, her voice trembling. “You’re alive?”

Beatrice threw her arms around her. Sasha didn’t hug her back, and Beatrice pulled away, looking helplessly at me 

“What’s wrong with her?” Beatrice asked, turning to me.

Sasha blinked, struggling to contain her frustration. Our eyes locked, and I caught the unrestrained passion burning in her gaze. It was almost absurd—how we could barely tolerate each other, yet here we were, bound as mates.

“She’s claiming she’s not Sasha,” I said through gritted teeth.

Beatrice’s lips parted in shock, and she reached for Sasha’s hand. Adelaide tugged on Sasha’s skirt.

“Mommy, why are you scared?”

Beatrice crouched down to Adelaide’s level. “Mommy’s just tired, sweetheart. Let’s give her some time to rest, okay?”

Beatrice straightened, and her gaze flicked back to me. 

“Something’s wrong with her. Might be amnesia. We need to run some tests.”

The frustration boiling inside me threatened to explode. N” She’s not sick. She’s lying.”

Beatrice frowned. “Xavier, calm down. If there’s even a chance she’s been through something traumatic, we must approach this carefully.”

I exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. As the director of the pack’s metropolitan hospital, my sister’s suggestion made sense—it was the only logical explanation for Sasha’s apparent identity crisis.

Sasha avoided my gaze. My wolf growled restlessly, torn between anger and the undeniable pull of the mate bond.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I said firmly. “We’re going to figure out what’s wrong with you, and then you’re going to explain why you left.”