The realization sunk in before the pain.
I was blind.
Actually blind.
Not darkness like closing your eyes. Not the kind where you can still see shapes or light.
Nothing.
Just black. Empty. Void.
Tears flowed. Mixed with blood. Ran down my cheeks in warm, sticky streams.
I could feel them. Hot against my cold skin. But I couldn't see them.
Couldn't see anything.
"You're cruel!" I screamed out.
My voice echoed in the darkness. Bounced off trees I couldn't see.
Then he hit me.
A second time tonight.
My left cheek exploded with pain. My head snapped to the side. I tasted blood. Again.
More blood. Always more blood.
My jaw throbbed. Felt loose. Maybe broken.
"Mathew, I'm your mate..." I lowered my head.
It didn't come out hateful like I imagined. My voice was small. Broken. Pleading.
Like I was begging him to remember. To see me. To love me again.
To think I couldn't bear to raise my voice at him.
Pathetic. Stupid.
Even now. Even after everything. I still couldn't hate him properly.
Still loved him somewhere deep inside. In the part that remembered his smile. His touch. The way he used to look at me like I was his whole world.
Before I knew it was all a lie.
He leaned forward.
I heard the movement. Felt the shift in the air.
Then I inhaled deeply.
That calming coffee scent I loved. One of the reasons I fell for him. Rich. Warm. Safe.
Or so I thought.
It wrapped around me. Drew me in like it always did.
My body relaxed without permission. Responded to him the way it had for sixteen years.
Traitor.
"But you aren't my mate," he spoke.
The words hit harder than his fist.
Sharper than the knife he'd stabbed me with.
Not his mate.
The bond I'd felt for sixteen years. The connection I thought was sacred. Unbreakable.
A lie.
All of it.
And I felt humiliated that I was getting aroused.
Even now. Even bleeding and blind and broken. My body still responded to him.
Wet. Aching. Wanting him.
I hated myself for it.
Hated that my body didn't understand what my mind knew. That this man wanted me dead. That he'd been pretending for sixteen years. That everything we had was fake.
With measured steps, he stood in front of me and crouched down.
I heard his knees hit the ground. His breathing. Close. Too close.
His hand touched my chin.
Rough fingers. Calloused. I knew those hands. Had felt them on every inch of my body.
The warmth. The security. Everything I felt for this man came rushing back. Years of love. Of devotion. Of believing he was mine.
Memories flooded me.
Our wedding day. Him lifting my veil. Kissing me like I was precious.
Our first night together. His hands gentle. Worshiping every curve.
The day I told him I was pregnant. His eyes lighting up. Spinning me around.
Holding our son for the first time. His tears. His promise to protect us both.
All lies.
But my body didn't know that.
I couldn't help it.
I threw myself into his arms.
Reached for him blindly. Needing to feel him. To hold him. To make this stop.
Maybe if I just held him. Maybe if he remembered.
Maybe—
But before I could touch him, I was in the air.
Flying.
My stomach dropped. Arms flailing. Reaching for nothing.
Then I heard a loud thud.
Took a second to realize it was me.
The pain registered immediately.
My back. My ribs. Everything screamed.
The impact stole my breath. Punched it right out of my lungs.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Just laid there gasping.
My ribs had been broken. Again. Like my heart.
I felt them. Grinding. Shifting. Wrong.
Each attempt to breathe sent fire through my chest.
I laid there. Hand twitching. Unable to move.
Paralyzed by pain. By shock. By the realization that he really was going to kill me.
My mate was going to kill me.
I heard my baby walk to me.
Footsteps. Light. Hesitant.
My son.
My baby boy.
He'd come to help. To stop this. To save his mother.
Then there was a stab.
Light. Testing.
Small. Like he was checking if I was still alive.
The knife went into my side. Shallow. Experimental.
And another.
Harder.
Deeper this time.
Then another.
And another.
Until I grunted.
Couldn't hold back the sound. Pain ripped through me with each stab.
My son was stabbing me.
My baby. The one I'd carried for nine months. The one who'd kicked inside me. The one I'd nearly died bringing into this world.
He was stabbing me.
Eight stabs now. Four from my mate and four from my son.
"Dad. Mom, she's still breathing," he shouted.
His voice was panicked. Not because I was hurt. Because I was still alive.
Because I wouldn't die fast enough.
My son.
The same one that cost me my womb. Delivery complications. Nearly bled out. But I'd do it again, I thought. Because he was mine.
He wanted me to die.
I couldn't understand.
What did I do wrong?
I'd loved him. Fed him. Raised him. Put food on his plate even when he hadn't hugged me in months.
Forgave him when he ignored me. When he looked through me like I wasn't there.
Because he was my son.
But I wasn't his mother.
Not really.
Not in any way that mattered.
Where did I go wrong?
What did she do that I didn't?
Vivian. My best friend. The woman who'd smiled while sucking my husband's dick.
What did she give them that I couldn't?
I had lost everything.
My mate. My son. My wolf.
They all betrayed me.
Every single one.
I was utterly alone now.
More alone than I'd ever been. Even in that mansion. Even in my dark room.
At least then I'd had hope. The belief that maybe things would get better. That maybe they still loved me.
Now I had nothing.
I looked up.
Or tried to. My eyes saw nothing. Just darkness.
But I could feel it. The moonlight on my face. Warm. Gentle.
Like a caress.
The moon shone brightly.
I could sense it. The way you sense when someone's watching you.
She was watching.
The moon goddess.
Would she listen to the cry of a dying wolfless luna one more time?
I wanted to live.
Not for love. Not for happiness.
Not for any of the things I used to want.
To make them pay.
To watch them suffer the way they'd made me suffer.
To take everything from them the way they'd taken everything from me.
"Please, moon goddess. Give me another chance."
I waited.
Held my breath. Or what was left of it.
Listened for an answer. A sign. Anything.
Nothing happened.
Expected.
I was almost lifeless. Why would she listen now?
I smiled at my foolishness.
Even dying. Even blind and broken and bleeding out. I was still stupid enough to hope.
Then I laughed. Slow and resigned.
The sound bubbled up from my chest. Wet. Choked.
When my mate wrapped his hands around my neck, I laughed harder.
His fingers squeezed. Cut off my air. Pressed into my windpipe.
But the laugh kept bubbling up. Hysterical. Broken.
Because it was funny.
All of it.
Sixteen years of love. Sixteen years of devotion. Sixteen years of believing I was blessed.
And it was all a joke.
The punchline was me.
And when Vivian reached into my chest for my heart—
I felt it.
Her hand. Cold. Reaching through skin and bone.
Fingers wrapping around muscle. Around the organ that pumped blood. That kept me alive.
That had loved Mathew for sixteen years.
She pulled.
Slowly. Deliberately.
I felt it tear. Rip away from arteries and veins.
And the love I had for Mathew went with it.
Finally,
Finally free.
I, Ariana Blackwood, Luna of the Silvercrest pack, died in the early hours of her 16th marriage anniversary.
Killed by her husband and lover.
The moon goddess didn't even save her.
Pathetic. Stupid.