Desiree mixed genre collection

Cordelia’s Pov 

  You'd think after five years of living as a hermit in the Scottish Highlands, I'd have perfected the art of avoiding awkward situations. Apparently, I was wrong. Dead wrong. Standing in my cozy little pottery studio, clay-covered apron tied around my waist, I stared at the official-looking envelope that had somehow found its way to my deliberately obscure address.

The return address made my stomach drop faster than a poorly thrown pot; Ravenshollow Pack Council.

"Brilliant," I muttered, wiping my hands on a tea towel that had seen better decades. "Just absolutely bloody brilliant."

My name is Cordelia Blackthorne, and I used to be somebody important. Well, important-adjacent. The rejected mate of Alpha Lysander Ashworth, to be precise. 

These days, I prefer to think of myself as Delia the Potter, maker of questionably shaped mugs and seller of overpriced ceramic nonsense to tourists who think everything handmade is automatically charming.

The letter sat there like a particularly venomous spider, daring me to open it. I'd been perfectly happy pretending the supernatural world had forgotten about me entirely. 

My little cottage, nestled between rolling hills and absolutely nowhere, had become my sanctuary. No pack politics, no hierarchy drama, no devastatingly handsome alphas making speeches about how I wasn't "luna material" in front of everyone I'd ever cared about.

Good times.

I picked up the envelope with the enthusiasm one might reserve for handling week-old fish. The official seal was still intact, all gold foil and pompous ceremony. Trust the pack council to make even their correspondence intimidating.

*Miss Blackthorne,* the letter began, because apparently five years wasn't enough time for them to figure out I preferred Delia now. 

   ***Your immediate presence is requested at Ravenshollow Estate regarding a matter of utmost urgency concerning Alpha Ashworth's wellbeing.***

I snorted. Lysander's wellbeing had stopped being my concern the moment he'd stood up at our mating ceremony and announced to three hundred guests that he'd "reconsidered his choice.” In front of my parents. In front of his parents. In front of the visiting dignitaries from seven other packs.

The humiliation had been so complete, so devastating, that I'd actually laughed. Not a pleasant laugh, mind you. The kind of laugh that makes people take a step back and wonder if you've finally snapped. Which, to be fair, I probably had.

The letter continued with typical pack council verbosity, but the important bits were these: Lysander was dying, they needed me specifically, and refusal wasn't really an option. 

The last part wasn't stated outright, but five years of pack politics had taught me to read between the lines.

I set the letter down and looked around my studio. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating dozens of ceramic pieces in various stages of completion. 

A half-finished set of bowls sat on the wheel, abandoned when the postman had arrived with his delivery of unwanted complications.

This was my life now. Simple, peaceful, and blissfully free of dramatic alpha nonsense. 

I made things with my hands, sold them to people who appreciated craftsmanship, and spent my evenings reading romance novels where the supernatural love interests had the common decency to appreciate their mates from the beginning.

My phone buzzed. A text from my friend Imogen, who ran the local tea shop.

I glanced out the window. Sure enough, a sleek black sedan sat in my gravel driveway like a dark omen. The driver was probably some pack enforcer, waiting to escort me back to face whatever crisis required my particular brand of magical intervention.

Because that was the thing about being rejected by your mate – it didn't actually sever the supernatural connection. The bond was damaged, certainly, but traces remained. Enough traces that if Lysander was dying, I might be the only one who could heal him.

The irony was so thick you could serve it with a spoon.

Another text from Imogen;

I typed back quickly;

Friends. Right. If by friends, I meant the people who'd watched silently while their precious alpha had destroyed my life for the entertainment of pack politics. 

The same people who were now, presumably, desperate enough to come crawling back to me, the very ones who had once been happy to see me exiled. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

They hadn’t just stood by and watched as I was cast out; they’d played their part in it with those quiet nods, complicated silences, maybe even a few gleeful whispers when they thought I wasn’t listening. 

And now? Now they needed me. Of course, they wouldn’t come out and say it. Pride’s a funny thing like that. But I could feel it. Hear it in the way they softened their tones, tested the waters in conversation. 

I imagined them rehearsing what they’d say, trying to frame their desperation as diplomacy. But I remembered everything. 

Every cold shoulder, every locked door. And while they might finally be knocking, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to open that door or just let them stay out there and feel the chill.

After a few minutes that seemed like hours, I untied my apron and hung it on its hook. My reflection in the studio mirror showed someone who'd changed considerably in five years. 

The nervous young woman who'd once desperately wanted to please everyone had been replaced by someone with callused hands, practical clothes, and zero tolerance for supernatural dramatics.

But underneath the newfound confidence, my wolf stirred uneasily. Despite everything that had happened, despite the rejection and the humiliation and the years of self-imposed exile, some part of me still responded to the call of my pack. 

Or more specifically, to the call of the man who'd once been meant to be my everything.

"Right then," I said to my reflection. "Let's go see what sort of trouble the great Lysander Ashworth has gotten himself into."

I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door, trying to ignore the way my heart had started beating just a little too fast. After all, what was the worst that could happen?

Famous last words, those.