002

ECHOES OF FAILURE

~DARIN POV~

The ice doesn’t give a shit about how many times you’ve died.

I dig my blades in harder, crossovers ripping the surface, shoulder-checking the boards just to feel the rattle in my teeth. Practice is half over, and I’m already sweating through my jersey, my lungs burning like they’re trying to remind me I’m still breathing.

Fifth life. Same rink. Same numb fucking routine.

Coach blows the whistle. “Salvator! Are you skating or daydreaming?”

I flip him off without looking back. He knows better than to push. I’m the Silver Ridge Blizzard’s pro-star and its most expensive liability. I play hard, I party harder, and I don't follow the rules—mostly because I know the rules are a lie.

In the locker room later, I strip my gear slow, letting the cold air bite skin that never quite warms up. I step into the shower and crank the heat until it burns. It doesn’t help.

The water runs red for a second in my head, like it always does when the memories creep in.

I’ve had four mates in four lives. I don't know who the fifth one is yet, but I already know how she ends.

Different faces. Different names. But always the same ending. A car wreck. A pack war. A "freak accident." Every single time, I’m left standing over a body, smelling the scent of a mate-bond that was being extinguished before it could even properly begin.

I slam my fist into the tile. My knuckles split, and the sting is a relief. Real pain is better than the ghost kind.

Because the worst part of being a "Graveyard Mate" isn't just the funerals. It’s the Legacy Curse. The fact that every time I get close to building something—every time I think fate might finally let me keep a piece of the future—it rips it away.

I’ve heard three heartbeats stop in my arms across four lifetimes. Little heartbeats. Legacy heartbeats.

I’m a dead end. A man who carries a graveyard in his chest.

Back at my off-campus loft, I drop onto the couch. My phone is blowing up. Headlines are scrolling: ‘DARIN SALVATOR’S LATEST CLUB BRAWL—IS THE CAREER OVER?’

I scroll past them. I don’t even read the captions. It’s all noise. Same as the hookups and the fights. I’m reckless because reckless is the only thing that drowns out the quiet.

My phone rings. An unknown number. I almost ignored it, but something nags.

“Salvator.”

“Darin.” It’s a pack elder. Old, dry, and arrogant. “The mating ceremony is set for the next full moon. Your nephew Aiden is announcing his union with the Thorne girl. The family is expected. Your absence would be... noted.”

I laugh. It’s a short, quick sound. “Aiden’s playing house? Tell him congrats. I will send a gift if I’m not too busy getting arrested.”

“This is pack business, Darin. The Salvator bloodline needs to show strength.”

“Strength? From a bunch of wolves who care more about status than blood? Yeah, note my absence.” I hang up and toss the phone.

Aiden and his "Thorne girl." I don't even know her name. Probably some social climber looking for a title. I don't care. In my world, the only thing that matters is how much whiskey it takes to forget that I’m stuck in a loop I didn't ask for.

I need out. I need noise. I need skin that isn’t a memory.

I ended up at the club. The bass is loud enough to vibrate in my teeth, and the girl—a human named Sarah or Sam—is laughing too loudly in my ear.

She smells like expensive perfume and sugar.

She’s kissing my neck in the back of the VIP booth, whispering about how she’s always wanted a "real wolf." I let her. My hands are on her hips, my mouth on hers, but it's robotic. Empty.

There’s no spark. No "pull."

I finish fast, leave her a stack of bills for the "trouble," and head back to the hotel I’m holed up in. I can't stand the loft tonight. It feels like a tomb.

I’m staring at the ceiling of the darkened suite when the internal line buzzes.

“Mr. Salvator?” security sounds nervous. “There’s a young woman here. She says she’s your... escort for the evening? She says it's urgent.”

I sit up, rubbing a hand over my face. “I didn’t call an escort.”

“She was very insistent, sir. Said you would want to hear what she has to say. Name’s Mable Thorne.”

Thorne. The girl Aiden is supposed to be claiming. Why the hell is she at my hotel?

I pull on some sweats, no shirt, and walk to the door. My heart is steady. I’m just annoyed. I’m ready to tell my nephew’s girl to get lost before she ruins whatever little reputation she has left.

I open the door. And the air is ripped out of my lungs.

The scent hits me like a head-on crash. Wolf. Elemental and old magic.

And something else. Underneath the anger, there’s a faint, ghostly echo of something I have only smelled in the darkest moments of my past lives. The scent of a lost heir. The scent of a legacy that never got to breathe.

I freeze. My eyes track from her borrowed heels up to her hazel eyes—eyes that are sharp enough to draw blood.

It’s her.

The soul I have buried four times. The mate I haven't met yet in this life.

She’s standing there in a black dress that’s too tight, her chin up like she’s daring me to laugh. She doesn't look like a "social climber." She looks like a woman who has walked through fire and liked the way it burned.

The doorframe creaks under my grip as my hand crushes the wood. My wolf is suddenly awake, clawing at my ribs, howling with a mix of agony and terrifying, possessive joy.

“Mable,” I rasp. Her name tastes like ash.

I don't know why she’s here. I don't know why she's at my door instead of Aiden's. But the thread in my chest—the one I thought was dead—just snapped taut, pulling so hard I think my heart might actually restart.

This time, the "ghost" is the one who found me.

And for the first time in five lives, I realize I am not going to let her walk away. No matter what it costs.