Chapter 23

My Cheating Mate

Jeremy pov

Every muscle in my body screamed in protest as the physical therapist, Marcus—ironically named after Emma's father—helped me swing my legs over the side of the bed.

"Take it slow," he said, his hands steady under my arms. "You've been bedridden for almost a month. Your body needs time to remember how this works."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The room spun slightly, and I had to close my eyes against the vertigo.

When I opened them, Emma was there. Standing off to the side, her arms crossed, her expression carefully neutral. But her eyes—her eyes were worried.

She still cared. Despite everything I'd done, despite the pain I'd caused, she still cared whether I could stand, whether I'd fall, whether I'd hurt myself trying.

It was more than I deserved.

"Ready?" Marcus the therapist asked.

"Ready," I lied.

He counted down from three, and on one, I pushed myself up. My legs immediately threatened to buckle. The therapist's grip tightened, holding me upright while my body remembered how to bear weight.

Pain shot through my thigh where the bullet had torn through muscle. My shoulder, still healing from the rogue's bite, pulled and burned. The gashes across my ribs felt like they were tearing open again, though I knew they were closed.

"Breathe through it," Marcus coached. "The pain means you're healing."

I focused on breathing. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Small, controlled breaths while my legs shook with the effort of just standing still.

Emma took a step closer, then stopped herself. I saw the internal war playing out on her face—the instinct to help warring with the need to maintain boundaries.

"You're doing great," she said quietly. Just encouragement. Nothing more.

But to me, it was everything.

"Now we're going to try a step," Marcus said. "Just one. Left foot forward, nice and slow."

I lifted my left foot—the one that hadn't been shot—and moved it forward maybe six inches. The simple act made sweat break out across my forehead.

My right leg, the injured one, screamed as it took my full weight. For a second, I thought it would give out completely. My knee buckled.

Emma moved before Marcus could, her hands catching my arm, steadying me. "I've got you."

The touch sent electricity through me. Mate bond or not, dissolved or not, her touch still affected me like nothing else.

"Thanks," I managed, straightening with her help.

She didn't let go immediately. Just held my arm until she was sure I was stable, then stepped back, putting distance between us again.

But she'd touched me. Helped me. That meant something.

"Good," Marcus said. "That's enough for today. Let's get you back in bed."

The return journey was somehow harder than standing had been. Every movement pulled at wounds that were still knitting back together. By the time I was lying down again, I was panting, exhausted from maybe ninety seconds of activity.

Pathetic. I was pathetic.

"You did well," the therapist said, making notes on his tablet. "Tomorrow we'll try for two steps. By next week, you should be walking to the bathroom on your own."

Next week. It would take a week just to walk to the bathroom. How long before I could resume my duties? Before I could actually protect the pack again instead of being a burden?

"Don't," Emma said after Marcus left. She'd settled back into her chair, but her eyes were sharp. "I can see you spiraling. Don't."

"I can't even walk," I said, frustration bleeding through. "Can't protect the pack. Can't protect you. Can't do anything except lie here being useless."

"You're healing from three gunshot wounds, multiple lacerations, and near-fatal blood loss," Emma countered. "You're not useless. You're recovering."

"Same thing."

"It's really not." She leaned forward, her expression softening slightly. "Jeremy, you fought off six rogues while dying. You saved the pack. You saved me. Now your body needs time to heal. That's not weakness—it's biology."

I wanted to believe her. Wanted to accept that I wasn't failing by being injured. But the Alpha training ran deep—Alphas were supposed to be strong, invincible, always ready to defend.

And I was none of those things right now.

"I keep thinking about Vanessa," I admitted. The name felt like poison on my tongue. "About how I let her into my life, into our lives. About how every choice I made with her led to this."

Emma's expression closed off slightly. "We don't have to talk about her."

"But we do." I met her eyes, needing her to understand. "Because she's the biggest regret I have. Not because of what she did to me, but because of what I let her do to you. To us."

"You did that," Emma said quietly. "Not just her. You made the choice to cheat. You made the choice to plan—" She stopped, pain flickering across her face.

"To plan to use you," I finished, the words like ground glass. "I know. And there's no excuse for it. No justification. But Emma, I need you to know something."

"What?"

"When I was fighting those rogues, when I took those bullets, I wasn't thinking about the pack. I wasn't thinking about my duty as future Alpha." I paused, making sure she was really hearing me. "I was thinking about you. About keeping you safe. About making up for every time I failed to protect you from Vanessa, from myself."

"Jeremy—"

"I know it doesn't fix anything. I know one heroic moment doesn't erase months of betrayal. But Emma, you asked me once if love was enough." I reached for her hand, relieved when she didn't pull away. "I don't know if it is. But I know that I love you. Really love you. Not the fantasy I had with Vanessa, not the obligation of the mate bond. You. Emma Smith. The woman who saved me even after I destroyed her. The woman who sits by my bedside even though she has every right to walk away."

Tears glistened in her eyes. "This is so hard."

"I know."

"I want to forgive you. Part of me already has. But I'm terrified of being hurt again."

"I can't promise I'll never hurt you again," I said honestly. "I can't promise I'll be perfect. But Emma, I can promise I'll never betray you like that again. Never lie to you. Never let another woman come between us."

"Words are easy," she said, but her hand tightened around mine.

"Then let me show you. When I'm healed. When you're ready. Let me prove that I've changed. That I understand what I almost lost."

"And if you can't? If I can't learn to trust you again?"

The question felt like a knife to the chest. But I'd asked myself the same thing hundreds of times over the past month.

"Then I'll accept it," I said, meaning it. "I'll accept that I destroyed something irreplaceable. And I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you're happy and safe, even if it's not with me."

A tear slipped down her cheek. "I don't want to give up on us. But I don't know how to trust you again."

"We'll figure it out," I said, brushing away her tear with my thumb. "Together. One step at a time. Like physical therapy."

She laughed, watery but genuine. "That's a terrible metaphor."

"I'm on a lot of pain medication. Cut me some slack."

Another small laugh. Then her expression turned serious again. "Jeremy, I meant what I said earlier. When you're healed, I need space. Real space. Not me avoiding you at pack meetings, but actual distance to figure out who I am without you."

The thought terrified me. What if she decided she liked that version of herself better? What if distance showed her how much better off she was alone?

But I'd promised not to pressure her. To let her heal in her own time.

"Okay," I agreed. "When I'm healed, you get your space. However much you need."

She studied my face, looking for signs of resentment or manipulation. Finding none, she nodded. "Thank you."

"But Emma?" I squeezed her hand. "While I'm healing, while you're here—can we at least be honest with each other? Really honest? No more games, no more hiding?"

"I think I can do that."

"Good." I settled back against the pillows, exhaustion pulling at me again. "Because I'm tired of lying. To you, to myself, to everyone. The truth sucks, but at least it's real."

"The truth does suck," she agreed. "But you're right. It's real. And real is what we need if we're going to have any chance at all."

My eyes were already drifting closed, but I fought to stay awake a little longer. "Emma?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for staying. For giving me even this much of a chance."

"Don't make me regret it," she said softly.

"I won't. I swear, I won't."

As sleep pulled me under, I felt her hand still holding mine. Felt the warmth of her presence beside me.

It wasn't forgiveness. Wasn't even close to what we'd lost.

But it was something. A foundation, maybe. A place to start rebuilding.

And if I was very careful, very patient, very honest—maybe it could be enough.

Maybe love could be enough after all.

Even if it took the rest of my life to prove it.