Chapter 28

My Cheating Mate

Jeremy pov

I wasn't fully asleep. The pain medication made everything hazy, distant, like I was underwater. But I could hear voices—Emma and Aria talking quietly, thinking I was unconscious.

I should have let them know I was awake. Should have said something.

But I couldn't. Because what they were saying was too important, too raw, too honest for me to interrupt.

"I'm terrified of loving him again. Of trusting him. Of being that vulnerable with someone who's already destroyed me once."

Emma's words hit like a physical blow, even though I'd heard variations of them before. Hearing the fear in her voice, the pain, knowing I'd put it there—it made me want to tear myself apart all over again.

"But I think I'm more terrified of not giving him another chance."

Hope flared in my chest, painful and desperate. She was considering it. Actually considering giving me another chance.

Then Aria's voice: "You need a therapist, someone trained in trauma and relationship repair."

Therapy. The word echoed in my drug-fogged mind.

I'd never considered therapy. Alphas didn't do therapy. We were supposed to be strong, unbreakable, able to handle anything through sheer force of will.

But that thinking—that toxic, prideful thinking—was part of what got me here. Part of what made me think I could have an affair without consequences, could use my mate without it destroying me too.

"Mate bond trauma is a specialty?"

I hadn't known that either. Hadn't realized that what I'd done to Emma was serious enough to require professional intervention. I'd thought—what? That time would heal it? That love would be enough?

I was such an idiot.

"Send me Dr. Chen's contact info. For both of us."

Both of us. Emma wanted me to go to therapy with her.

The realization made my chest tight with emotions I couldn't name. She wasn't just thinking about herself, about her own healing. She was thinking about us. About fixing what I'd broken.

If it could be fixed.

I wanted to open my eyes then, wanted to tell her I'd do it. Would do therapy, would do whatever it took. But my body was too heavy, the medication pulling me back under despite my desire to stay conscious.

"Tomorrow we'd talk about therapy. About healing. About what came next."

Tomorrow. I could wait until tomorrow.

I let myself drift, Emma's hand still in mine, her presence beside me the only thing keeping the darkness at bay.

---

When I woke again, real waking this time, sunlight was streaming through the hospital window. My head felt clearer, the medication wearing off enough for coherent thought.

Emma was asleep in the chair beside my bed, her hand still holding mine. She looked exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, her clothes still stained with my blood, her hair a tangled mess.

She'd stayed all night. Again.

How many nights had she spent in uncomfortable hospital chairs because of me? First during my coma, then during my recovery, now this.

I should tell her to go home. To get real rest in a real bed. To take care of herself instead of me.

But I was too selfish. Too grateful for her presence. Too terrified that if she left, she might not come back.

Her eyes opened slowly, immediately finding mine. "You're awake. How do you feel?"

"Like I'm going to live, unfortunately for you." I tried for humor but it fell flat.

"Don't joke about that." Her voice was sharp. "You almost died yesterday, Jeremy. Again. Do you have any idea what that's like? Watching you collapse? Having your blood all over my hands?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Stop apologizing and start listening." She sat up straighter, her expression fierce. "We need to talk. Really talk. About everything."

My stomach dropped. This was it. The moment where she told me she couldn't do this, couldn't keep watching me self-destruct, couldn't give me another chance.

"Okay," I said, bracing myself. "I'm listening."

"I heard you," she said quietly. "Last night. When Aria and I were talking. You were awake, weren't you?"

Caught. I nodded slowly. "Some of it. The medication made everything fuzzy, but I heard enough."

"Then you heard me say I need therapy. That we both need therapy."

"I did."

"And?" She was watching me carefully. "What do you think about that?"

What did I think? That it terrified me. That admitting I needed help felt like admitting weakness. That the idea of sitting in some therapist's office talking about my feelings made my skin crawl.

But also—that Emma was right. That we couldn't fix this alone. That love wasn't enough without the tools to build something healthy from the wreckage.

"I think you're right," I said finally. "I think we're both carrying trauma that we can't process on our own. And if there's even a chance that therapy could help us—help you trust me again—then I'll do it. Whatever it takes."

Emma's eyes glistened with tears. "You mean that?"

"Emma, I testified yesterday knowing it might kill me because I needed you to see that I was done hiding from the truth. Done protecting myself at your expense." I squeezed her hand gently. "If you think therapy will help, then I'll go. I'll talk to Dr. Chen or whoever you want. I'll do the work."

"It's going to be hard," she warned. "Therapy isn't just showing up and talking. It's confronting uncomfortable truths. Processing painful emotions. Learning new ways of thinking and behaving."

"I know. Or I'm starting to understand, anyway." I paused. "I heard Aria say I have guilt and self-destructive behavior to work through. She's right. Yesterday proved that. I pushed myself to testify knowing I wasn't healed enough because some part of me thought I deserved the pain."

"You can't keep punishing yourself," Emma said softly. "That doesn't help me heal. It doesn't undo what happened. It just creates more trauma."

"I'm starting to see that." I looked down at our joined hands. "Emma, I want to fix us. Want to fix me. But I don't know how. Don't know where to start."

"We start with therapy," she said. "Individual sessions to work on our own trauma. Then maybe couples therapy to work on us. And Jeremy—" Her voice became firm. "You have to commit to this. Really commit. Not just go through the motions because you think it's what I want to hear."

"I'm committed," I said immediately. "Emma, you're the best thing that ever happened to me, and I destroyed it through selfishness and stupidity. If therapy is what it takes to become someone worthy of you, someone who won't hurt you again, then I'll do whatever Dr. Chen tells me to do."

"Even if it means confronting things you'd rather avoid?" she challenged. "Even if it means admitting things about yourself that are uncomfortable?"

I thought about that. About the version of me who'd had the affair, who'd gaslit Emma, who'd planned to use her as a broodmare. That person was ugly, cruel, unworthy.

But that person was still me. Part of me. And I couldn't change if I didn't acknowledge him.

"Yes," I said. "Even then. Especially then."

Emma was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Okay. I'll call Dr. Chen today. Set up appointments for both of us."

Relief washed over me so intensely I almost couldn't breathe. "Thank you. For giving me this chance. For not giving up on us."

"I haven't decided anything yet," she cautioned. "Therapy is a starting point, not a solution. We still have a long way to go. You still have to earn back my trust."

"I know. And I will. However long it takes."

"It might take a long time, Jeremy. Months. Maybe years. Can you be patient with that? Can you accept that I might need to pull back sometimes, might need space even while we're working on this?"

Could I? The thought of Emma pulling away, even temporarily, made my wolf whine with distress. But if that's what she needed to heal, if that's what it took for us to build something real—

"Yes," I said. "I can be patient. I can give you space when you need it. Because Emma, I'm not going anywhere. I'm in this for the long haul, whatever that looks like."

A small smile crossed her face—the first real smile I'd seen from her in what felt like forever. "Good. Because I'm going to hold you to that."

"Please do."

She leaned forward, her free hand coming up to cup my face. The touch was gentle, careful, but it made my heart race.

"We're going to take this slow," she said. "One day at a time. One therapy session at a time. No rushing, no pressure, no expectations beyond showing up and doing the work."

"One day at a time," I agreed. "I can do that."

"And Jeremy? If you ever push yourself like you did yesterday—if you ever put proving a point above taking care of yourself—I will walk away. Permanently. Because I can't watch you destroy yourself. Can't be with someone who values punishment over healing."

The ultimatum was clear, and she meant every word. I could see it in her eyes.

"I understand. And I promise—I'll take care of myself. Will listen to doctors. Will ask for help when I need it instead of trying to do everything alone."

"Good." She settled back in her chair but kept hold of my hand. "Now rest. Dr. Reeves said you need at least another week in the hospital before they'll even consider discharge."

A week. A week of Emma by my bedside, of slow healing, of beginning the long journey toward becoming someone worthy of her love.

It wasn't ideal. It wasn't what I'd wanted when I'd pushed to testify.

But it was a start.

And starts were what we needed.

"Emma?" I said as my eyes started to drift closed again.

"Yeah?"

"I love you. I know I've said it before, and I know words are cheap after what I did. But I need you to know—I love you. The real you. Not the fantasy I had or the obligation of the bond. You."

She was quiet for so long I thought maybe I'd said too much, pushed too hard.

Then: "I know. And Jeremy? I love you too. I'm still hurt. Still angry. Still scared. But I love you. That's why I'm here. Why I'm willing to try."

My chest felt too full, like my heart might burst from the relief and hope and love threatening to overflow.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Don't thank me yet," she said, but her voice was soft. "We have a lot of work ahead of us."

"I'm ready for it."

"We'll see."

I fell asleep to the sound of her breathing, her hand in mine, and for the first time in months, I felt something that wasn't guilt or regret or self-loathing.

I felt hope.

Hope that maybe, just maybe, love and therapy and commitment really could be enough.

Hope that Emma and I could find our way back to each other.

Hope that I could become the mate she deserved instead of the one who'd destroyed her.

It was a fragile hope. Uncertain. Terrifying in its vulnerability.

But it was there.

And right now, that was everything.