Chapter 3

[Sylvia's POV]

My head throbbed.

I dragged a ragged breath into my lungs, expecting to choke on the stench of my own blood and wolfsbane. Instead, my nose twitched.

Clean linen. Rubbing alcohol. And...motor oil?

"How is she holding up, Doc?"

"She has a mild concussion. Keep her resting, and she should be back on her feet by tomorrow."

My heart stalled in my chest. No. It couldn't be.

"Thanks, Dr. Johnson."

Patrick!!!!!

My heavy eyelids snapped open. The harsh sunlight streaming through the window blinded me for a second before my vision focused on the silhouette standing at the foot of my bed.

Messy, dark brown hair. Broad shoulders. Those warm, mischievous amber eyes that were the exact mirror of my own.

It was my twin brother!!! My dead twin brother.

"Patrick!!!" I choked out. The word tore from my dry throat like a dying sob.

"Hey, Via, are you—"

Before he could finish, I kicked off the heavy duvet and launched myself across the mattress.

My arms clamped around his neck in a vice grip.

I buried my face into his cotton t-shirt, inhaling frantically. He smelled like pine needles, sweat, and his beloved motorcycle grease.

He was solid. He was scorching hot. He was alive.

"Whoa, easy there!" Patrick chuckled, wrapping his strong arms around me. He patted my back awkwardly but gently. "Did you hit your head harder than we thought?"

I pulled back just enough to cup his face, my trembling fingers tracing the warm skin of his jaw. Hot tears spilled over my cheeks, dropping onto his shirt.

Was this a dream? Was this heaven?

"Am I... alive?" I whispered, my voice shaking.

Patrick's smile faded into a look of genuine concern. He gently grabbed my shoulders and pushed me back against the pillows. "Uh, yes, you are. Okay, Via, take a deep breath. You just had a bad crash."

Crash. I reached up, my fingertips brushing against a thick gauze bandage wrapped around my forehead.

"Patrick, what's today's date? How old are we?" I demanded, grabbing his wrist. I needed to anchor myself to his pulse. I needed facts.

"Via, you're fine. Just close your eyes and rest. When you wake up—"

"I'm serious, Patrick. Answer me. Please!" I begged, my voice cracking.

He sighed, his playful demeanor dropping. He pulled his smartphone from his pocket and tapped the screen, holding it up for me to see.

July 24, 2024.

My breath hitched violently.

We were twenty. This was the day before our shared birthday.

The exact day Patrick was murdered.

Memories crashed into my fragile mind like a tidal wave.

Yesterday, Patrick had surprised me with a sleek black motorcycle. I had kept my love for riding a secret because Carl, my controlling, arrogant future mate, hated it. “Ladies shouldn't ride motorcycles. It's a man's thing. It's not proper for a future Luna.”

Like an obedient, brainwashed idiot, I had listened to him.

But yesterday, Patrick had sneaked me out to race near the pack borders. I had swerved to avoid a stray pup, lost control, and slammed my bike into an oak tree.

In my past life, Patrick had checked on me this very afternoon. He told me he was going to fetch Carl to keep me company while he went to the cliffs to retrieve my damaged bike.

Hours later, Carl had returned alone, wearing a perfectly crafted mask of grief, to tell me my brother had slipped and fallen to his death.

"Via? Sylvia?" Patrick's voice yanked me out of the suffocating darkness. "You're scaring me. I'm calling Dr. Johnson back."

"No!" I grabbed his hand tighter. "I'm fine. Just... a little dizzy."

Patrick studied my pale face for a second before offering a teasing wink. "Maybe you need some better company. I'll go grab Freya and your precious Carl. I know he's the only one who can actually get you to behave."

Carl!!!

The name acted like a spark hitting gasoline.

A phantom blade violently twisted in my chest. My wrists throbbed with the ghost of silver daggers tearing through my flesh.

I could suddenly feel the damp grass beneath me, could hear the sickening, wet sounds of Carl and Freya's bodies slapping together while I bled out in the dirt.

"NO!" I shrieked.

I shot forward, digging my nails into Patrick's arm. "Don't go, Patrick! Please... don't go to them!"

Patrick froze, his dark brows knitting together. "Via, what's wrong? Did something happen between you and Carl?"

I shook my head rapidly, forcing back the bile rising in my throat. "I—I just had a nightmare. A horrible nightmare. Don't leave me right now."

"Alright, alright, I won't," he murmured softly, reaching out to ruffle my hair just like he used to. "I need to stick around anyway before Dad finishes his border patrol. If Alpha Eric finds out you crashed, he'll lock my precious bike in the storage room."

He settled into the chair beside my bed, pulling out his phone.

I leaned back against the headboard, lowering my gaze to my hands. My wrists were smooth, pale, and completely unscathed. Not a single drop of black poison. I pressed a hand over my heart. It beat strong and steady. No gaping wound.

It wasn't a nightmare. The agony had been too real.

If I had truly been sent back in time, I needed to play smart. If Patrick knew the truth about what those two monsters planned to do to him, his hot-headed Alpha blood would send him charging straight at Carl. He would be killed all over again.

No. I would not let my brother die. This revenge belonged to me.

But... how was I here?

No wolf, not even the legendary Lycan King, possessed the magic to turn back time.

Then, a sensory memory washed over my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms.

A massive, terrifying presence. A calloused hand, impossibly warm, cradling my blood-stained cheek. A deep, vibrating voice that commanded the very air around us. "I will find you again, my mate."

And the scent. Dark, rich chocolate, mixed with the sharp ozone of a brewing storm.

A shiver ran straight down to my core. A strange, heavy ache settled low in my stomach. Whoever that man was, his mere presence possessed more raw, intoxicating dominance than Carl could ever dream of having. Who was he? And why did he call me his mate?

The afternoon slipped by. Patrick tried multiple times to bring up Carl and Freya, assuming I was just throwing a childish tantrum. Every time, I shut him down with an icy glare.

Eventually, the thick wooden door of my bedroom creaked open.

My father's Beta, George, stepped into the room with a polite nod.

"Lady Sylvia," George announced, his tone formal. "Carl and Freya are waiting downstairs. They insist on seeing you."

My blood ran cold, then immediately boiled into liquid fire.

They were here.