Chapter 3

Poppy~

Days move into one another, each one heavier than the last. I return home several times to change clothes, slipping in and out of the house that no longer feels like mine. The silence there presses against my skin like a living thing, reminding me of everything I have lost. 

One afternoon, as I step into the bedroom to grab fresh scrubs, I hear footsteps. My heart leaps with foolish hope. Barid stands near the closet, pulling shirts from hangers. His familiar scent fills the room, and for a moment, the pain in my chest eases just a fraction.

“Barid,” I whisper with a shaking voice. I take a hesitant step closer, my hands twisting together. “Please… can we talk? I know things have been hard, especially after the last miscarriage. But we can still fix this.” I swallow hard. “I love you. We have been through so much together. Don’t throw it all away.”

He doesn’t even turn around. His shoulders remain rigid as he continues packing clothes into a bag. The rejection hit deeper watching him act immune to my presence. I reach out, my fingers brushing his arm, but he pulls away as if my touch burns him.

“Barid, please…”

Nothing. Not a word or even a glance. He zips the bag and walks past me like I am a stranger, the door closes behind him.

I stand there frozen for several seconds, the emptiness swallowing me whole. Then I stumble into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. My legs give out. I sink to the cold tile floor, pressing my face into my knees as harsh, deep sobs tear from my throat. My chest heaves with the force of it. Tears soak through my clothes. The mate bond may be broken, but the love I still carry for him refuses to die. It hurts. It hurts so deeply I can barely breathe.

Yet I have patients waiting. Especially one who needs me more than I want to admit.

I wipe my face, splash cold water on my swollen eyes, and return to the hospital. 

Jethro has grown accustomed to my presence. Every day I sit by his bed, feeding him when he refuses food from anyone else. He calls me Nella with such tenderness that it curls something complicated inside my chest. When I try to gently correct him, to tell him I am not her, his vitals spike, panic clouds his piercing eyes, and his body reacts so poorly that the nurses grow concerned. So I stop trying. I let him believe. For now. For his healing.

Weeks pass in this fragile routine. His strength slowly returns. One morning, he manages to stand on his own two feet, though he leans heavily on me for support. His warm hand rests on my waist, sending an unfamiliar flutter through me that I quickly push down.

“I want to go home,” he says, his light eyes locked on mine. “To the packhouse. I don’t recognize this place… or them.” He glances briefly at his parents, confusion and distrust flashing across his handsome face.

My stomach tightens. The packhouse? I cannot possibly go there. This is already too much; the lies, the pretending, the way his vulnerability pulls at my own broken pieces.

Mr. and Mrs. Northcutt sense my hesitation. They approach me later that day, their faces etched with exhaustion and fear. Mrs. Northcutt takes my hands in hers, her touch motherly and it makes my throat tighten. I have no family left. No one who looks at me with such desperate hope.

“Please, Poppy,” Mr. Northcutt says. “He needs familiar surroundings to heal. We cannot lose him. The pack cannot lose him.”

Their pleas melt something deep inside me once again. They look like parents who would do anything for their child. I imagine what it would feel like to have someone fight so hard for me. The loneliness in my own heart answers before my mind can.

“Alright,” I whisper. “But only as his doctor. This is medical duty. Nothing more.”

Mr. Brooks drives me home to pack. The house feels even colder. I throw a few clothes, toiletries, and necessities into a small bag. My eyes fall on our wedding photo on the nightstand. The one where Barid smiles at me like I am his moon and stars. My favorite. I hesitate, then slip it into my bag. A piece of my heart I am not ready to leave behind.

We arrive at the packhouse as evening falls. My breath catches at the sight. It is the largest, most magnificent mansion I have ever seen: sprawling gardens, towering stone walls, warm lights glowing from countless windows. Servants and guards move in unison everywhere. This is true Alpha territory. Power and legacy wrapped in elegance.

Jethro tires quickly during the short tour. We help him to his room; a massive, masculine space with dark wood and soft lighting. I stay until he falls asleep, carefully checking the bandages on his head, shoulder, and neck. My fingers linger a moment longer than necessary on his warm skin. He looks peaceful, breathtaking even with the injuries.

His parents find me afterward in the hallway. “Thank you,” Mrs. Northcutt says, pulling me into a warm embrace. “Whatever you need, clothes, food, anything — it will be provided. You are saving our family.”

I hesitate, then ask the question ringing in my head. “Why didn’t you ever ask if I was married? Or involved with someone?”

Mr. Northcutt’s gaze drops to my left hand. “We saw no ring.”

My heart stutters. I look down at my bare finger. The diamond wedding ring Barid gave me is gone. When did I lose it? On the beach? During the surgery? In my haze of tears? I cannot remember, and the realization brings a fresh wave of sorrow.

Mrs. Northcutt’s gentle voice cuts through my racing thoughts. “Are you married, my child?”

The question hangs between us. My mind swirls with pain, exhaustion, and the weight of everything. “No,” I answer without thinking. The lie slips out easily. It feels safer this way. My personal life does not concern them. This arrangement is temporary, only until Jethro heals fully. Then I will leave and face whatever remains of my broken marriage.

I eat a meal alone, then draw a hot bath in the luxurious bathroom attached to my assigned room. The water soothes my aching body but does nothing for my heart. Afterward, I slip into the sheer, transparent nightgown I once wore only for Barid, delicate lace meant for intimate nights. I pick up our wedding photo again, tracing his face with my fingertip. Tears blur my vision.

I still love him so much it hurts. The betrayal burns, but beneath it, hope lingers. I will not sign those divorce papers. I will fight for us. Somehow. Some way.

A soft knock at the door gets my attention.

I wipe my eyes and walk over, wondering who it could be at this hour. My hand turns the knob.

Jethro stands there, shirtless, wearing only dark pants that hang low on his hips. The sight steals my breath. His body is perfect; powerful muscles sculpted from years of Alpha strength, his neck tattoo winding down toward his chest, broad shoulders, and narrow waist. Bandages still wrap his shoulder, head, and neck, but they do little to hide how devastatingly handsome he is. Heat rises to my cheeks unbidden.

“N-Nella,” he mumbles in a sleepy voice. His light eyes roam over me, softening with confusion and something deeper. “Why are you in a different room? We always spend the night together.”