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Hard times
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2025-11-07 21:58:18
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The cursed mate's return Maia was dead
Kael's povThe meeting room emptied slowly, voices scattering like the last drops of a quietness. Papers shuffled, chairs scraped against polished marble, and yet my focus hadn’t moved once.She was gone.The girl from the kitchen, the one who’d run. The one whose presence made the mark on my wrist flare alive after six long, silent years.I’d told myself it was nothing. A mistake. Some remnant of memory twisting my senses. But I knew better. Wolves didn’t hallucinate their bonds.Even if her scent was gone — buried, muted, human — that flash of warmth beneath my skin had been real.I stood by the window, watching her disappear down the corridor, the sound of her footsteps echoing too fast, too desperate. My hand clenched at my side.“Sir?”Mr. Seong’s voice snapped me back. He lingered by the conference table, cautious. Everyone else had already gone.“Everything alright?” he asked.“Yes,” I said, too quickly. My tone made him straighten. “Good work with the meeting. Send the final r
The cursed mate's return Beyond imagination
Maia's povThe rain hadn’t stopped since evening. It drummed against the thin windowpane of my room above the laundromat, steady and cold. I sat on the edge of the bed with my hands tangled in my hair, the city lights leaking through the curtains like restless ghosts.I hadn’t moved for an hour.Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the same scene, the way he’d looked at me in that kitchen, the way his scent had flared like a spark catching dry leaves. My heart hadn’t stopped racing since.It was stupid to sit here replaying it. I should’ve been packing, running again before anyone noticed. But my mind kept circling the same wall, the contract.Thirty million.That was the penalty if I broke it. Mr. Han had warned me before I signed. Silvercrest doesn’t play games with their brand, Maia. They protect their assets.Assets. That’s what I was now.I laughed once, bitter and quiet. I didn’t have thirty thousand, let alone thirty million. I barely had enough for next month’s rent. The room sm
The cursed mate's return Hard times
The bathroom door slammed behind me before I even realized I’d moved. My breath came hard, uneven. The fluorescent light above the mirror flickered, throwing my reflection in sharp, broken flashes — pale skin, wide eyes, hair sticking to my face with sweat.Maia's povI gripped the edge of the sink until my knuckles went white.What are the odds? Out of every city, every kitchen, every shadowed street — why here? Why him?I stared at myself, trying to slow the tremor running through my hands. It shouldn’t be possible. I’d buried that life. Buried *him.*Six years of running. Six years of silence.But when he caught me, that single second in his arms, something flared. His scent hit like smoke and earth, old as the forest I’d left behind. And the mark I’d carved out of my memory burned like fire waking up.It shouldn’t have. The bond was dead. I’d made sure of it.I pressed my palm flat against my chest, as if I could quiet the ache underneath. “No,” I whispered to the empty room. “You
The cursed mate's return The spill
Maia's povThe kitchen was so busy, clattering knives, voices rising and falling. It was the kind of chaos that made sense to me. In this noise, no one asked who you used to be. You were only as good as your next dish.I’d been working here for seven months. Seven months of silence, work, and nothing else. No pack, no scent marks, no one breathing down my neck. Just fire, knives, and order slips.And somehow, I’d made it.After the regional competition, the manager, Mr. Han had given me the title of Head Culinary Artist. Fancy words for what I already did, but I didn’t care. It was mine. I’d earned it with burns on my hands and sleepless nights.I told myself I didn’t miss the forest. The moon. The bond I’d once sworn would never die.But sometimes, when I was alone, I still heard it, the echo of something half-broken inside me. A name. A pull.I buried it under work. Always work.“Alright, people, focus up!” Mr. Han’s voice cut through the steam. He stood by the prep counter with his
The cursed mate's return A taste of honey
Maia's povThe city moved differently than the forest ever had.Everything ran on noise and motion — engines, voices, footsteps that never stopped. For Maia, that was the point. A city this loud could swallow anyone whole.She’d arrived with nothing. No name, no pack, not even a direction. Only the rhythm of running still in her legs and a hollow ache in her chest where the bond used to burn. She didn’t think, didn’t plan. She just kept moving until the trees were nothing but a memory and the scent of rain was replaced by smoke and oil.Here, she told herself, she could start again.The first nights were spent in cheap rooms that smelled of damp linen and cigarette ash. She lived off vending machine coffee and stale bread, folding herself into corners where no one would look. Sleep came only in small fragments, between sirens.But hunger had its own way of forcing decisions.She found the small restaurant by accident — a narrow place tucked behind a line of shuttered stores, half-hidd
The cursed mate's return Prophecy of the old
Maia's povIt swept through Redmoon’s ramparts, heavy with pine and something metallic underneath a scent I hadn’t breathed in since Ironclaw. I stood at the highest tower, watching mist drift over the treetops. The river below still glimmered faintly gold from the Blood Pact, like it refused to forget what we’d done.Behind me, the door creaked open.“You’ve been up all night,” Aeron said.I didn’t turn. “So have you.”He came to stand beside me, the faintest shadow under his eyes. The dawn light caught the scar at his temple, a thin silver line that made him look more human than Alpha.“Their scouts are gone,” he said. “Pulled back north before sunrise.”“That doesn’t mean they’ve retreated.”“No. It means they’re waiting.”For a while, neither of us spoke. The silence between us had grown strange — no longer sharp like it used to be, but restless, like a storm circling without breaking. The bond made everything louder: the brush of wind on his sleeve, the steady rhythm of his puls
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