TWO: The Last Delusion

MINTHE

The Last Delusion

*   *   *

Pierre tilts his head slightly. “You ask all men to become your mate this way?”

“I usually bring flowers first.”

His thumb shifts against my waist.

Tiny movement.

Tiny.

But my pulse absolutely humiliates me over it.

“You’re nervous,” he says quietly.

“Obviously.”

“That’s new.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

His mouth twitches again. “You’re sitting on me, Minthe. I think you’re already trying.”

I choke on air so violently I nearly fall off his lap.

Pierre catches me immediately with both hands, and the laugh that finally leaves him is low and rough and unfairly attractive. It hits me right in the chest.

God. The comment sections would've exploded over this scene.

I stare at him.

He stares back.

The silence changes.

The kind that makes me suddenly aware of every point of contact between us. His hand on my hip. My thigh against his. The warmth of his chest beneath the thin black shirt stretched across muscle.

Right.

I need to stop noticing things before I become clinically stupid.

“So?” I ask, trying to sound less breathless than I feel. “You gonna answer me or keep staring dramatically into my soul?”

Pierre’s expression settles into something quieter.

More serious.

His fingers flex once against my waist before he says, “Do you understand what you’re asking?”

The joking dies immediately.

Because yeah.

I do.

In this world, mating bonds aren’t cute little wedding vows. They’re permanent. Political. Spiritual. Wolves treat it like carving your heart open in front of the Moon Goddess herself.

Mates belong to each other in every possible way. And Pierre knows I know that.

“I’m not joking,” I say softly His eyes stay on mine for a long moment.

Then he says the one thing I don’t expect.

“Why me?”

The question hits harder than it should.

Not because I don’t have answers.

Because I have too many.

Because I know every terrible thing that happens to him in the original story. Because I know how alone he was. Because I spent nights screaming at fictional pages over how badly he was treated. Because somewhere between surviving and scheming and fixing his disasters, Pierre stopped feeling fictional.

But I can’t say any of that.

So instead, I shrug lightly even though my throat suddenly feels tight.

“You needed someone.” Pierre’s gaze sharpens instantly. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

He studies me carefully, like he’s trying to peel my skull open and read the secrets inside.

Terrifying man.

Unfortunately for him, I’m clinically insane and stubborn.

Finally, Pierre exhales through his nose and leans back slightly in his chair.

“You’re reckless.”

“I prefer charming.”

“You insult my council daily.”

“They deserve it.”

“You walk into danger without thinking.”

“That is objectively false. I think about it first and then I do it anyway.”

Another almost-smile.

God, I’m addicted to those now.

Pierre’s hand slides higher against my back slowly. “And if I say yes?”

My heartbeat stumbles.

“If you say yes,” I murmur, “then I become your problem permanently.”

“You already are.”

That should not make my stomach flip the way it does.

I grin despite myself. “Wow. Romance really is alive in Ashbourne territory.”

Pierre stares at me another second before one hand reaches up and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.

The gesture is so unexpectedly gentle I stop breathing for a moment.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

“Yes.”

Everything in me goes still.

“What?”

“You asked me to become your mate.” His eyes don’t leave mine. “My answer is yes.”

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

I actually did it.

The relief hits so hard it nearly hurts.

Because I survive now.

I survive.

The original Minthe dies abandoned and hated and pathetic.

But I rewrote the story.

* * * 

Three years pass before I fully realize I’ve forgotten the sound of my old apartment. Forgotten the traffic outside my windows. Forgotten my phone password.

Sometimes I hate myself for that.

Other times, I’m too busy surviving to care.

I stare into the fireplace while holding the latest letter from my father. The paper trembles slightly between my fingers.

Minthe,

Your mother cries every winter wondering if you’re warm enough. Your brothers nearly started a duel after hearing rumors that Ashbourne still lacks proper southern trade access.

Come home.

No title is worth this much suffering.

I shut my eyes briefly.

My family.

The original Minthe’s family. They are loud, overprotective, and ridiculously loving.

The Imperial Beta House practically worshipped their only daughter. Looking back now, I finally understand why the original Minthe became spoiled enough to terrorize half the Imperial Pack.

Nobody ever told her no.

Not once.

And I left them anyway.

I left my title.

My status. Everything.

For Pierre.

Because I believed this future would save me.

The fire crackles softly.

Then I toss the letter into the flames.

It curls black almost immediately.

The ring on my finger catches the firelight.

Silver wolf insignia.

Pierre gave it to me the night he officially asked me to become his Luna.

I still remember him kneeling in the snow outside the manor after returning from battle, blood on his knuckles, eyes locked on mine while the entire courtyard watched in shock.

“I don’t want anyone else beside me,” he’d said quietly. 

This is what let us to this.

The Mating ceremony is chaos. Absolute fucking chaos.

“No, those banners go on the western pillars—western, not eastern—unless you want the Moon Priest screaming about symbolic disrespect again!”

Three omegas scramble instantly. Somewhere behind me, warriors are dragging ceremonial tables into position while musicians tune instruments near the massive silver doors.

The mating hall is enormous.

Towering silver pillars stretch toward the ceiling carved with crescent moons and ancient wolf markings glowing faintly beneath candlelight. Hundreds of guests fill the chamber already. Alphas from neighboring territories. Nobles. Council leaders.

People I negotiated with personally. People who once dismissed Ashbourne as a dying border pack. Now they bow when I walk past.

Funny how success changes everyone’s attitude.

“Lady Minthe!”

I turn sharply.

A young omega nearly crashes into me holding flower arrangements twice her size.

“The Moon Priest is asking where the ceremonial blade should be placed!”

“Near the altar beside Pierre’s side. And tell him if he moves it again for ‘spiritual alignment,’ I’m throwing him into the river.”

The omega snorts before quickly hiding it.

Good.

At least someone around here appreciates me.

I barely sleep the entire day.

By the time the sun begins setting, my legs ache and my head pounds, but adrenaline keeps me upright.

This is it.

The ending.

The proof that I won against fate itself.

One of the older omega women finally grabs my shoulders firmly. “Enough.”

“Huh?”

“You’re getting dressed before you collapse.”

They shove me into the preparation chambers while the omegas rush around carrying silks and jewelry.

The ceremonial gown waiting for me is painfully beautiful.

White fabric drapes down in heavy layers stitched with silver thread resembling moonlight across fresh snow. The neckline leaves my shoulders bare while sheer sleeves cling to my arms.

“Lift your chin,” one omega says while adjusting the silver circlet onto my head.

Another brushes powder across my skin while humming softly.

“You look beautiful, my lady.”

I stare at myself in the mirror.

And for the first time since transmigrating—

I look happy.

Actually happy.

The realization almost hurts.

Three years.

Three whole years of clawing my way toward this moment.

And now it’s finally here.

A knock sounds at the door.

“Lady Minthe,” a servant says softly. “It’s time.”

My pulse jumps instantly.

Okay.

Okay.

I can do this.

I stand slowly while the omegas fuss over final details.

Then the massive ceremonial doors open.

The sound hits me first.

Hundreds of voices.

Music echoing through the hall.

The moment I step inside, the crowd parts immediately.

Every eye turns toward me.

Oh.

Fuck.

The hall glows beneath silver chandeliers while moonlight spills through towering arched windows. Warriors stand lined along the walls in formal black uniforms bearing Ashbourne insignias.

At the center stands Pierre.

And holy shit.

The man looks devastating.

Black ceremonial robes cling across his broad shoulders, silver embroidery tracing down the sleeves while dark leather wraps around his forearms. His hair is pushed back for once, exposing the sharp lines of his face completely.

He watches me walk toward him without blinking.

The intensity of it nearly trips me mid-step.

Get it together, Minthe.

You are seconds away from becoming a Luna, not dying.

Hopefully.

I stop before him at the altar.

Pierre reaches for my hand immediately. His thumb brushes across my knuckles once.

“You’re staring,” I whisper under my breath.

“You’re beautiful.”

The words hit so suddenly I almost malfunction.

Jesus Christ.

Three years and this man still attacks without warning. The Moon Priest steps forward before I can recover.

“The Moon Goddess witnesses this union beneath her eternal gaze,” the priest begins loudly.

The entire hall falls silent.

Ancient wolf markings glow faintly beneath the altar.

I remember reading about this.

The blood vow.

Wolves share blood during mating rites because the Moon Goddess once bound her first Alpha and Luna through shared wounds after war separated them. The scars became proof that love meant vulnerability. Trust. Devotion.

Romantic.

Also mildly horrifying.

A ceremonial blade is placed into Pierre’s hand. My heartbeat pounds harder as the priest continues reciting vows.

Pierre lifts my hand carefully.

His fingers tighten slightly around mine.

“Do you, Minthe Vale, offer your blood, loyalty, and soul beneath the Moon Goddess to stand beside this Alpha as his chosen Luna?”

Every sacrifice flashes through my mind all at once.

The years.

The pain.

The relief.

The future waiting right in front of me.

“I do,” I answer quietly.

Pierre’s eyes never leave mine as he slices the blade across his palm.

Blood beads instantly against his skin.

The crowd remains perfectly silent.

I take the blade next. My hands shake slightly before I cut my own palm.

Pain flashes sharp and quick. Then I press my bleeding hand against Pierre’s. Warm blood smears between our skin.

The markings beneath the altar begin glowing brighter.

The priest turns toward Pierre.

“And do you, Pierre Ashbourne, offer your blood, loyalty, and soul beneath the Moon Goddess to stand beside this woman as your chosen—”

The doors slam against the walls so hard the entire hall shakes.

Cold wind tears through the ceremony, sharp enough to sting my skin. Candles flicker violently. A few go out completely, smoke curling into the air while everyone turns toward the entrance at once.

And there she is.

W-what is she . . .

Why is she here?

Lyria Hart stands in the doorway drenched from head to toe, rainwater dripping from pale strands of hair onto the marble beneath her feet. Her thin cream-colored dress clings to every curve of her body, translucent in places from the storm outside. She looks exhausted. Fragile. Beautiful in that tragic, pathetic way men in novels lose their fucking minds over.

The original heroine.

For a second, nobody breathes.

Not the nobles.

Not the warriors lining the walls.

Not me.

Her eyes find Pierre instantly.

“Pierre…”

His name leaves her mouth like she’s dying. And I feel Pierre freeze beside me as his hand around mine goes rigid.

The warmth disappears first.

Then the pressure.

Then everything.

No.

No no no.

My stomach drops so hard I feel sick.

Pierre stares at her as if the world just split open beneath his feet. I can physically see the shock hit him. His face drains of color. His chest rises sharply.

I tighten my hand around his before he can pull away.

“Pierre,” I whisper.

He doesn’t even look at me.

Not once.

The silence inside the hall becomes unbearably thick and utterly suffocating. Everyone’s watching him. Watching us.

Lyria takes one shaky step forward before her knees buckle and she falls to the floor.

And that’s it.

Pierre rips his hand from mine so fast our blood smears across my fingers. The ceremonial blade slips from his grasp and crashes against the marble floor with a sharp metallic clang.

The sound echoes everywhere.

I flinch.

He moves past me immediately with no hesitation nor explanation.

Nothing.

The heavy fabric of his black ceremonial robes brushes against my arm as he walks around me like I’m furniture. As if I’m not standing here in white silks after spending three years rebuilding his entire goddamn life with my bare hands.

Gasps erupt across the hall.

Someone whispers, “Isn’t that the Alpha King’s mistress? The woman our Alpha and the Alpha King were fighting for?—”

Another voice hisses, “She returned?”

My ears ring.

I stare blankly while Pierre reaches Lyria just as she collapses completely and he catches her.

Of course he does.

His arms wrap around her waist instantly, pulling her against his chest while rainwater soaks into the black fabric of his clothes. His expression—

God.

I’ve never seen him look at me that way.

Panic. Relief. Devotion.

Love.

Raw enough to make me nauseous.

“Pierre . . .” Lyria breathes weakly against him.

“I’m here,” he says immediately.

Immediately.

Not even a heartbeat between her fear and his answer.

Something cracks inside my chest so quietly nobody hears it except me.

I stand there stupidly, my hand still half-raised from the unfinished vow while blood drips slowly down my wrist.

I swallow hard enough to hurt while staring at the massive open doors where Pierre disappeared carrying the woman he could never let go of.

The original story.

It corrected itself.

The realization crawls through me cold and merciless.

Of course it did.

I’m the idiot who thought I could outsmart fate because I played therapist to a traumatized second male lead for three years.

Jesus Christ, Minthe. You absolute dumb bitch.

My fingers go numb.

The ceremonial blade slips from my hand.

Clang.

The sharp metallic sound slices through the stunned silence of the hall.

Nobody speaks.

Nobody moves.

And I stand there alone at the altar in a white wedding gown while the last piece of my delusion finally dies. 

He never loved me afterall.