Too Late: My Mate Begged Me Back After I Was Gone

When I became the blood bank for my mate Alpha Kane’s sweetheart, my wolf died from the endless loss of blood—and so did I, alone, in the cold den he rented to keep me out of sight.

Today marks the third day since my death, and finally, my six-year-old pup noticed something was wrong.

His finger bled when a toy hurt him, but I didn’t come to comfort him.

When he tried to feed me his favorite food, I didn’t stop him either.

He lay on my chest, gripping my clothes and whispering my name—but I didn’t respond.

Desperate and helpless, my pup picked up my cellphone and called his alpha dad.

“Dad, why is Mom still sleeping?”

Kane didn’t answer. Instead, he sent him a photo of himself and Serena—his sweetheart—celebrating Full Moon Day, smirking.

“Don’t worry. Your mom is just sleeping, not dead. You know I’m quite busy on Full Moon Day.

Tell your arrogant and stubborn mom not to come find me until she admits her fault.”

The call ended, leaving my pup frozen in silence.

Then, he picked up the last hamburger from the trash bin, split it in half, and held it near my mouth.

“Mom, let me celebrate Full Moon Day with you too.”

Although I still gave no response, my pup had started to get used to it.

He carefully placed the half-eaten hamburger on my pillow, then hurried to finish his own half—as if afraid it might be taken away.

He touched his small belly. Still hungry.

His eyes lingered on the uneaten piece beside me for a moment, but he said nothing.

Instead, he turned to the kitchen, tiptoed up, and expertly filled a glass from the tap. Then he drank it all in one breath.

My soul, floating silently above, ached at the sight.

Was this really my pup—Lucas, the one I had always cherished, the one who used to pout and cry if dinner was just a little late?

How had he changed so much in just three days without me?

My gaze drifted, unintentionally, to the framed photo on the wall—the one of our little wolf family.

In the picture, Kane was holding both a sleepy me and a giggling Lucas in his arms.

Joyful laughter had once bloomed on both of their faces—so similar, so full of life.

I remembered that day so clearly. I had been napping when Kane tiptoed in with Lucas in his arms, whispering:

“Lucas, your mom is sleeping again. Shall we wake her up together?”

Lucas nodded eagerly, grinning like a mischievous little cat.

“No problem, Dad.”

Kane raised an eyebrow and pulled out a feather he'd hidden behind him. With exaggerated gentleness, he brushed the soft tip against my nose—once, twice...

Until I couldn’t help but sneeze.

I sat up, feigning anger, and swung a pillow at him.

“Kane!” I growled in a low, playful voice.

He laughed and quickly pulled Lucas in front of him like a human shield.

“Lucas, help! Stop your mom!”

Feathers flew, laughter echoed—chaos, joy, love.

Yeah. We looked... so happy back then.

That warm memory flashed in Lucas’s mind as his eyes landed on the feather in the photo. He blinked, surprised, the memory flickering back to life.

“Did Dad wake Mom up like that?”

Then he suddenly turned and ran toward me, hope lighting up his little face.

“Mom! I know how to wake you up now! I’ll go back to your old den and get the feather!”

Watching him leave with such excitement, I was stunned.

Instinctively, I reached out to place a cap on his head like I always used to—

But my hand passed right through him.

That’s when it hit me again.

I had died.

And I could no longer protect my Lucas.