Bruised

You think you've had a bad day? My name is Braddock Westfield, Billionaire Alpha (head werewolf) of the Crescent Moon pack I've searched for my fated mate for 22 years and finally conceded to the elders to choose a Luna to produce an heir. The night before our union my pack was attacked by rogues (werewolves with no pack, no morals, mostly criminals), we suffered no losses except my Gamma (Lead Warrior), who now we need to pick up 100 miles away in a small human town at a Diner. I receive a call as I pull into the parking lot, that my chosen mate has been kidnapped by rogues on her way to my pack. Pissed off, I enter the Diner, an intoxicating scent hits me and my wolf howls in my head "MATE" (22years of searching and on my Union Day, you find her). Two men crash threw the door inside the diner, yelling "Charlie get your ass out here now, we're not done with it yet." The old woman behind the counter grabs a shotgun and makes them leave. A waitress comes out bringing food and that intoxicating scent, my heart clenches when our eyes lock and our mate bond snaps tethering our hearts together, as I look at her broken nose, bruised face, split lip, swollen green glistening eyes. I need to get her to leave with us, promising to keep her safe, revealing I'm a psychiatrist with facilities, to help her rebuild her self-esteem and build her confidence to help her, move past her obvious trauma. Explaining she's a werewolf and I'm her fated mate and at least 20+ years older than her, that may be more challenging. Let's not forget, I now need to find my kidnapped chosen that I need to reject. All this before 9am.

The day after my best friend, Sarah Blunt married Patrick, the second son of the Brosnan family, I too became a bride and wed Matthew, his older brother. She married a swimming champion, and I, the rock-climbing coach. We thought we had our futures all figured out. Then, something happened that summer. The four of us planned a getaway but Matthew and Patrick’s baby sister, Megan joined us and our peaceful trip became a crowded affair.  While rock climbing, disaster struck—the rope snapped, and all five of us plummeted into the river below. The brothers rushed frantically to save Megan, leaving Sarah and me at the mercy of the river’s current, battered and tossed like driftwood. By the time the rescue team pulled us from the water, we were bruised, scraped, and utterly spent. In the hospital, Megan and I received devastating news that would change everything.  “You’ve been pregnant for 40 days, Ma’am. How could you put yourself in such a risky situation? Your baby survived, but your friend lost hers.” Shaken, I called Matthew to tell him about the pregnancy. His anger cut through the line. “You’re angry that I went to Megs first and now you’re trying to fool me with a fake pregnancy? She’s my sister—it’s my duty to protect her!” Sarah faced her own storm. Patrick practically scoffed at her grief. “Miscarriage? Do you expect me to believe that? The doctors said you only had a 30% chance of conceiving. I can’t stand women who create drama out of nothing.” Both calls ended abruptly, leaving us stunned as we stared at each other in the sterile light of the hospital room. In that shared silence, we made our decision—we would leave these men behind and start anew, launching a business together. But when the brothers received our divorce papers, they showed up at my door in the middle of a storm, kneeling in the pouring rain, crying through the night for a second chance.