Only When I Died Did He Go Insane
It had been ten years, and Ethan—my mate—and I still didn’t have a pup.
One day, he suggested we adopt one from the Werewolf Orphan Charity Agency.
“My mate,” he said gently, “pregnancy is too hard for you. You’d have to go through so many checkups and herbs. Your wolf shouldn’t have to suffer like that.”
When others heard this, they all said Ethan loved me deeply—that he couldn’t bear to see me in pain.
But I saw the truth with my own eyes.
He took an infant pup from another she-wolf.
“Luckily, Mia isn’t pregnant,” he said. “That way, the excuse of adopting an infant works—and the pup can have a legitimate status in my clan.”
I knew that she-wolf well. The same one Ethan used to call a “stupid omega.”
Swallowing the bitterness in my heart, I called my mentor at the Werewolf Research Academy.
“I want to devote myself to herb research,” I said calmly.
Three days from now, during the pup’s first New Moon blessing, I’ll fake my death in a fire.
No one will be able to stop me.