"I may be your second chance, Wade, but I will not be your second choice."
Reeling from the death of his mate, Alpha Wade tried everything in his power to bring her back to life. So consumed with raising her from the dead, he almost missed his secon...
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IMAGES of Alpha Wade and Willow swirled in my mind. I conjured scenarios—happy, joyous scenarios—of the couple. In every vision I thought up, they were always smiling, hands wrapped around each other, gazing off into the distance.
These conjectures would always start innocently. A hand wrapped around a shoulder. The hand—often Alpha Wade's—would slowly trail down Willow's body as they mumbled to each other, always with a smile.
But then they would abruptly stop.
They'd stop and point. They'd point at me and laugh.
You thought we were mates, Violet? Alpha Wade would be close to tears. Can't you see this—he would motion to Willow—is what it looks like to be true mates.
You're not his mate. Willow would shake her head, and her thick head of unruly blonde curls would bounce on her shoulders. He's mine.
Every time, my breathing faltered. Willow, who I had only seen in the Polaroid, looked plucked out of a magazine. Her bouncy curls framed her heart-shaped face, and her pale skin was smooth and glowing.
These visions would never go any further before the cycle repeated itself. I don't know how long my mind endured the torturous images before my eyes shot awake. My breathing labored, and sweat lined my entire body. I swiftly kicked the sheets off me. The cool air of the night provided no relief.
My breaths filled the air, sounding as if I had finished running an endurance race. My skin itched, and soon my hands clawed at every inch of my skin, looking for relief.
Nothing.
Groaning, I slunk off to the bathroom, grabbing my towel off the hamper on my way out. My skin continued to itch, but the all encompassing wave of heat receded.
By the time I reached the bathroom door, my breathing had normalized, and I was half tempted to retreat to the safety of my bed. Instead of crawling back to bed, I went to the bathroom sink and splashed cold water on my face.
The icy chill relaxed my body further, my shoulders releasing my pent-up tension. I splashed more water on my face and then used my towel to pat my face dry. Leaning on the sink, I let out an exasperated breath.
Almost ready to hop back into bed, my eyes lingered on the mirror. I squinted my eyes before breaking out in a scowl. A tiny red blotch swelled at the base of my hips, visible just briefly by the bunched-up hem of my shirt.
As fast as I could, I rolled the bottom of my shirt up.
"Shit." I cursed. "Shit, shit, shit."
Abruptly pulling my shirt back down, I ran out of the bathroom, afraid someone would walk in to use the restroom to what had been etched on my skin.
I had been marked. More accurately, my skin swelled with the mark of my oncoming heat.
