The Mate I Hate

Prologue

I wasn't supposed to be the one bleeding.

The wolf in my father's trap was supposed to die tonight. Clean. Quick. Proof that I could be what he needed me to be. Instead, I'm stumbling through the forest with teeth marks in my shoulder and fire spreading through my veins.

Every step sends pain lancing down my arm. Sharp. White-hot. I press my hand against the wound, feeling blood seep warm and sticky between my fingers, soaking through fabric that clings to my skin.

The smell hits me—copper and salt and something else. Something wrong.

Everything is too loud. The snap of twigs under my feet. The rustle of leaves overhead. My own ragged breathing, harsh and uneven in the darkness.

I push forward. One foot in front of the other. The rhythm my father drilled into me since I could walk—move through pain, move through exhaustion, move until the job is done.

Except I didn't finish the job.

Kill it, Kara.

My father's voice, cold and precise. The same voice that taught me how to track, how to trap, how to cut through bone and sinew without hesitation.

I'd stood there. Blade in hand. Silver glinting in the moonlight. And the wolf—young, trapped, bleeding from where the net had cut into its leg—had looked up at me with eyes that understood exactly what was coming.

I couldn't do it.

The blade had felt too heavy. My arm wouldn't move. And when my father turned away in disgust, the wolf lunged.

I don't remember the impact. Just teeth. Just the hot rush of breath against my throat and then—

Pain.

The memory fractures, scattering like broken glass.

Trees blur past me in the pre-dawn darkness. The path curves, and I know it by heart. Five more minutes.

Home.

The trees thin ahead. I see the cabin through the gaps—small, weathered wood, one light glowing yellow in the kitchen window.

Relief crashes through me so hard I almost sob.

I half-run, half-stumble up the driveway. Gravel crunches under my feet, too loud in the stillness. His truck is here. He's home.

The porch steps creak as I climb them. My hand slips on the doorknob—slick with blood—but I grip harder and twist.

"Dad?"

My voice cracks. Sounds younger than it should. Desperate.

The door swings open.

Silence.

The kitchen light is on, casting long shadows across the floor. But the house feels empty. Wrong. Like the air has been sucked out and replaced with something cold.

"Dad?"

Louder this time. Edged with panic I can't suppress.

Nothing.

I move through the kitchen, leaving dark handprints on the doorframe. My legs are shaking now—not from exertion, from something deeper. Something spreading through my muscles like ice and fire combined.

The living room stretches before me, bathed in moonlight from the window. And that's when I see it.

The chair by the fireplace—knocked over, lying on its side.

The weapons cabinet—door hanging open, half the blades gone.

The wall where our photos hung—bare except for the nails, small rectangular shadows where frames used to be.