P.S. You're My Mate

Chapter 02

GRACE

Werewolves have really quick recovery times. With that being said, suffering from a hangover was nearly impossible if all we drank was human liquor. But as my eyes fluttered open and I began perching myself up, an undeniable throbbing headache attacked my head. If I didn't know better, I would have thought my brain had shifted, probably turned upside down for all I knew.

I waited for the slight disorientation to fade away before finally taking in my surroundings. My memory felt fuzzy and I suspected that Monica must have spiked one of my drinks last night to help me loosen up. Certain supernatural substances managed to get us werewolves high. I didn't know much about them but Monica was a raging party animal who had tried just about everything for the fun of it.

Looking around, I realized I was in my bedroom — the one in the apartment I owned outside the pack. I hadn't gotten around to decorating the place so the entire room was set with its original white walls and modern decorative pieces. The silver and white curtains were closed, bathing the room in darkness.

Groaning, I reached for my phone on the bedside pedestal to check the time. It was a little past eight in the morning. I sighed, trying to remember the happenings of last night. Everything felt so vague, coming to me in images that would flash in my head and then abruptly change. One thing I did remember though: I came home with a man and I did something I usually would never do; I slept with him.

His scent that I associated with that salty sea breeze still lingered in the room and was all over my bed and even me. It was comforting for some odd reason — made me feel like whatever we did last night wasn't so completely wrong. I heaved a sigh before tossing the covers off me and trudging into the bathroom. Unfortunately, not even a long shower scrubbing my skin with rose-scented shower gel could take that man's overpowering scent off me.

Finally having enough of the shower, I exited, dried myself off, and slipped into a tank top and shorts. It didn't matter how cold it got, werewolves were always nice and toasty. After running a brush through my wet hair, I let it air dry and decided to check my phone for missed calls or texts.

And that's when I saw it...

A little pink sticky note stuck onto the bedside lamp. The writing was exquisite; neat and beautiful especially compared to my writing that could pass off as a doctor's scribbling. The note read:

'Good morning sweet cheeks...
Sorry, I'm leaving so early. I have an important meeting to get to but trust me, we will see each other very soon. I'm sorry about last night. I'd like a do-over.

Until then,
S. Wilde

P.S. You're my mate.'

My brain kept repeating those last words that were mentioned out of nowhere.

P.S. You're my mate.

They echoed in my head, dulling everything out. There was a throbbing pain that set in; it felt like someone took a metal baseball bat and began rapidly bashing my head in, leaving me no recovery period in between blows.

Mate?

No, that was impossible. Should be impossible. All those years ago I saw my mate die in front of my very eyes. He died in my arms. I felt the pain from losing him. I felt a piece of my heart break away the day we buried him. Carter was my mate. I felt everything I should have felt when someone met their mate for the first time and our bond felt like a string tethering both our hearts together.

My mate died. This stranger, no matter how handsome he looked or how good he smelt, was not my mate and will never be my mate. I crumpled the note in my hand and tossed it across the room. Taking the mental block out, I mind linked Monica to come over, desperately needing to talk to her.