The Bewitching Doctors second chance romance

The day before the moon was meant to bless me, Ezekial Thorne reminded me what it felt like to bleed. Coral Hollow was too quiet the day before a wolf came of age. Not out of reverence, just anticipation. Judgment—the kind that sat heavy in the air like the breath before a storm. My footsteps echoed down the cobbled path, too loud in the silence, as I clutched a wicker basket filled with garlic and fresh-cut ginger. They were for Maria, the village healer. My mentor. My anchor in a world that often forgot I existed. I’d been apprenticing with her since I was small. I still remember the day it all began—left behind at school as night fell, my stomach aching with hunger and fear. Maria had found me, a stranger back then, her eyes tired but kind. She took my hand, gave me a warm meal in the clinic, and walked me home. From that moment on, her door had always been open to me. I came back the next day, and the one after, and never really left. Maria once told me I had healer’s hands. I wanted to believe her. As the years went on, I learned all that I could from her. Like most people who aspired to become a doctor, it required years of apprenticeship, followed by one brutal year of exams and training to earn a degree and the right to call yourself a doctor. But that one year of school was like a pipe dream for me. Still, I hoped that someday I’d earn enough to become a real doctor. I had the skill, just not the coin. Still, it gave me something to fight for. Something to hope for. And starting tomorrow… everything might change. Hopefully for the better. Mist clung low around the trees that edged Coral Hollow, curling like secrets around their roots. The sky above was swollen with unfallen rain, casting everything in a dull silver gloom. The village looked like it had been plucked from a storybook—sloped roofs with carved runes over every doorway, whitewashed walls bright against the gray sky—but I’d long since stopped believing in fairy tales. Not since my father left ten years ago. The only hope left to me was the very real chance of a mate bond. A breeze carried the scent of damp moss, chimney smoke, and iron tang from the butcher’s stall. As I passed the apothecary, bundles of herbs hung upside-down in the window like shriveled skeletons. In the distance, the clang of wooden training swords echoed from the field. It was nearly dusk, but the world refused to rest. The village didn’t speak to me, not directly. I was an outcast, lower than the lowest of Omegas, but they sure liked to whisper. “Tomorrow’s her day, poor thing.” “Can you imagine her with someone important?” “No wonder her father left her. She’s so pathetic.” “Bet the bond won’t even form.” “Five bucks her mate rejects her on the spot.” Each word stung like a paper cut. I kept my head down, my back straight, my eyes fixed on the road. My fingers gripped the wicker basket tighter until the rough weave pressed into my skin, until I heard a faint c***k where the wood splintered under my grasp. They were wrong. My mate would want me as much as I wanted them. I passed the fountain in the square and noticed a man hoisting his laughing daughter onto his shoulders. Her arms flew wide like wings. The sound of her joy twisted in my chest. I used to laugh like that before everything turned quiet. But I didn’t let myself linger—not on my thoughts or feelings, and certainly not in the past. One more day. Just one. Then the moon would rise, and so would my wolf. My mate would appear. I would finally belong, if not to this village, then at least to someone who chose me—someone who loved and protected me. I was halfway through the square when he stepped into my path. Ezekial Thorne. The Beta’s son. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that same smirk he wore like armor. His ice-blue eyes scanned me like I was prey, and authority clung to him like smoke. “Well, well,” he drawled. “If it isn’t Seryna.” He took an exaggerated whiff of the air and crinkled his nose. “You smell extra foul today—ever heard of soap?” I kept walking. He blocked me again, one boot shifting into my path. “What, no snarl? Saving it for your big day?” I didn’t answer. My hands tightened around the broken wicker. The cracked edge bit into my palm. “They’re saying it might be me, you know,” he said, stepping closer. “Fate’s cruel joke. You tied to me.” He gripped my chin and said, “The only thing you’d ever be good for is licking the dirt off my boots.” A shiver crawled down my spine. I couldn’t imagine anything worse. Then, with one casual swing of his arm, he knocked the basket from my hands. Garlic and ginger scattered across the cobbles. I dropped to gather them, but before my fingers touched the ground, his boot slammed down on my hand. Pain shot up my arm, sharp and hot. I gasped, but didn’t cry out. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. That must’ve infuriated him. A beat later, he grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me upward until I met his gaze. “You’re nothing, Vale. Wolf or not.” Rage twisted in my chest. I shoved him off me and stood, biting back the sting in my palm and scalp. “Are you afraid?” He blinked, caught off guard. “Of what?” “You’ve spent years trying to break me… but now you’re scared. Scared I’ll be the one fate ties to your soul. And when that bond snaps into place, you’ll feel every scar you ever gave me.” For just a second, I saw it. A flicker. A doubt. Then he scoffed, shoved his hands into his pockets, and turned away. I knelt and gathered the rest of the herbs with shaking hands. The pain in my fingers pulsed, sharp and rhythmic. I applied pressure to the worst of the bleeding, something Maria had taught me long ago. As he disappeared down the street, I stood alone. Of course, no one stopped to help me. Why would they? I thought about Ezekial’s words and scoffed. Lately, he had become even more aggressive than usual, and I was disgusted at the implication of having someone like him as a mate. The Moon Goddess couldn’t possibly be that cruel. Wind tangled my hair. I could feel the village watching, but I didn’t look up. I walked home in silence. The path wound past shuttered windows and smoke-thin lanterns. When I pushed open the creaking door of our cottage, the familiar scent hit me all at once—dry lavender, cold ash, and the sharp burn of whatever filled my mother’s cup. She didn’t look up as I entered. She never did. The fireplace was unlit. The room was dim and cold, and the only sound was the clink of ceramic as she sipped slowly, her eyes fixed on nothing. She didn’t ask about the missing herbs, my bleeding fingers, or why I came home so late. She hadn’t asked about much in years. Not since my father left ten years ago. Not since something inside her broke. When she did speak, it was to ask for coins I didn’t have or to hurl insults that clung like bruises. Sometimes that was better, easier to endure than the nights when silence gave way to fists, or when she would beat me while telling me how much my face repulsed her. I hovered in the doorway a moment longer than I should’ve, hoping—foolishly—that she might glance my way. That she might care, hold me, and sing her songs like she used to. Bake a cake with my favorite pink frosting and light the moon candle to make a wish to the Moon Goddess. But she didn’t. So I crossed the room quietly and slipped into the shadows of my small, unlit bedroom. I should know better than to expect anything. It had been like this for too long. That night, I lay in bed with my arms crossed over my empty stomach, staring at the ceiling. The quiet hummed with things unsaid. We used to live in a better house—one with carved beams, sunlit windows, and warmth in every corner. Back then, my father was a warrior who smelled of pine and smoke, who laughed often and lifted me onto his shoulders like I was weightless. My mother sang lullabies that wrapped around me like silk. But one day, he left. And then he never came back. He left us for another woman in another town, leaving my mother behind with nothing but silence and bills. We lost the house, our standing in the pack—everything. This cramped, crumbling cottage was what our so-called Luna decided we deserved without my father’s service to the pack. In her eyes, we weren’t worth anything. And with every year that passed, my mother unraveled, thread by thread. Bitterness seeped into her bones. The lullabies stopped. The warmth died. Her voice, when it came, was sharp and slurred, always asking for coins—which is why I didn’t have enough saved for the academy. Now the walls were just walls. And I was just a girl trying not to disappear between them. I closed my eyes and whispered into the dark: “Please. Let my mate be kind. Let my wolf be strong. Let me leave this place forever.” For a moment, everything was still. Then a sliver of moonlight slipped through the shutters and landed across my face like a blessing. I didn’t know if it meant anything—but I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, someone heard me. The village clock tower struck midnight. Twelve slow, solemn chimes echoed through the dark. I held my breath. The final bell faded into silence. Then something flickered beneath my skin. My limbs tensed. For a heartbeat, I thought I was imagining things. Then came the ache—sharp, sudden—like something deep inside me had just stretched awake for the first time. I clutched the blanket tighter, my pulse quickening. My ears strained in the silence. And then I heard it. A voice. Soft. Fierce. Not from outside, but from within. “Let them try to hurt us now.” It sounded like me—but older. Wilder. A whisper threaded with strength I didn’t recognize. I blinked up at the ceiling, unsure if I’d dreamed it. And yet… part of me stirred in answer. And then darkness took me.