Rise of a Silenced Wolf

Why

July

I don't know how long I lay unconscious in the darkness.

When I finally opened my eyes, the first thing to return was the pain. It was an overwhelming, bone-deep agony, as if someone were carving out my flesh inch by inch with a dull knife. The back of my head rested on something wet, and a metallic, salty stench filled my nose. Blood. My blood, mixed with seawater and sand, was smeared sticky across half my face.

How I wished this was just a nightmare, but it wasn't. I remembered the exact moment of the fall.

It was Joseph who pushed me.

My chest felt like it was ripping open. A wave of panic choked my throat. I wanted to scream, to cry out, but when I opened my mouth, nothing came out.

I froze.

I tried again. Opening my lips, straining my throat, I could feel the air passing through my vocal cords—but only a faint, wheezing gasp came out, like a leaking bellows. It was so quiet I could barely hear it myself.

I couldn't make a sound.

I couldn't speak.

Fear seized me, fiercer than the physical pain. I desperately wanted to scream, to cry for help, to call out anyone's name—Mom, Teddy, anyone—but it felt like my throat had been ripped out, leaving only an empty hole. My lips parted and closed, the air moving in and out, like a fish thrown onto the shore, gasping in vain.

My tears stung my eyes. As the warm drops flowed over the cuts on my face, it burned like saltwater poured on an open wound.

Suddenly, I thought of the baby in my womb.

Joseph’s and my baby. The tiny life that was alive inside me before I was pushed off the cliff. Was it still alive? Most likely, I had lost it, just as I had lost my voice.

Lying on the damp, cold ground, I opened my mouth and wept silently. No sound, no words, only the ragged gasps forced from the depths of my throat and the tears streaming continuously from the corners of my eyes.

I didn't know how much time passed, but my tears eventually ran dry. I lay there, staring up at the sky, which was chopped into fragments by the tree canopy above. The sky was growing dark.

I used to love reading werewolf romance novels—the Luna was murdered, only to gain some mysterious power, be reborn in the depths of despair, and then make a dominant return, forcing all the traitors to beg for mercy on their knees.

I used to fantasize about what I would do if I were them. Well, I wasn't lucky enough to be reborn, but by some miracle, I survived. Given how high the cliff was, it truly was a miracle. If I hadn't hit a tree on the way down, breaking my fall, I wouldn't be alive.

I tried to move, but found I couldn't budge at all. My spine was probably broken. As thoughts flooded my mind, I couldn't stop wondering.

Why?

Why did Joseph want to kill me?

He said he was sorry. He said it right before he pushed me. Did that mean he at least knew what he was doing was wrong? But if he knew, why did he still do it?

I began to look back at everything, stripping away the perfect filter I had so carefully maintained, re-examining the man I once thought was the most perfect husband in the world.

Joseph was the handsome, charming son of an Alpha. The first time I saw him at the Ivy Pack's mixer, he was wearing a tailored dark blue suit. The way he smiled at me made me almost drop my drink. The son of an Alpha, falling for a wolfless she-wolf like me—everyone said it was a blessing from the Moon Goddess, and I believed them.

During the three months he courted me, he sent flowers to my door every single morning. He remembered every little thing I mentioned liking. Whenever I felt insecure, he would look deep into my eyes with those grayish-blue eyes and say, "It doesn't matter if you have a wolf or not. What matters is who you are to me." Back then, I thought no one in the world could ever love me more than he did.

But after we got married, the cracks began to show. When we were buying a house, Joseph insisted on buying a villa with a pool that was double our budget, no matter how many times I showed him our financial records. In the end, we took out a loan way beyond our means, and the monthly payments suffocated me. He would look incredibly regretful, admit he was wrong, beg for my forgiveness, and smooth things over with sweet words like, "Baby, you're the best, I should have listened to you."

His sense for investments was laughably bad. Over the years, he tried his hand at five or six different ventures. Each time, he was entirely confident he’d strike it rich, and each time, he lost every single penny. Unable to bear seeing him defeated, I used my own savings to bail him out. He would hug me and say, "How did I get so lucky to marry a wife like you?" Then, three months later, he would throw all our remaining savings into yet another new project.

Out of every ten promises he made, he broke eight. He promised to take me to Alaska to see the Northern Lights—the tickets were booked and canceled three times. He promised to take me to his pack for Christmas, only to back out the day before, claiming an emergency. We agreed to keep a specific savings account untouched, but I later discovered the balance had dwindled to three digits. Every time, he apologized so sincerely that I felt petty for pressing further. But his promises just sat there, gathering dust like bad checks.

Eventually, he stopped working altogether. He claimed the bosses didn't recognize his worth, that entry-level jobs were beneath his abilities, and that he was meant for bigger things. So, he spent all day on the couch playing video games—from morning till night, from night till dawn. At first, my heart ached for him, thinking he just needed time to adjust. But a month passed, then three months, then six. He didn't get better. He only grew lazier, angrier, and then he started gambling.

That was the third year of our marriage. The first time I got a call from a debt collector, they said Joseph owed a hundred thousand. I thought it was a scam. I hung up and confronted Joseph. His face paled. At first, he tried to deny it, but under my relentless questioning, he guiltily confessed. He said he was just under too much pressure, that he only wanted to win big so he could buy me a luxury designer bag.

I paid off his debt, but that night, we had our very first real fight. We both felt the other had changed. To me, he lacked responsibility; to him, I had become a nag. In a fit of rage, he smashed a glass, the shards scattering across the floor like our broken trust. By the end of the argument, we were both crying. He dropped to his knees right on the broken glass, swearing he would never gamble again. I pulled him up, and he held me tightly in his arms, gripping me as if he were genuinely terrified of losing me.

We made up. I reflected on myself, too, thinking maybe I was pushing him too hard. I needed to give him more time. From then on, I stopped nagging him to find a job, and stopped turning off the router while he played games. I tried my best to accept him for who he was.

It wasn't easy. Those were the darkest days of my life. Every day when I came home from work and saw that familiar back on the couch and the game flashing on the TV screen, I had to stand at the door for a long time just to build up the courage to walk inside.

We talked less and less. The passion receded like a low tide, leaving two people who shared a dinner table but had absolutely nothing to say. We still had s*x occasionally, but he only used my body to satisfy his urges. He was no longer a gentle lover. There was no foreplay; he would just thrust into me roughly and pull away as soon as he came. We told each other we loved each other, but the truth was, it had been a very long time since I had reached an o****m.

Joseph and I had a broken marriage, but I never told my parents or Teddy. Whenever my mom called to ask how we were doing, I would smile and say, "Great! Joseph treats me so well." I didn't know why I lied. Maybe I didn't want them to worry, or maybe I was too proud to admit that my taste in men was utterly pathetic.

The days dragged on, and just when I thought I would be trapped like this for the rest of my life, Joseph changed overnight.

My perfect husband returned.

His transformation came out of nowhere, as if he had become a completely different person. He started waking up early, grooming himself, and sitting at his computer to send out resumes instead of playing games. He landed a job as a project manager.

Shocked by his sudden change, I even worried he might be having an affair. I figured he must have met someone far more attractive than me to be motivated to make such a massive turnaround. Soon, he received his first paycheck. He bought two plane tickets to The Silverlining and hid them under my dinner plate.

Only the Moon knows how deeply moved I was when I found them after the candlelit dinner he prepared for me. I felt terrible for ever doubting him. He smiled, squeezing my hand, and said, "Baby, this is our fifth-anniversary gift. Thank you for staying by my side, for never leaving me even when I was at my worst. I swear from now on, I will only do things that make you happy." On the back of the tickets, he had handwritten four words: The stray returns.

I hugged him tightly, believing my Joseph was finally back. That night, we made love passionately. He claimed me over and over again, cumming inside me multiple times. When the orgasms crashed over me, my toes curled, and I trembled with pure bliss. I thought those three dark years were finally behind us. I thought this trip would be a fresh start for our marriage, a beautiful reconciliation.

Only now did the brutal truth hit me.

None of it was a sudden realization. It was all a meticulously designed trap. He had planned everything. Renting out the observation deck wasn't to give me a romantic experience; he did it to ensure there would be no witnesses. He even specifically chose sunset, so I would take one final photo against a stunning backdrop right before he pushed me off.

I always knew Joseph was good with sweet words, but I never imagined he could be this hypocritical. He played the role of the good husband for months, just so that in the final second before my death, I would still believe I was loved. And even though I had just told him I was pregnant, it hadn't changed his mind for a second.

I hated him. I hated him down to my very bones. If I weren't paralyzed right now, I would crawl up and rip his throat out with my teeth. But I knew exposing him would be nearly impossible. A perfect husband—that's what everyone thought of him. Who would believe he pushed his own wife off a cliff? No witnesses, no evidence. I could accuse him, sure, but would I even live long enough to do it?

This was the bottom of the cliff. In the middle of nowhere. It was at least a dozen miles away from the nearest road. No tourists would pass by, no patrol teams would search here. There were only wild beasts, rogues, or something even worse. They would track the scent of blood to find me and tear my limbs apart while I was still conscious. I would die here, turning into an unclaimed skeleton, while Joseph would play the grieving widower miles away, accepting everyone’s condolences...

Footsteps.

My thoughts abruptly ground to a halt.

Just beyond the bushes nearby, people were talking. There were a few of them—the voices of a man, a woman, and a child chattering away. Their tone was relaxed and cheerful. Someone mentioned how fresh the air was; someone else urged them to hurry before it got too dark to return to camp.

A hiking family.

My heart began to pound wildly, as if struck by lightning.

This was my only chance. If they walked past, I really would die here.

I tried to cry out. My throat convulsed, but it only produced a wheeze fainter than a mosquito's buzz. It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. They wouldn't hear me.

I tried to wave my arm. The fingertips of my right hand could barely move, but I fought to nudge them forward, even if only by an inch. Agony shot up from my wrist along my arm, burning like fire in my bones. My fingers brushed against a dry twig. My fingertips were so numb I could barely feel it, but I pushed down with every ounce of strength I had left.

Snap.

The twig broke. The sharp sound echoed with surprising clarity through the quiet woods.

Nearby, the chattering little boy suddenly went quiet for a moment. Then, I heard his uncertain voice. "Mom, I think I heard something over there."

"Don't be silly, Timmy. It's getting dark, we need to get back to camp before nightfall," a woman's voice replied, gentle but sounding slightly anxious.

"But I really heard it—over there, behind those bushes—"

My tears spilled out silently. Moon Goddess, please, I prayed in my heart.

"Laura, let him go take a look," a deep male voice chimed in with a chuckle. "Don't you always say you want to encourage Timmy's sense of exploration? Let's treat it like a little adventurer's mission."

The woman sighed. "Alright, don't go far, Timmy. Just look behind those bushes and come right back."

The footsteps grew closer.

The leaves of the bushes rustled loudly. A small hand poked through first, followed by another. A blonde boy wearing a blue windbreaker appeared before me. In an instant, his eyes widened to their limits, his mouth fell open, and his face drained of all color. He gasped, and then screamed with the full volume of a boy, "Mom! Come quick!"

"What's wrong, honey?" the woman's voice called back.

Footsteps hurried over, and the bushes were violently pushed aside. A tall, blonde man and a woman appeared behind the child. The moment they saw me, their faces turned completely pale.

"Oh my God—" The woman covered her mouth.

The man pushed through the brush, dropping to his knees beside me, his fingers pressing against my carotid artery. "She's alive! Laura, get the first-aid kit—hurry!"