Woman He Couldn't Let Go
778 Words
Eleanor
THE dining room was silent, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock. I didn't cry. I just picked up the plates of cold steak and dumped them into the trash. The sound of the bin lid closing felt like a period at the end of a very long, painful sentence.
My name is Eleanor. It means shining light, but tonight, standing in the dim kitchen of our penthouse, I felt like a shadow.
I gripped the edge of the marble counter. My chest ached, a literal, physical throbbing. That was the problem with being a werewolf. The mate bond wasn't just a feeling; it was a silver thread tied around my heart. When Owen was happy, I felt a warm glow. When he was angry, I felt a sharp heat.
And when he betrayed me? It felt like someone was pulling that thread through a bed of nails.
A heavy footsteps sounded behind me. I didn't have to turn around to know it was him. His scent, woodsmoke and citrus hit me first.
"You’re going to break the counter if you keep gripping it like that," Owen said. His voice was smooth, like expensive bourbon, but it held that annoying edge of "Alpha authority."
I turned slowly. He had changed into a grey sweatshirt, looking relaxed, as if he hadn't just invited the woman who ruined our marriage to live in our guest room.
"Why is she really here, Owen?" I asked. "Don't give me the 'Pack Relations' speech. We both know Susana doesn't know the first thing about diplomacy."
Owen sighed and walked to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. "She’s my best friend, Eleanor. She’s had a hard year in the northern territory. She’s family. Why can't you just be the Luna I need you to be and support me?"
"Support you?" I whispered, my voice trembling. "Like I supported you on our honeymoon?"
Owen froze. The air in the kitchen grew heavy.
"Don't go back there," he warned.
"I can't help it! She’s in the room down the hall!" My mind flashed back to that night in the Maldives. It was supposed to be our first night as a mated couple. I had gone to the beach for ten minutes to watch the sunset, leaving Owen in our villa.
When I walked back in, the smell of s*x was everywhere. I had followed the trail of clothes to the bedroom. There they were. My husband. My mate. And Susana. Naked, tangled in the white linen sheets that were meant for us.
I remember the way the mate bond had screamed in my head. It felt like my soul was being ripped in half.
"I told you," Owen said, slamming his water bottle onto the counter. "I was drunk. It was dark. I thought it was you. I haven't touched her since."
"You thought it was me?" I challenged, stepping closer to him. "You’ve known my scent since we are mates, Owen. You’re an Alpha. Your wolf knows exactly who I am. You didn't think it was me. You just didn't care."
Owen’s eyes flashed gold for a second, his wolf, Brutus, was annoyed. "I sent her away for a year to make it up to you. I’ve been a perfect husband for twelve months. When is the punishment going to end?"
"It’s not a punishment, Owen. It’s a scar," I said, pointing to my chest. "The bond is supposed to be sacred. But every time I look at you, I see her. And now, you’ve brought her back into our home. You’ve brought the ghost of our honeymoon back to haunt me."
Owen stepped toward me, his large hand reaching out to touch my cheek. For a second, the mate bond flared with a fake sense of comfort. I wanted to lean into him. I wanted to believe him.
"She’s just a friend now, Eleanor," he murmured. "I promise. Give it a chance. For the pack. For us."
I looked into his eyes, searching for the man I fell in love with. But then, a high-pitched giggle echoed from the hallway.
"Owen? I can't find the extra towels!" Susana called out. She sounded playful. Familiar.
Owen’s hand dropped from my face instantly. His head turned toward her voice like a compass needle pointing north.
"I’ll be right there, Susy!" he called back.
He didn't even look at me again. He just walked out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with the trash and the cold marble.
The mate bond gave a final, sharp tug in my chest. It wasn't just a wound anymore. It was a message.
He will never choose you.
- Writer
