THE BIKER ALPHA WHO BECAME MY SECOND CHANCE MATE

LIFE HAS NOT BEEN THE SAME SINCE I LOST THEM

Chapter 5

They're looking at each other the same way Daxon and I looked at each other before he changed, before his wolf turned possessive and cruel.

*She's beautiful,* my wolf observes with surprising calm. *He looks happy. She makes him happy.*

I push the thought of Daxon deep down. I'm here for a change, to get better. I don't love him anymore—I can't. All I feel for him is hate and the phantom ache of what I and my wolf lost that night in the bathroom. I also feel something I don't allow myself to say.... Fear.

I don't ask Tristan about the picture. If I want him to stay out of my business, then I shouldn't pry into his either. And besides, there's no need asking. Even a blind wolf would know they're in a relationship and they love each other.

I look within myself, searching for the jealousy, the anger, the possessiveness that Daxon's wolf always insisted was natural. But I'm not angry, and I'm not jealous. Surprisingly, I'm glad that Tristan isn't as miserable as I am. Because no one should be in the state that I'm in.

*You're healing,* my wolf says with quiet pride. *Slowly, but you're healing.*

Tristan shows me to my room, giving me a tour of the small house. "Pick any room except the last room," he says, gesturing down the hall. "That one's..."

He doesn't finish, but I understand. That's where he sleeps. Where he sleeps with her. The woman in the pictures who has claimed the heart I once thought might be mine.

*It's better this way,* my wolf says. *He deserves happiness.*

I choose the room farthest from his, a small space with a window that looks out onto the garden. It's painted a soft blue, with white curtains that flutter in the breeze from the slightly open window. It smells like lavender and safety.

"Thank you," I tell him, and I mean it. For the room, for the rescue, for not asking questions I'm not ready to answer.

He nods, hovering in the doorway like he wants to say something else. Finally, he settles on, "There's food in the kitchen. Help yourself to whatever you need."

I didn't know when I slept off. When I woke up, the house was empty, but there was a note on the kitchen counter in Tristan's familiar handwriting: *Had to go to work. Help yourself to anything you need. Won't be gone long.*

I looked at the time and realized it was already late, I'd slept for hours. I haven't slept that long for months. Usually, I wake up every hour or two, listening for footsteps, for the sound of a door opening, for the signs that meant I needed to run.

*You felt safe,* my wolf says with satisfaction. *Finally.*

I helped myself in the kitchen, finding ingredients for a simple meal. As I cooked, I caught glimpses of the life Tristan had built. Photographs on the refrigerator, a woman's coffee mug by the sink, the utensils were all in her taste.

There's also a photo of him and Orion from what looks like a recent fishing trip, both of them grinning and holding up their catches.

My brother looks happy. Older, more settled, but genuinely happy in a way I haven't seen since before our parents died. He's built a life here, a family. He has Sarah and their children, friends who love him, and a business that might be that's thriving, though I know nothing about what he does.

Did he and Tristan continue our parents business? Did they sell it? I have no idea.

I looked at the time again—10 PM. Tristan wasn't back yet.

I don't sleep immediately. Instead, I switch on my data connection and open a new social media account with a new name. I use my mother's maiden name instead of my surname so Daxon won't be able to find me. He'd made sure I deleted all my accounts before, cutting me off from everyone I'd ever known. But now, if I'm planning to pick up my life, I have to start somewhere.

*Small steps,* my wolf encourages. *We're taking small steps.*

I hear Tristan's bike drive in when I look at the time, it's already past 6 AM. Maybe he had a party or something. Maybe he was with her, explaining why a prodigal broken she-wolf from his past is suddenly sleeping in his guest room.

It doesn't concern me, I tell myself. But my wolf huffs with disbelief.

..........

I'm already dressed when I hear Tristan moving around quietly through the house, trying not to wake me. My wolf urged me awake before dawn, restless and determined. She's been whispering plans in my ear all night, pushing me toward something I haven't felt in years—purpose.

*We need to move,* she insists. *Sitting still makes us easy targets.*

I know she's right, even if the threat isn't physical anymore. Staying in this house all day, surrounded by evidence of Tristan's happiness while I wallow in my own misery, will only make me spiral deeper into the dark place I've been fighting to escape.

I've chosen simple clothes—jeans that actually fit me instead of the baggy things I've been hiding in, and a soft sweater that doesn't make me look like I'm drowning in fabric. For the first time in two years, I've made an effort. My wolf preens a little at the progress.

*Small steps,* she reminds me. *We're taking small steps.*

When I emerge from my room, Tristan is standing at the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee, his hair still damp from the shower. He looks up when he hears my footsteps, and I catch the flash of surprise in his eyes before he carefully masks it.

"Morning," he says, his voice cautious. "You're up early."

"I couldn't sleep." I smooth my hands down my jeans, suddenly nervous. "I was thinking... maybe I could come with you today? To work?"

He sets down his coffee cup, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. He's going to say no. He's going to tell me it's not a good idea, that I need to rest, that I'm not ready for......

"Okay," he says simply.

I blink. "Okay?"

"Yeah." He takes another sip of coffee, watching me over the rim. "If you're sure that's what you want."

I nod, not trusting my voice. It's such a small thing, but it feels monumental. Someone is letting me choose. Someone is trusting me to know what I need.

*We chose well,* my wolf says about Tristan, and I have to push that thought away before it can take root.

Twenty minutes later, we're back on his motorcycle. This time, the ride feels different. The morning air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of autumn and possibility. My wolf stretches lazily in my chest, enjoying the sensation of movement, of going somewhere with purpose.

I still tense when we hit bumps in the road, still feel my breath catch when Tristan takes a turn too fast. But I'm getting better at breathing through it. Better at reminding myself that I'm not trapped anymore.

We pull into an industrial area I don't recognize, passing warehouses and auto shops until Tristan turns into a parking lot that makes my heart stop completely.

There, in bold letters across the front of a massive building, is a sign that sends my world tilting off its axis: *SLAYERS AUTO REPAIR.*

My breath catches in my throat. My wolf goes completely still, as shocked as I am.

"They still run this?" I whisper, barely able to get the words out.

Tristan kills the engine but doesn't answer immediately. He just sits there, letting me process what I'm seeing.

It's not the same small garage I remember from my childhood. This place is huge, modern, with multiple bays and a parking lot full of exotic cars waiting to be repaired. Mercedes, BMWs, Porsches, motorcycles that probably cost more than most people's houses. This isn't just a repair shop—it's an empire.

But the name. The name is exactly what our parents chose all those years ago, when they were young wolves with big dreams and dirty hands, building something together in a cramped garage that smelled like motor oil and hope.

*They kept it alive,* my wolf breathes. *They kept their memory alive.*

Memories flood back without warning. Dad lifting me up so I could see inside the hood of a car, his patient voice explaining how engines work while Mom rolled her eyes and muttered about him turning me into a grease monkey. The way they'd work side by side, finishing each other's sentences, their wolves content in each other's presence.

The way they'd died too early, too suddenly, leaving us orphaned and lost.

"Orion and I," Tristan says quietly, "we couldn't let it die with them."

A tear escapes before I can stop it. I wipe it away quickly, hoping he doesn't notice, but of course he does. He notices everything.

*We left,* my wolf says, her voice heavy with guilt. *We left them to carry this burden alone.*

While I was in London, trying to forget who I was, trying to pretend I didn't have a family or a past or a legacy to honor, they were here. Building this. Growing what our parents started. Making something beautiful out of their grief.

"I didn't know," I whisper.

"How could you?" There's no judgment in his voice, just understanding. "You were surviving."

But it doesn't feel like enough. It feels like betrayal. Like I abandoned not just my family, but my parents' memory too.

*We're here now,* my wolf says firmly. *That's what matters.*

Tristan climbs off the bike and waits for me to do the same. My legs feel shaky, but I manage to stand. The scent of motor oil and metal hits me like a punch to the gut, so familiar it hurts.

For once in five years, I tell myself the harshest truth. I miss my parents. I miss Tristan's parents. Life has not been the same since I lost them. And I lost myself too in the process.