Chapter 2

Joanna Bennett POV

That night, a stinging pain radiated from my ankle wound, throbbing beneath my skin.

The painkillers the doctor gave me weren't doing much.

My wolf was growling restlessly, helpless.

I didn't know where those attackers had gotten such a toxin.

I didn't sleep all night.

Caleb didn't come home all night.

At seven in the morning, I hobbled into the kitchen on my crutches.

As I was chopping vegetables, I suddenly thought of my mom.

I rarely saw her either.

She was a powerful werewolf warrior, responsible for protecting our Luna, her schedule always packed. Even on her rare days off, she was often called back for urgent tasks.

Since childhood, I'd been used to eating alone, sleeping alone, and going to school with my keys hanging around my neck.

But every time my mom came home, she would be busy in the kitchen for a long time, preparing meals for the next few days, arranging them in containers in the fridge, with sticky notes on the lids: "Eat this on Tuesday," "Remember to heat this box for two minutes."

Later, she had an accident during an attack, suffering severe injuries while saving the Luna.

From falling down to passing away, it was only eleven hours.

At nineteen, I stood before her body, my mind a blank.

I don't remember my reaction then, only that my knees hurt when they hit the floor tiles, and I cried until I couldn't breathe, feeling like all the strength had been drained from me.

Pack members stood around, but no one approached at that moment.

Suddenly, someone crouched down in front of me.

A warm drink was handed to me, still carrying the warmth of a hand.

I looked up and saw a young face with gentle eyes.

"Don't cry," he said, his voice soft. "Your mother was a great warrior, she protected all of us. Even though she's gone, we'll all remember her."

Through a veil of tears, I saw his face: Caleb Miller.

The Alpha's son.

I didn't drink that bottle of soda, but I held it in my hands until it was completely cold.

From that day on, I remembered him and those gentle eyes.

The second time I saw him was two years later.

It was my final graduation exam at the training grounds.

The sky was already dark when the mission ended, making it hard to see my surroundings, but as I was checking in, I unintentionally glanced towards the assembly point and saw a familiar figure standing in the corner.

He stood there quietly, wearing a dark blue uniform, applauding without much enthusiasm, but very earnestly.

Afterward, I didn't change, but ran out of the training grounds clutching a bouquet of pink roses, stopping him at the entrance.

"Caleb Miller, can I pursue you?"

He looked at me, clearly stunned for a moment.

Then he smiled, a gentle smile that held a weariness I didn't understand at the time.

"I just lost my fated mate. I'm... not over it yet."

I knew he was rejecting me.

But the warmth of that drink was still in my heart, and those ten minutes of companionship were still in my memory.

I so desperately wanted that kind of gentle love, unique, a favoritism meant only for me.

Growing up, with my father's early death and my mother's passing, I had never been looked at with such focused attention.

He appeared at my most helpless moment; even just a bottle of soda and a word of comfort felt like a beacon of light to me.

"It's okay," I heard myself say. "I can help you get through it, slowly."

I thought that if I was patient and sincere enough, he would eventually turn and see me.

In the five years we were together, Caleb was indeed good to me.

He would train with me, go on missions with me, and take me to the doctor if I was injured.

But that kindness always felt veiled.

Gentle, yes, but never passionate.

He smiled at me, but also at every pack member.

I couldn't tell if I was special to him or just one among many.

I convinced myself it was enough.

Being loved by a gentle person was enough.

On his birthday, I felt our relationship should move to the next stage.

I booked his favorite restaurant, prepared a ring, and decorated with roses.

That evening, as I was rehearsing what to say in front of the mirror, my phone rang.

Caleb's voice was urgent: "Chloe Davis is back, and she's injured. I'm going to the hospital first; wait for me at the restaurant."

The call ended.

The ring was in my pocket, and I waited five hours at the restaurant.

He didn't come, nor did he call.

From that day on, everything changed.

During the time Chloe was back, whenever she called, Caleb would immediately rush over, no matter what he was doing.

He started coming home late frequently, becoming absent-minded, and there was something in his eyes when he spoke of Chloe that I had never seen before.

I told myself that once Chloe recovered, perhaps everything would return to normal.

Until that late night.

I got up to retrieve something from the study and accidentally knocked over an old photo album from a corner of the bookshelf.

The album fell to the floor, scattering its contents.

Every page featured Chloe.

Some were candid shots, some were posed together.

The backgrounds ranged from training grounds to hospitals, from summer to winter.

And on the back of every photo, Caleb's handwriting.

"Day 47."

"Missing you."

"A new recruit shares your birthday today."

I crouched on the floor, turning page after page, my fingers not trembling.

The date on the last photo was a week before our fifth anniversary.

On the back, it read:

"If you hadn't left then, I would never have let go."

I closed the album and placed it back in the corner of the bookshelf, neatly arranged, exactly as it had been before I took it down.