His Mistake, My Revenge: A Second Chance

Scarlett

The lake water was so cold it felt like liquid fire in my lungs.

I was sinking, my limbs heavy as lead, the surface growing dimmer with each passing second. The pack's laughter still echoed in my ears—cruel, mocking sounds that followed me even into the depths. Killian's words cut deeper than the icy water: "You want to be with your own brother? That's disgusting."

The portrait I'd spent weeks painting lay in shattered pieces on the funeral hall floor. Rosalie's funeral. My stepsister, who everyone loved, who everyone mourned. Everyone except me, apparently. Because I was the freak who'd fallen for her stepbrother. The pathetic girl who couldn't tell the difference between family and mate.

My wolf whimpered somewhere deep inside, but even she was too weak to fight anymore. The bone marrow transplant had taken everything from me—my strength, my hope, my will to keep going. And when Killian destroyed that painting, when he looked at me with such disgust, something inside me finally broke.

I remembered being twelve, scared and alone when Mom remarried into the Gates pack. Killian was the only one who didn't treat me like an outsider. He taught me to shift, helped me with my homework, made me feel like I belonged.

I remembered being sixteen, cornered by ten rogue wolves in the forest. Killian appeared like an avenging angel, his massive black wolf tearing through them to reach me. He'd been bloodied and exhausted afterward, but he'd held me close and whispered that he'd always protect me.

I remembered being eighteen, my wolf's voice clear as crystal for the first time: "Mate. He's our mate."

But mates weren't supposed to feel disgust when they looked at you. Mates weren't supposed to shatter your heart into a thousand pieces and leave you drowning in a frozen lake.

The water pressed against my chest, stealing what little breath I had left. My vision blurred, darkness creeping in from the edges. Maybe this was better. Maybe—

A blinding flash of light exploded behind my eyelids.

I gasped, my eyes flying open. White. Everything was white—sterile white walls, white sheets, white fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The antiseptic smell of the hospital hit me like a physical blow.

I was alive. I was in a bed. And standing beside me, his face a mask of barely controlled desperation, was Killian.

"Please, Tessa," he was saying, his voice rough with exhaustion. "Donating blood isn't a big deal for you, but without it, Rosalie will die."

The words hit me like a sledgehammer. Rosalie. The blood donation. This conversation—I remembered this conversation. But that was impossible. Rosalie was already dead. I'd attended her funeral. I'd painted that portrait that Killian destroyed. I'd thrown myself into the lake because—

My heart hammered against my ribs as the truth crashed over me. I was back. Somehow, impossibly, I was back to the day Killian first asked me to donate blood for Rosalie.

He looked exactly as I remembered—tall and broad-shouldered,