I Returned from the Dead to Destroy My Mate

The seamstress's needle pricked Isla's waist for the third time in as many minutes, drawing a sharp intake of breath that she quickly stifled. She stood motionless on the raised platform, arms extended like a scarecrow, while yards of ivory silk pooled around her feet. The Luna ceremonial gown—her Luna ceremonial gown—felt more like a costume than a dream come true.

"Could you hold still, dear?" Mrs. Hunt's voice carried that particular edge of disappointment Isla had learned to recognize before she could walk. Her mother sat in the velvet chair by the window, one hand pressed to her temple as if Isla's very existence caused her physical pain. "You're making this impossible for poor Margaret."

"Sorry," Isla whispered, though she hadn't moved. She never moved during these fittings. Three years of caring for a blind mate had taught her the art of becoming invisible, of taking up no space at all.

Chloe reclined on the fainting couch—because of course there was a fainting couch in the seamstress's room—one delicate hand draped across her forehead. Her adopted sister had arrived twenty minutes late, claiming a headache, yet somehow managed to commandeer all of their mother's attention.

"The neckline is too severe," Chloe murmured, her voice breathy and soft. "It makes Isla look so... harsh. Don't you think, Mother? A Luna should appear gentle. Approachable."

Isla caught her reflection in the full-length mirror. The dress was beautiful—intricate beadwork cascading down the bodice, sleeves that would catch the moonlight during the ceremony. But Chloe was right. The high collar did make her look stern. Unapproachable. Everything a Luna shouldn't be.

"You're absolutely right, darling." Mrs. Hunt rose from her chair, circling Isla like a vulture assessing carrion. "Margaret, can we soften this? Perhaps a sweetheart neckline instead? And the waist needs to be taken in another two inches. Isla, have you been eating properly? You look bloated."

Isla's wolf stirred restlessly beneath her skin. She hadn't eaten properly in weeks. The Fading Wolf Syndrome had stolen her appetite along with her energy, leaving her hollow and weak. But she couldn't tell them that. Couldn't admit that her mate's indifference was literally killing her.

"I'll adjust my diet," she said instead, keeping her voice level. Agreeable. The way a good Luna should sound.

Chloe sat up slightly, wincing as if the movement pained her. "Oh, Isla, I didn't mean to criticize. You know how I worry about you. You've been working yourself to exhaustion taking care of Alpha Orion. Perhaps you should rest more? Let others help?"

The suggestion was poison wrapped in silk. If Isla stepped back from caring for Orion now, weeks before their ceremony, the pack would whisper. They'd question her devotion. Her worthiness.

"I'm fine," Isla said, though her reflection in the mirror told a different story. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. Her cheekbones had grown sharp, her collarbones prominent beneath pale skin. She looked like a ghost wearing a wedding dress.

"Well, you don't look fine." Mrs. Hunt's