Love You After You Died

Ophelia loved Dylan, the Alpha of the pack, with all her heart—but to him, she was merely a plaything, a lowly maid unworthy of his regard. His destined bride was Caroline, the noble-born Beta's daughter. When forced to send one of the two women to a rival pack in exchange for a life-saving antidote... who would he choose?

— Broken Whisper

The laundry hut smelled of soap and steam when the rumor slipped in like a draft.

“Have you heard?” Maeve’s voice quivered with excitement as she shook out a linen sheet. “The Alpha will announce his engagement at dusk.”

Ophelia’s hands froze over the washboard. “Engagement to whom?”

“Caroline Hawthorne, of course. Beta Hawthorne’s only daughter,” another maid supplied, eyes gleaming. “They say she saved him once, long ago.”

The words rang in Ophelia’s ears like church bells hammered out of tune. *Saved him?* Dylan had never spoken of that rescue—or of Caroline as anything more than a family friend. Heat bloomed in Ophelia’s chest, equal parts dread and disbelief.

“That’s nonsense.” She forced a smile that felt made of brittle glass. “He would have told us.”

“Tell *us*?” Maeve laughed. “Ophelia, we’re maids. Alphas share secrets with equals, not with servants.”

---

By late afternoon the courtyard buzzed with servants hanging silver bunting from balconies. Ophelia caught sight of Beta Hawthorne supervising florists while Caroline glided past in pale lilac satin, her laughter bright as chimes.

Ophelia’s pulse drummed. *Ask Dylan. Face him.* Before courage wilted, she slipped through the herb garden’s side gate, skirts brushing rosemary. At the far end, two voices filtered between hedges.

Caroline spoke first, soft and sure. “I still remember the river, Dylan. You were half-frozen, and I held you until help came.”

Dylan chuckled—low, warm, intimate. “I owe you my life, Caro. No title or ceremony could match what you already mean to me.”

Ophelia’s feet rooted behind a laurel bush. *Please deny it…*

Caroline’s tone turned teasing. “Then swear it tonight—before the council and the moon. Make me your Luna.”

A heartbeat of silence. Then Dylan murmured, “You have always been the one I loved.”

Ophelia pressed a hand to her mouth. The world tilted.

Caroline’s next question sliced the gathering dusk. “And Ophelia?”

“A loyal maid. Nothing more,” Dylan answered. “A pleasant distraction, perhaps, but never my mate.”

Ophelia’s lungs emptied. The fragrant hedge seemed to buckle. Every memory—his gentle hair-tousling, the way his eyes softened when she brought midnight tea—shattered into mocking echoes.

Caroline leaned closer; Ophelia saw only silhouettes. “She may think otherwise. You were careless with your…distractions.”

“I’ll handle it,” Dylan said. “After tonight, she’ll know her place.”

Ophelia stumbled back. A twig snapped under her boot.

“Who’s there?” Dylan called.

She fled, tearing through corridors until the servant stair swallowed her sob. Only when she reached her tiny attic room did she let the tears come. *A distraction. Plaything.* Pain blossomed deep, but alongside it—terrifying—was love that refused to die.

A knock sounded. Elara, the head