Chapter 43: Jealous Wolf
Seraphine's POV
The woman in the photo was beautiful.
Fucking beautiful.
Brown hair that caught the light like honey, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. Blue eyes that sparkled with genuine warmth, the kind of warmth I'd never seen in any eyes looking at me in this godforsaken place.
She was laughing in the photo, head tilted back slightly, joy radiating from every line of her face.
And in the corner, in faded pencil: 2017.06.12
I stared at the date, my brain trying to do the math through the sudden fog in my head.
Eight years ago.
Eight years.
My fingers tightened on the photo's edges, the paper crinkling slightly under the pressure.
Who the fuck is she?
The question burned through me, sharp and insistent.
Why does he have this? Why hide it on top of a cabinet where no one would find it?
The mark on my neck began to heat up.
Not painful—not yet—but noticeable. Like someone had pressed a warm hand against the scarred skin, the sensation spreading outward in gentle waves.
What—
I touched it instinctively, fingers finding the mark through my shirt collar.
The warmth increased at my touch, pulsing softly.
Like it's alive. Like it's trying to tell me something.
Warn me.
I looked back down at the photo, at the woman's beautiful face, and the warmth turned sharper.
Stop it. She's from eight years ago. Ancient history.
But my body didn't seem to care about logic or reason.
The mark kept heating up, kept pulsing, kept sending signals I didn't understand and didn't want.
She doesn't matter. Whoever she was.
I dropped the photo, reaching for another one that had fallen face-up nearby.
Same woman.
Different pose, different setting. This one looked like it had been taken outdoors somewhere, trees blurred in the background, sunlight catching in her hair.
She was smiling at the camera—at him, presumably—with an expression so open and trusting it made something twist painfully in my chest.
Stop looking.
But I couldn't.
My hand moved to the next photo. And the next.
All of her.
Her laughing. Her serious. Her looking away from the camera like she didn't know it was there.
Each photo showed a different moment, a different facet of whoever this woman had been to him.
And the edges—
Fuck.
The edges were worn. Not just old, but handled. Looked at frequently enough over the years that the paper had softened, the corners slightly frayed from repeated touch.
He looked at these. Often.
The realization hit like a physical blow.
He kept them. Hid them. Looked at them enough to wear down the edges.
The mark on my neck burned hotter, the sensation spreading down into my shoulder, across my collarbone.
I pressed my hand against it, trying to ease the heat, but it only intensified.
Why does this hurt?
Why do I care?
Vespera's smirk echoed in my head, First that bitch, now you—
First who? Was this her? The woman before Vespera? Kaelen's ex that Cordelia'd mentioned?
My chest tightened, breath coming shorter.
And now there's me. The latest in a line of—what? Prisoners? Toys?
Things he uses and discards when he's done.
The bond pulsed, stronger now, like it could sense my spiraling thoughts.
My wolf stirred, restless and uncomfortable, a low growl building in her chest.
Not ours. Not ours. Not—
But the mark on my neck screamed otherwise, burning with an intensity that made my eyes water.
He's ours. The bond says he's ours.
Even if I hate him. Even if I want to claw his fucking throat out.
Ours.
I grabbed another photo, hands shaking now.
This one showed them together—her and a figure I could only assume was Kaelen, though his face was turned away from the camera.
But her expression—
God.
She was looking at him like he hung the fucking moon.
Did he love her?
The thought sliced through me, sharp and unexpected.
Did he look at her the way he's never looked at me? Did he smile for her? Laugh with her?
Was he different then? Before whatever turned him into this cold, cruel thing?
My wolf snarled, the sound reverberating through my chest.
Why her and not us? What made her worthy of—
Stop it. You don't want him. You don't want this bond or this mark or anything from him.
But my body told a different story.
The mark blazed. My hands trembled. My vision blurred at the edges, gold starting to bleed into my sight.
Control it. Get it together.
I dropped the photos, pressing both palms against my eyes, trying to force back the change I could feel building.
You're being ridiculous. These are from eight years ago. Eight years. It doesn't matter.
It shouldn't matter.
But it did.
It fucking did.
Because somewhere in this mess of anger and confusion and unwanted bond, the realization hit:
He had the capacity to care.
He chose someone once. Kept her photos. Looked at them enough to wear down the edges.
He's capable of warmth. Of affection. Maybe even love.
He just—
He just doesn't choose me.
The thought hurt worse than any of Cordelia's treatments, worse than the bite wound in my shoulder, worse than anything physical.
He could be different. He just won't. Not for me.
My eyes burned, tears threatening at the corners.
I don't want to cry over this. Over him. Over some woman from eight years ago who got what I—
What I don't even want.
Right?
Right.
The mark pulsed again, waves of heat rolling down my spine.
My wolf whined, then growled, caught between pain and fury.
Make it stop. Make it all stop.
I reached for the last photo with shaking hands.
Turned it over.
And felt something inside me shatter.
---
The photo showed them together, faces close.
She was kissing his cheek, laughing, eyes squeezed shut with joy.
And Kaelen—
Fuck.
Kaelen was smiling.
Not the cold, controlled expression I'd seen him wear. Not the mask of indifference or the cruel smirk when he had me cornered.
A real smile. Genuine. Reaching his eyes, softening his whole face into something almost—
Beautiful.
I'd never seen him smile like that.
Never.
The comparison hit like a freight train:
Vespera—cold tolerance. Indifference. Using her but not caring.
This woman—warmth. Affection. Maybe more.
Me—ice. Cruelty. A prisoner he'd rather forget existed.
He smiled for her.
He kept her photos for eight years.
He looks at them enough to wear down the edges.
And he treats me like I'm nothing.
The mark on my neck erupted into flames.
Not metaphorical heat—actual burning, searing pain that shot down my spine and across my shoulders.
My wolf roared, the sound echoing through my skull.
OURS. OURS. OURS.
No—
OURS. HE'S OURS. HOW DARE SHE—
My vision flooded gold, the change rushing through me faster than I could control.
Rational thought scattered.
Logic fled.
All that remained was the primitive, possessive rage of a wolf denied what the bond claimed was hers.
Mine. My mate. MINE.
Not hers. Never hers. MINE.
I didn't want him.
I hated him.
But the bond didn't care about logic or reason or what I consciously wanted.
It only knew one truth:
Mate. Ours. Claimed.
And seeing evidence of another woman, someone he'd cared for, smiled for, kept close in memory—
It drove my wolf absolutely fucking insane.
The photo crumpled in my fist, edges digging into my bandaged palm.
"Go to hell!"
The words ripped from my throat, raw and guttural.
I hurled the photo across the room, watching it flutter and fall like a dying bird.
But it wasn't enough.
The rage kept building, pressure mounting with nowhere to go.
My foot slammed against the floor.
Once.
Twice.
Again and again, the impact jarring up through my leg, pain mixing with fury until I couldn't tell them apart.
"Fuck him! Fuck this! FUCK—"
I hate this feeling. Hate that I care. Hate that this goddamn bond makes me lose control like some jealous—
Like I'm jealous.
AM I JEALOUS?
The realization hit like ice water.
No. No no no. I don't want him. I hate him. I don't care who he smiled for or kept photos of or—
But the mark burned.
My wolf raged.
My eyes blazed gold.
And somewhere deep down, buried under layers of denial and fury—
A part of me screamed that he was ours and how dare another woman make him smile when he only gives me ice.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
The sound cut through my spiral like a blade.