Chapter 8
Dinner plans were the last thing on Isla’s mind, but the staff informed her that Viviana had booked a private suite at the Lakeside Hotel and everyone was expected to attend.
Isla tried to bow out-“I’m really not up for it“—yet Arabella looped an arm through hers and shoved her into the back seat of Rhett’s SUV before she could argue.
The drive was cramped and uncomfortable, made worse by Arabella’s nonstop chatter.
“Babe, after the wedding let’s honeymoon in Drovane,” she cooed, leaning across the console. “I want the northern lights, I want Fashion Week, I want a million photos–all on your phone, your tablet, your laptop. No repeats.”
Rhett didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll hire a couple of pros to shadow us. We’ll print the best shots and hang them everywhere–my office, the study. That way I can see you anytime I look up.”
Arabella squealed. “Promise? And when we have pups we can flip through the albums and show them how perfect we were. How many do you want, by the way? One mini–alpha just like you? Or a little princess who takes after me?”
They went back and forth like Isla wasn’t even there.
She pressed her forehead to the window, watching streetlights blur past. Said nothing.
She remembered the night of Rhett’s surgery–the night her parents drugged her stubborn hope into oblivion. She’d dreamed then that he’d wake up and see her first, that he’d spend every moment after that making up for all the darkness they’d both endured. Proposals. Mating vows. A small, fierce family. A future that belonged only to them.
A dream, nothing more. One violent crash of reality and it had shattered.
Metal screeched.
Isla’s head snapped up just in time to see a sports car fishtail across the bridge, brakes smoking. It slammed into them head on. The impact hurled their SUV sideways, crumpling it against a concrete pillar.
Pain detonated–sharp, blinding. Blood blurred her vision. Her ears rang.
When the spinning stopped, flames were already licking the back end of the vehicle. Doors were jammed, glass spider webbed. Arabella screamed. Rhett ripped the passenger door open and dragged her out, shielding her like a priceless artifact.
Neither of them looked back.
In the backseat, Isla could barely breathe. Her seatbelt was locked tight, her body bruised and slick with blood. But something in her snapped awake.
A deep, ancient instinct surged up.
Wolf.
With a grunt, she twisted the belt free, muscles screaming in protest, and flung herself toward the door.
The moment her feet hit the ground outside–
Boom
The gas tank detonated behind her.
The shockwave knocked her flat. She slammed into the pavement, heat licking at her heels, glass and flame roaring past.
She lay there trembling, skin singed, heart thundering
If she’d been a second slower… if she hadn’t moved when she did…
The wreck behind her was a wall of flame now.
Chucker B
GoodShort
Smoke curled in her lungs. She lifted her head and through the chaos, saw him–Rhett, on the roadside, arms wrapped protectively around Arabella, murmuring soft words into her hair.
He never looked back.
Not even once.
Sirens wailed. Med techs swarmed.
“Her vitals are crashing!” one shouted, kneeling beside Isla. “Even with shifter healing, she’s losing blood too fast- -she won’t make it unless we move now!”
Another medic ran toward Rhett. “Alpha, the other woman’s stable. This one’s critical-
Rhett’s grip on Arabella tightened. “No,” he snapped. “Save Arabella. She comes first.‘
The medic hesitated. “Alpha, she isn’t-”
“}
-we have to move her first.
“Arabella first,” Rhett repeated. Arabella trembled theatrically in his arms, hiding her face against his chest.
Regis and Viviana barreled onto the scene seconds later, voices shrill with panic–but only for Arabella.
ཤོག་དང་། ད་
“Please,” Viviana sobbed, clutching her daughter’s hand. “Take her in right now. If anything happens to our Arabella… we’ll never survive it.”
Regis added, “We’ll sign whatever you need. If Isla doesn’t make it, we won’t hold the hospital responsible. Just keep Arabella safe.” The medics exchanged looks and hurried Arabella toward the ambulance.
Isla heard all of it through ringing ears. She managed to turn her head just enough to see their retreating figures–Rhett’s broad shoulders, Arabella’s white knuckle grip on his shirt, her parents hovering like desperate satellites.
No one glanced her way.
Whatever fragile hope had survived inside her cracked, then crumbled.
Darkness–thick and final–rose up to claim her. The same helpless chill she’d felt on the night she died in the last life. This time, she didn’t fight it.
Lucia Morh is a passionate storyteller who brings emotions to life through her words. When she’s not writing, she finds peace nurturing her garden.