Phoebe's last conscious memory was the icy tombstone beneath her and her pheromones raging wildly out of control.

With her marked Omega gone, her cedar and winter wind scent slashed through the air with savage intensity never before unleashed.


Darkness swallowed everything whole.

Her sense of smell stirred before her eyes could open.

A hauntingly familiar scent wrapped around her—warm hearth fire mingled with aged paper, soothing and intimate. Thomas's unique pheromone.


"Am I in heaven?" The thought flickered through Phoebe's foggy mind.

No. Someone who drove her own mate and cub to their deaths deserves nothing but hell. Though if hell carried his scent... that would be mercy I don't deserve.


She gulped down the scented air and slowly opened her eyes. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the sprawling estate beyond—her luxurious bedroom.

Wait—what?!

Phoebe bolted upright, her head whipping around.

This wasn't the cemetery where she'd ended everything. Not the hell she'd expected. This was... her bedroom from five years ago?

Everything stood exactly as she remembered—cold, expensive, soulless.

And that hearth-fire scent wasn't a phantom—it clung to her senses. Which meant Thomas... was alive?

The realization struck like lightning, cracking open her long-dead soul.

Just then, a whisper of footsteps stopped outside her door. A voice, fighting to stay steady, spoke: "Phoebe, Leo's experiencing his first Molting Period. He needs his mother's pheromone."

Thomas! It really was Thomas!

Phoebe's heart clenched painfully, making it nearly impossible to breathe, yet somehow a broken laugh escaped her throat.

The person outside flinched at her sudden outburst.

With her Alpha-sharp senses, she detected through the door crack a pair of beast-like eyes—anxious yet yearning—peering timidly inside.

Leo. Her four-year-old son.

"Molting Period," "Northern Hunting Ground," "car accident"... The fragments that had haunted her final moments snapped together like puzzle pieces at those words.

Tomorrow was when she'd dismiss Thomas's plea so she could join Grant at the hunting ground.

And because of her absence, Leo—desperate for his mother's soothing pheromones—would flee the house alone, driven wild by his Molting Period.

And then... No!

Phoebe flung the covers aside and lunged for the door, ripping it open.

Thomas stood there in a shirt washed nearly colorless, his handsome features etched with humiliation and silent pleading.

Behind him, Leo clutched his pant leg, pale beast-eyes—inherited from her—fixed on her face.

When Phoebe emerged, Thomas froze solid. His hearth-fire pheromone snapped inward defensively, and Leo shrank behind his father's legs in fear.

Don't fear me. Please.

Her heart cracked, but instead of speaking, she stepped forward and released her pheromone—stripped of all dominance, carrying only primal comfort and protection.

She opened her arms and, while they stared in shock, pulled both of them into a tight embrace.

"I'm so sorry..."

Warm wetness dampened her neck, but Thomas remained rigid as marble, clearly unable to process what was happening.

The embrace, the apology, this impossibly gentle Alpha pheromone... It must have seemed like some bizarre hallucination to him.

Phoebe ignored his stiffness and just held them both, as if trying to cram five years of missed embraces into one moment.

Then, making sure Thomas could see, she walked inside, grabbed her comm-terminal from the bedside, and dialed that all-too-familiar number she now loathed.

"Phoebe? All set? The private jet leaves for the hunting ground tomorrow morning..." Grant's voice oozed with entitled familiarity.

Phoebe cut him off, her voice glacial: "The plan is canceled."

"What?" Grant's shock was palpable. His aggressive Agave pheromone leaked through the connection. "Phoebe, what the hell? Do you have any idea how long I've been planning this Northern hunting trip?"

"I said it's canceled," Phoebe's tone left no room for debate. "My husband and child need me." She killed the connection and tossed the terminal onto the bed.

I refused Grant. Surely Thomas will trust me a little now, right?

Phoebe turned around hopefully, only to find father and son still in the doorway, faces painted with shock and confusion. A bitter smile tugged at her lips.

Before she could gather herself, a tiny voice—soft yet devastating as a sledgehammer—reached her ears.

It was Leo, whispering so softly to his father: "Dad, will Mom hug me like this from now on?"

Thomas couldn't answer. He simply turned and gently stroked Leo's forehead.

Hope was poison—he'd been drinking it for five years, but he couldn't pour it down his child's throat with his own hands.

That innocent question sprinkled salt across Phoebe's raw heart, making it sting with bitter regret.

She could only repeat to herself: It's okay. It's not too late. This time, we have time to fix everything.

That night, Phoebe tried to approach Leo's room.

But as she reached the doorway, that warm hearth-fire pheromone suddenly withdrew like a startled animal.

A clear sign of rejection.

The door stood like a fortress wall. Inside lay Thomas's wounded sanctuary, and she remained the untrusted, unwelcome intruder.

The next day, Phoebe woke before dawn cracked the sky.

With no desire to linger in bed, she ventured into the most alien territory of her life—the kitchen.

In werewolf culture, a mother preparing a special meal for her cub's Molting Period was tradition dating back centuries—a symbol of bloodline continuity and pack bonds.

Phoebe's atonement began with a desperate, fumbling attempt at breakfast.

Faced with gleaming kitchen tools she'd never touched, she created exactly the disaster you'd expect.

Flour dusted every surface including her face; the premium meat meant for her cub had achieved a perfect charcoal state under her care.

Her cedar-and-winter pheromone swirled chaotically with her mounting embarrassment.

As she stood helplessly clutching a spatula over the blackened disaster, a figure appeared in the doorway.

Thomas.

Why is he up so early? she wondered.

Then realization stabbed through her, flooding her heart with bitterness.

Thomas wasn't coincidentally awake; he was here because he didn't trust her to properly feed their son.

He'd come to handle it himself—to cover the void she'd left as a mother.

Her heart soaked in ice water—bitter and aching.

Thomas looked genuinely surprised to find her there.

But as his eyes took in the disaster zone and the flour dusting her face, surprise melted into quiet understanding.

He didn't question her. "Let me help," he said quietly.

Phoebe sheepishly rubbed her nose and stepped aside for the true master of this domain. She awkwardly assisted, passing utensils and washing vegetables with unpracticed hands.

Thomas moved with practiced grace. Like a master craftsman, he transformed her chaos into order. Soon, savory aromas of meat patties and hearty porridge filled the kitchen.

When Leo padded downstairs, he froze at the bizarre sight: Dad cooking as usual, but his typically distant mother wearing a pink apron, hovering awkwardly nearby.

He approached the table, eyed the meat patties, and asked in a tiny, uncertain voice: "Mom... did you make these for me?"

The question squeezed Phoebe's heart painfully.

She knelt to his level and said gently: "Yes. And I'll make you breakfast every morning from now on. I promise."

Leo's eyes brightened. He nuzzled her shoulder, revealing a dimple identical to Thomas's at the corner of his mouth.

Phoebe's heart stung with bittersweet emotion.

She leaned forward and gently kissed that little dimple. When she looked up, her eyes met Thomas's intense gaze over their son's head.

Thomas suddenly backed away, breaking eye contact as he turned toward the table. "I'll set the table," he muttered.

As he turned, Phoebe caught sight of the bonding gland on his neck—her mark there unnaturally faded.

Basic knowledge hit her like lightning—marked Omegas need regular pheromone contact from their Alphas or their health deteriorates.

Self-loathing stabbed through her. She instinctively moved to comfort him with her pheromones, but Thomas flinched away like a startled deer.

"Don't bother yourself. I'm fine."

He kept his head down, his voice frost-coated.

That formal "you"—so distant and cold—pierced her heart like a needle.

She forced a smile and stepped back, taking a deep breath while inwardly cursing her past self with every vicious word she knew for being such a blind, ungrateful fool.