My Sister Stole My Mate, And I Let Her Chapter 550 DESTRUCTION (BONUS - 1)

MIREYA’S POV

*One week after the battle on Catherine’s island.*

I’d spent so long on high alert, constantly looking over my shoulder, holding my breath, biting my tongue, that peace—the unfamiliar absence of constant adrenaline flooding my veins and constricting my lungs—felt a lot like emptiness.

Every time this feeling crept in, which was every waking moment, a fresh wave of guilt crashed over me.

Seraphina and Kieran had saved me from a torturous existence; they’d given me something resembling a home. They’d even managed to give me closure concerning Olivia, and I was eternally grateful.

But despite all that, the only thing I could focus on, what consumed my thoughts, was the Damian-shaped hole in my chest.

If there were ever a more apt example of Stockholm syndrome, it would be me.

Damian had stolen me from my home; he’d held me captive and punished me if I breathed wrong; he’d treated me like a piece of furniture to be bartered away.

Yet.

I blamed the Moon Goddess for her ill-fated pairing. I blamed fate for bringing us together. I blamed the mark Damian had put on me.

Despite the spell Alois had cast to temporarily render the tracker ineffective, I could still feel that connection, that constant tugging like I should be headed toward...something.

I tried to banish it to the farthest recesses of my mind, cramming my days with as much activity as I could: jogging the length of Nightfang at dawn and dusk, volunteering for clerical work in the strategy room as the alliance tried to close the book on Catherine and Marcus, helping in the medical wing with the wounded, even attending training courses on the grounds.

I slipped into bed every night with sore muscles and aching joints, but instead of falling into an exhausted, dreamless sleep, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, missing and missing and missing my mate.

It was awful.

From my time in the strategy room, I knew that Damian was still in the wind. The alliance was actively searching for him, but they hadn’t found a single trace of his whereabouts.

The thought of him out there—whether he was a thousand miles away or lurking beneath my window—sent a simultaneous shiver of dread and a forbidden thrill through me.

It was a wonder I hadn’t lost my damn mind.

It was a wonder I could drag myself out of bed each morning and stumble through my bustling itinerary after yet another sleepless night.

Like today: I hauled myself out of bed, body still sore from the previous day’s activities, and went through the motions—a brisk shower, the routine application of concealer and blush to hide the shadows under my eyes and the pallor of my skin, pulling on a long, oversized sweater dress that hid how much weight I’d lost.

Then I opened my door and froze at the sight of Sera on the other side of the threshold.

“Hi, Mireya! Good morning.”

She greeted me with the smile of someone who’d had a good night’s rest. Someone who found actual peace in the arms of her mate.

I forced a smile of my own, a pathetic farce compared to hers. “Good morning, Sera.”

She cocked her head, and her eyes narrowed slightly. “Is it? You look tired.”

This—this was why I’d been avoiding Sera. Her gift made her too damn perceptive, and no amount of makeup could hide that I was a sleep-deprived wreck.

I gave what I hoped was a nonchalant shrug. “I’m okay.”

She looked skeptical, and I struggled not to fidget underneath her scrutinizing gaze, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t ask any questions.

I didn’t want to lie to her, she who had done so much for me. But I also didn’t know how to explain that, as much as I feared the cage I’d been released from, I yearned for my captor.

I knew it wasn’t Damian himself I desired. It was that connection—the magnetic pull between mates.

It didn’t matter that he was a vicious, immoral bastard; he was half my soul, and all I wanted was to be whole again.

Gods, I was such a fool.

Thankfully, Sera asked no further questions. Instead, she held out her arm. “I was just about to head to the clinic to check on Lucian. Walk with me?”

My next smile was a little more genuine as I slipped my arm through Sera’s and let her guide me down the corridor.

Nightfang had woken up, and we passed several pack members, each one hurrying from one task to the next, each one, in their own way, picking up the pieces of their world that had been turned upside down.

I often let myself get swept up in that flurry of activity, but underneath it all was the nagging sense that I was moving against the current. Like I was fixing someone else’s life while mine lay in shambles.

“I’m sorry.”

I turned to Sera, blinking in surprise at her apology.

“What?” I asked. “Why?”

She shrugged. “I haven’t had time to check in on you since we returned from Catherine’s island. I know how it feels to be lonely even in a crowd, especially since...” She paused. Took a shaky breath before continuing, “Since Celeste left.”

Celeste.

She was another enigma that haunted my sleepless nights.

The woman who had been with my sister in her final moments, who had somewhat been responsible for her death, who had made awkward little efforts to get close to me—as an attempt at atonement, I suspected—and then had disappeared into thin air.

“I barely knew her,” I told Sera. “It must hurt you more.”

Sera let out a soft sound that could have been a sigh or a scoff.

“Hurt.” She shook her head. “That’s too simple an emotion to describe it.”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “I know what you mean.”

All details laid bare, I couldn’t possibly know what she meant, and she couldn’t possibly know what I meant—we’d lost our sisters in very different ways.

But understanding still rippled between us. Loss didn’t care about details; it demanded to be felt either way.

We lapsed into silence as we stepped out of the packhouse and crossed the field to the medical wing.

Healers and nurses greeted Sera and me alike as we walked the hall, the two of us familiar faces here.

However, the path Sera led me to was a part I’d never ventured toward.

I was usually in the trauma wing, assisting with wound dressing and minor surgeries; I had no business in the intensive care units where a handful of patients were in comas.

Sera, however, was a regular visitor here. I knew that not only was her friend, Lucian, here, but her mother was, too.

She had endured so much, had borne so much loss and pain; I couldn’t fathom how she found the strength to rise each morning and face the world.

We stopped before a door at the end of the hall, and Sera turned to me. “I just want to check in on Lucian and my mother, then we can get some breakfast, and you and I can talk properly, okay?”

I wanted to protest. I knew she was busy, and I knew what talking to someone like Sera entailed.

I didn’t want to have to bare my soul—every chipped, scarred, aching piece—to someone who would see it so clearly.

She’d want to try to fix me, and I just wasn’t sure that was possible. I didn’t want to get hurt trying.

But I found myself nodding, unable to force any negatory words out.

With that, Sera pushed the door open, and I stepped in after her.

I don’t know why I expected quiet and darkness and cold—Lucian was in a coma, not a vampire.

Bright morning sunshine spilled through the large windows, lighting the spacious, tastefully furnished room up. The air smelled sweet and floral from the assortment of flowers lining the windowsill.

It was such a shame that the resident lay unconscious, unable to appreciate his surroundings.

“Every morning, I think I’ll get here first, but you always beat me to it,” Sera said, a smile in her voice.

My gaze drifted to the room’s other occupant.

She was curled into the chair beside Lucian’s bed, nursing a cup of coffee. She looked up at our entry, a small, tired smile on her face, and I froze.

“Good morning, Sera,” she greeted.

Her gaze shifted to mine, and her brows rose slightly. “Who’s this?”

“Oh,” Sera said, turning to me. “This is Mireya. She’s a guest here at Nightfang. Mireya, this is—”

“You,” I whispered.

The woman frowned and sat up a little straighter. “Me?”

Her hair was the color of copper, instead of the silver I remembered, and she wore a black sweater instead of the bright green dress.

She’d worn a mask, but those eyes...I’d looked into those light brown eyes, searching for some sympathy.

I hadn’t found any.

‘Hold still,’ she’d murmured, her voice as cold as the fingers pressed to my nape, ‘this won’t take long.’

Then she’d placed the tracking spell on me.