In the fifteenth year of Alpha's bedridden illness, I turned and walked away.
Alpha August had been wounded by a silver blade tempered with wolfsbane, and his wolf soul remained unhealed to this day, requiring prolonged bed rest. In the fifteenth year of his confinement, the female werewolf he once cherished returned to the country.
The once-famed, stunningly beautiful film queen now bore a head of silver hair, her once-enchanting beauty faded.
Seated by Alpha August's sickbed, she called his pet name over and over, weeping like a child.
For a time, the werewolf social circles whispered of the ill-fated love between Silver Moon City's Alpha and the film queen.
They said Alpha August was wealthy and powerful, while the actress possessed unparalleled charm – they should have been the perfect pair, destined by the Moon Goddess herself.
And I became the shameless interloper.
When we married, Alpha August claimed he was wounded and unwilling to mark his destined mate. Out of love for him, I willingly became his nominal wife for forty years, a model couple in name only.
Only today did I realise he was preserving his loyalty for another female werewolf.
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