The first breath came with no pain.
Selene's eyes fluttered open to the familiar scent of lilies and parchment. The same room. The same sky peeking through the window gray and silent. Time had spun back once again.
She had died.
Again.
But the aching sting of betrayal had numbed something inside her. No tears this time. No shock. Just a hollow, sinking stillness.
Her aunt's manor hadn't changed. The tapestries hung untouched, the marble floor cold against her bare feet. The maids still moved around her like shadows, offering trimmed silence instead of comfort.
Selene didn't ask questions. She already knew the answers.
She knew the pain of this house, the neglect in her family's eyes, the gentle cruelty of being forgotten. But this time, she was different. This time she had no hope to nurture. No dreams to resurrect. Just a growing void where her heart once bloomed.
"Selene," her aunt's voice rang through the corridor one morning, crisp as ever. "The royal masquerade is in three weeks. You have to attend."
Selene looked up from the book in her lap. "No," she said simply.
Her aunt froze, as if the word had never been said before.
"What did you say?"
"I'm not going."
A long silence passed.
Then, her aunt scoffed, muttering something about "wasting beauty" and "foolishness," but Selene didn't listen. She didn't care. The last time she had worn silk and danced beneath the chandeliers, it had ended in blood.
She wasn't interested in reliving that horror.
Her aunt tried to convince her multiple times, even brought her the dress, but Selene remains firm and, in the end, her aunt gave up.
So, the masquerade came and went. Distant laughter echoed from the halls when her aunt returned, whispering about new alliances and royal gossip. Selene didn't ask for details. She'd seen enough kings and their blades.
Weeks turned into months. She spent her days in the library, buried in ancient texts and myths trying, perhaps, to uncover the curse that plagued her. Why was she reborn? Why only to die again?
But the answers remained buried, just like her last body.
One cold morning, her aunt summoned her again, this time, with a smirk on her painted lips.
"You're getting married."
Selene said nothing.
"Your husband is Alpha Aeron of Blackridge. A powerful man. Respected. Feared. He serves on the King's court and commands over five hundred warriors."
The name struck nothing in Selene's memory. He hadn't been part of her last life.
"Why me?" she asked quietly.
"He needs a Luna. And your lineage suits his rank. Don't overthink it."
And that was it. Her fate, once again, sealed in silence.
The wedding was a blur. Selene wore silver instead of white a gown stitched in cold tones that matched her groom's demeanour.
Alpha Aeron was tall, sharp-jawed, and distant. His eyes were like chipped ice, barely meeting hers during the vows. He did not kiss her. He did not speak to her unless necessary.
Their union was a contract, not a bond.
The Blackridge estate was colder than Nightshade, both in stone and spirit. The servants were rigid, the halls were quiet, and Aeron's room remained locked. He had moved her into a separate wing altogether. It was extremely lonely, she was like a ghost lingering in the estate.
Some days, she forgot she was even married.
She didn't mind. She hadn't come here for love. She hadn't come here for anything at all. Her only mission, buried deep inside her numb mind, was simple:
Survive.
But fate had a cruel sense of humour.
It began with a wound.
Aeron had returned from a skirmish near the border, bloodied, limping. He ignored her as usual, but Aria didn't.
Yes, Aria.
She had weaselled her way into Blackridge as a court healer, elegant, radiant, and adored by all. The same sister who always shined under the moonlight while Selene was left in the shadows.
Selene watched from the upper balcony as Aria gently wrapped Aeron's arm in linen, her laughter like a soft wind through the bitter walls.
He smiled.
For the first time, Selene saw him smile.
And it wasn't for her.
It grew quickly after that, the closeness, the quiet whispers, the late-night visits. Selene didn't confront him. What was the point? She had learned long ago that love, if not freely given, was never worth begging for.
But the nightmares returned, flashes of Lucian, of blood dripping from his sword, of cold rain falling on her corpse. She would wake up gasping, and no one would come.
Not even her wolf stirred. The bond with Aeron had never been complete.
One night, the estate was attacked.
It was chaos, rebels from the outer territories had breached the northern gates. Fire roared through the eastern wing. Guards shouted. Swords clashed.
Selene rushed through the smoke, searching, not for Aeron, but for the terrified servants she had come to know.
She found a maid cornered by a rogue and used a broken vase to bash his skull in. Her hands trembled, but she didn't stop.
But then she saw them.
Through the cracked doorway, she saw Aeron, bloodied and breathless, gripping Aria's waist as he lifted her into the escape carriage. Her eyes wide, dress torn.
"Aeron!" Selene cried.
He turned.
Their eyes met.
And for a brief second, she thought he would come for her. That maybe, just maybe, he remembered the vow he made, even if it had been cold.
But he didn't move.
Instead, he turned back to Aria and shut the carriage door.
The wheels rolled forward. The horses galloped away.
And Selene stood there, in the fire and ash, forgotten again.
She didn't scream. She didn't cry.
She simply walked back into the estate.
Flames licked at the walls. The roof began to collapse.
And she stood beneath it, head high, eyes empty.
If death wanted her again, then so be it.
Let this be the last time.