Ayra gasped.
Air rushed violently into her lungs.
She jerked upright in bed.
Her hands flew to her side.
Warm.
Dry.
No blood.
No wound.
She stared down at herself in confusion.
Her silver sleep dress was clean. Untouched. No tear. No stain.
Her breathing came fast and uneven.
Her room.
She was in her room.
The pale morning light filtered through the curtains exactly as it always did. The carved wooden dresser stood against the wall. The small table near the window held the same unfinished cup of tea she remembered leaving the night before the ceremony.
The ceremony.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
No.
No, that was wrong.
The ceremony had already happened.
The rejection.
The forest.
The blade.
Vincent's arms around her.
Her death.
She remembered dying.
Her body remembered it too.
Her side tingled as if pain still lingered there.
But there was nothing.
No scar.
No blood.
Her hands trembled.
"This isn't real," she whispered.
Her voice sounded normal.
Alive.
She swung her legs off the bed and stood up too quickly. The room tilted for a moment.
She caught herself against the wall.
Her heart refused to slow down.
This was a dream.
It had to be.
A nightmare brought on by humiliation.
But it had felt too real.
The pain had been real.
The cold had been real.
Vincent's voice,
She staggered toward the mirror.
Her reflection stared back at her.
Unharmed.
Pale.
Wide-eyed.
Alive.
Her fingers pressed against her side again.
Nothing.
No wound.
No weakness.
A sharp knock sounded at her door.
She flinched violently.
"Ayra?" a familiar maid's voice called gently. "Are you awake? The elders have requested your presence at breakfast."
Ayra's stomach dropped.
Breakfast.
The elders.
Her mind raced.
Breakfast with the elders happened one week before the ceremony.
Exactly one week.
Her knees felt weak.
She stumbled back toward the bed and sat down slowly.
No.
No, that was impossible.
She had already lived this week.
She remembered the dress fitting.
The whispers in the hallway.
The ceremony preparation.
She remembered every detail.
The maid knocked again. "Ayra?"
Her voice sounded exactly as it had that morning.
The same tone.
The same gentle impatience.
Ayra swallowed.
"What… what day is it?" she called out.
A short pause.
"Monday, of course. Seven days until the mating ceremony."
Her blood turned cold.
Seven days.
She gripped the edge of the bed.
This was not a dream.
It was too consistent.
Too clear.
Her heart pounded harder.
She had died.
She was certain of it.
She had felt her life leave her body.
So how was she here?
Her gaze snapped toward the small calendar on her desk.
The date matched exactly.
Seven days before the ceremony.
The first day of the final week.
Her breathing became shallow.
"No," she whispered.
Her hands began shaking uncontrollably.
She pressed them together to stop it.
Think.
Think clearly.
Maybe she had imagined the forest attack.
Maybe she fainted after the rejection.
Maybe Vincent had carried her back and she dreamed the rest.
But she remembered dying before the ceremony ended.
Before the rejection even finished.
No.
Wait.
The order of events blurred in her mind.
She closed her eyes tightly.
The rejection.
Running into the forest.
The attacker.
The blade.
Vincent's roar.
His arms.
Her death.
The darkness.
It was not a dream.
It was memory.
Sharp and vivid.
Her chest tightened.
The mate bond.
She gasped and pressed her palm against her sternum.
It pulsed.
Soft but steady.
Alive.
Just like before the ceremony.
Her breathing turned uneven again.
If the bond was alive…
Then the rejection had not happened yet.
Her eyes snapped open.
She leapt to her feet and rushed to the window.
From here she could see part of the courtyard.
Warriors trained as usual.
Guards rotated posts.
Normal.
Completely normal.
As if nothing had happened.
As if she had not died.
Her head spun.
"This isn't possible," she muttered.
A sudden thought struck her.
Vincent.
If this was real.
If time had somehow reset,
Then he would not remember.
She needed to see him.
She needed to confirm it.
Another knock sounded, softer this time.
"Ayra? We will be late."
"I'm coming," she said automatically.
Her voice sounded distant to her own ears.
She moved quickly now.
Changed clothes without thinking.
Her hands fumbled with the fabric.
Her mind replayed the attack over and over.
The man's voice.
"As ordered."
Ordered.
Someone had sent him.
That meant it was not random.
That meant it would happen again.
Her breath caught painfully.
If this week repeated,
Then she was in danger.
Real danger.
She forced herself to steady.
Panic would not help.
But her heart refused to calm.
She stepped into the hallway.
Everything looked exactly the same.
The same guards.
The same servants.
No one stared at her strangely.
No one looked shocked.
They greeted her normally.
"As you prepare to become Luna."
"As the Alpha's mate."
The words hit differently now.
Her stomach churned.
They had no idea.
She walked toward the main hall slowly.
Each step felt unreal.
When she reached the dining chamber doors, she paused.
Through the crack, she saw him.
Vincent.
Seated at the head of the long table.
Strong posture.
Calm expression.
Untouched by tragedy.
Alive.
Whole.
He looked exactly as he had seven days earlier.
Before everything shattered.
Before he rejected her.
Before she died in his arms.
Her throat tightened.
If he remembered,
He would look at her differently.
She pushed the door open.
Heads turned.
Vincent's eyes lifted.
They met hers.
For a long second, neither of them moved.
His expression remained controlled.
Neutral.
No recognition.
No fear.
No memory.
Just the calm acknowledgment of a mate he had not yet rejected.
Her heart sank and leapt at the same time.
He did not remember.
But that meant the week had truly restarted.
Which meant,
The attack would come again.
The rejection would come again.
And unless she changed something,
She would die again.
A wave of panic rose violently inside her.
Her fingers trembled at her sides.
Seven days.
Seven days to stop something she did not understand.
Seven days to prevent her own death.
And she had no idea how or why this was happening.
The room felt too small.
Too bright.
Too normal.
She forced herself to walk forward and take her seat.
Vincent watched her briefly.
There was something faint in his gaze.
Concern?
Or was she imagining it?
He looked away first.
The elders began speaking about ceremony preparations.
Their voices blended into noise.
Ayra barely heard them.
Her mind screamed only one thought.
I died.
And I will die again.
Unless I change everything.
Ayra gasped.
Air rushed violently into her lungs.
She jerked upright in bed.
Her hands flew to her side.
Warm.
Dry.
No blood.
No wound.
She stared down at herself in confusion.
Her silver sleep dress was clean. Untouched. No tear. No stain.
Her breathing came fast and uneven.
Her room.
She was in her room.
The pale morning light filtered through the curtains exactly as it always did. The carved wooden dresser stood against the wall. The small table near the window held the same unfinished cup of tea she remembered leaving the night before the ceremony.
The ceremony.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
No.
No, that was wrong.
The ceremony had already happened.
The rejection.
The forest.
The blade.
Vincent's arms around her.
Her death.
She remembered dying.
Her body remembered it too.
Her side tingled as if pain still lingered there.
But there was nothing.
No scar.
No blood.
Her hands trembled.
"This isn't real," she whispered.
Her voice sounded normal.
Alive.
She swung her legs off the bed and stood up too quickly. The room tilted for a moment.
She caught herself against the wall.
Her heart refused to slow down.
This was a dream.
It had to be.
A nightmare brought on by humiliation.
But it had felt too real.
The pain had been real.
The cold had been real.
Vincent's voice,
She staggered toward the mirror.
Her reflection stared back at her.
Unharmed.
Pale.
Wide-eyed.
Alive.
Her fingers pressed against her side again.
Nothing.
No wound.
No weakness.
A sharp knock sounded at her door.
She flinched violently.
"Ayra?" a familiar maid's voice called gently. "Are you awake? The elders have requested your presence at breakfast."
Ayra's stomach dropped.
Breakfast.
The elders.
Her mind raced.
Breakfast with the elders happened one week before the ceremony.
Exactly one week.
Her knees felt weak.
She stumbled back toward the bed and sat down slowly.
No.
No, that was impossible.
She had already lived this week.
She remembered the dress fitting.
The whispers in the hallway.
The ceremony preparation.
She remembered every detail.
The maid knocked again. "Ayra?"
Her voice sounded exactly as it had that morning.
The same tone.
The same gentle impatience.
Ayra swallowed.
"What… what day is it?" she called out.
A short pause.
"Monday, of course. Seven days until the mating ceremony."
Her blood turned cold.
Seven days.
She gripped the edge of the bed.
This was not a dream.
It was too consistent.
Too clear.
Her heart pounded harder.
She had died.
She was certain of it.
She had felt her life leave her body.
So how was she here?
Her gaze snapped toward the small calendar on her desk.
The date matched exactly.
Seven days before the ceremony.
The first day of the final week.
Her breathing became shallow.
"No," she whispered.
Her hands began shaking uncontrollably.
She pressed them together to stop it.
Think.
Think clearly.
Maybe she had imagined the forest attack.
Maybe she fainted after the rejection.
Maybe Vincent had carried her back and she dreamed the rest.
But she remembered dying before the ceremony ended.
Before the rejection even finished.
No.
Wait.
The order of events blurred in her mind.
She closed her eyes tightly.
The rejection.
Running into the forest.
The attacker.
The blade.
Vincent's roar.
His arms.
Her death.
The darkness.
It was not a dream.
It was memory.
Sharp and vivid.
Her chest tightened.
The mate bond.
She gasped and pressed her palm against her sternum.
It pulsed.
Soft but steady.
Alive.
Just like before the ceremony.
Her breathing turned uneven again.
If the bond was alive…
Then the rejection had not happened yet.
Her eyes snapped open.
She leapt to her feet and rushed to the window.
From here she could see part of the courtyard.
Warriors trained as usual.
Guards rotated posts.
Normal.
Completely normal.
As if nothing had happened.
As if she had not died.
Her head spun.
"This isn't possible," she muttered.
A sudden thought struck her.
Vincent.
If this was real,
If time had somehow reset,
Then he would not remember.
She needed to see him.
She needed to confirm it.
Another knock sounded, softer this time.
"Ayra? We will be late."
"I'm coming," she said automatically.
Her voice sounded distant to her own ears.
She moved quickly now.
Changed clothes without thinking.
Her hands fumbled with the fabric.
Her mind replayed the attack over and over.
The man's voice.
"As ordered."
Ordered.
Someone had sent him.
That meant it was not random.
That meant it would happen again.
Her breath caught painfully.
If this week repeated,
Then she was in danger.
Real danger.
She forced herself to steady.
Panic would not help.
But her heart refused to calm.
She stepped into the hallway.
Everything looked exactly the same.
The same guards.
The same servants.
No one stared at her strangely.
No one looked shocked.
They greeted her normally.
"As you prepare to become Luna."
"As the Alpha's mate."
The words hit differently now.
Her stomach churned.
They had no idea.
She walked toward the main hall slowly.
Each step felt unreal.
When she reached the dining chamber doors, she paused.
Through the crack, she saw him.
Vincent.
Seated at the head of the long table.
Strong posture.
Calm expression.
Untouched by tragedy.
Alive.
Whole.
He looked exactly as he had seven days earlier.
Before everything shattered.
Before he rejected her.
Before she died in his arms.
Her throat tightened.
If he remembered,
He would look at her differently.
She pushed the door open.
Heads turned.
Vincent's eyes lifted.
They met hers.
For a long second, neither of them moved.
His expression remained controlled.
Neutral.
No recognition.
No fear.
No memory.
Just the calm acknowledgment of a mate he had not yet rejected.
Her heart sank and leapt at the same time.
He did not remember.
But that meant the week had truly restarted.
Which meant,
The attack would come again.
The rejection would come again.
And unless she changed something,
She would die again.
A wave of panic rose violently inside her.
Her fingers trembled at her sides.
Seven days.
Seven days to stop something she did not understand.
Seven days to prevent her own death.
And she had no idea how or why this was happening.
The room felt too small.
Too bright.
Too normal.
She forced herself to walk forward and take her seat.
Vincent watched her briefly.
There was something faint in his gaze.
Concern?
Or was she imagining it?
He looked away first.
The elders began speaking about ceremony preparations.
Their voices blended into noise.
Ayra barely heard them.
Her mind screamed only one thought.
I died.
And I will die again.
Unless I change everything.