My Mate Tried to Kill Me for My Sister

I jolted upright, a silent scream tearing at my throat. My chest burned with phantom fire. I clawed at my collarbone, expecting to feel the gaping, bloody void where my wolf had been ripped from my soul. But my fingers met only smooth, unbroken skin.

I gasped for air, cold sweat dripping down my face. *Where am I?* The sharp, clinical scent of rosemary and rubbing alcohol hit my nose. I blinked against the harsh morning light, my vision slowly focusing on the pale green walls of the Ironcrest Pack infirmary.

I pressed both hands flat against my chest. Beneath my ribs, a warm, steady heartbeat answered. My wolf. She was whole. She was alive, pacing nervously in the back of my mind, whining with deep confusion.

Across the room, the pack healer, old man Gregory, was humming quietly. He was laying out silver extraction tubes and a heavy, runed scalpel on a metal tray. The instruments of my death.

I stared at the tray as the memory of my past life crashed into me. The agonizing wolf-essence transfusion. The cold, creeping numbness of my death while my fated mate marked my twin sister in the very next room. The Moon Goddess had sent me back. Back to the exact morning I was supposed to sign my life away.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Heavy, familiar Alpha boots, paired with a soft, dragging shuffle.

I closed my eyes and whispered to my inner wolf. *Never again.*

The door creaked open. Patrick Hamilton stepped inside. He was the Alpha heir of the Ironcrest Pack, carrying the prestigious Hamilton Lycan bloodline. He was also my fated mate. The man who had kissed me, claimed to love me, and then killed me.

Clinging to his arm was Savanna, my twin sister. She looked incredibly fragile, her body draped in an oversized sweater. Her pale face was buried in his shoulder, playing the part of the tragic, dying she-wolf to absolute perfection. Her inner wolf had gone dormant, and her human body was failing because of it.

Patrick guided her to a chair with sickening gentleness. Then, he turned to me. He placed a thick parchment on the small table beside my cot. The consent form.

"Claire," he said softly. His voice dripped with practiced sorrow. "It's time. I know this is hard, but you're doing the right thing. For family."

He looked like a devoted mate making a heartbreaking choice. But looking into his eyes now, the illusion was gone. I didn't see grief. I saw relief. He was just moments away from securing his perfect life: saving his secret obsession while keeping his fated mate as a convenient, broken shell.

I needed a new plan. Fast. My eyes darted to the supply shelf next to my bed. A small vial of blood-root tincture sat near the edge—a strong herbal stimulant used to spike the heart rate in emergencies.

I swung my legs over the side of the cot. "Okay," I whispered, letting