Seraphina’s POV
The next few days passed in a blur of routine.
Training. Kids. Pack business. Repeat.
Damien had texted three days ago. Brief. Professional. Letting know he was alive and the border situation remained tense but manageable.
I’d read that ssage probably fifty tis. morized every word. Analyzed every punctuation mark for hidden aning.
Then nothing. Radio silence for seventy-two hours.
But I told myself it was fine. He was busy. Fighting. Leading. He’d texted when he could and that was enough.
I wasn’t his wife anymore. Wasn’t entitled to daily updates. Wasn’t supposed to care this much.
Except I did care. God help , I cared so much it was eating alive.
"Sera?" Jessica’s voice cut through my thoughts. "You’re doing it again."
I looked up from the training schedule I’d been staring at for twenty minutes without actually reading. "Doing what?"
"That thing where you zone out and look miserable." She sat on the edge of my desk. "What’s wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You’re a terrible liar." She crossed her arms. "Is it Damien?"
My phone sat on the desk. Face up. Mocking with its lack of notifications.
"He hasn’t checked in," I heard myself say. "Three days."
"Maybe he’s just busy."
"That’s what I keep telling myself." I picked up the phone. Set it back down. "But what if sothing happened? What if he’s hurt and I’m just sitting here assuming he’s fine?"
"If sothing serious happened, Lucas would tell you."
Would he? I wasn’t sure anymore. I wasn’t Luna. Wasn’t Damien’s wife. Just the estranged ex taking care of his kids.
Why would Lucas feel obligated to keep inford?
"You should call him," Jessica said. "Lucas. Ask directly."
"I can’t do that."
"Why not?"
"Because—" I stopped. Why couldn’t I? What was stopping besides pride? "I just can’t."
Jessica gave that look. The one that said she saw right through my bullshit. "You’re scared."
"I’m not scared."
"You’re terrified." Her voice softened. "Because if you call and sothing’s wrong, then it’s real. But if you don’t call, you can keep pretending everything’s fine."
Damn her for being right.
My phone buzzed.
I grabbed it so fast I nearly knocked over my coffee.
Not Damien. Claire.
**Claire: Council eting in an hour. Border supply update.**
I set the phone down harder than necessary.
"See?" Jessica stood up. "You need to either call Lucas or stop torturing yourself. Pick one."
She left. And I sat there staring at my phone like it held all the answers.
---
The Council eting was already in session when I arrived.
Elder Morrison droning on about supply chains. Elder Chen presenting logistics reports. Numbers and graphs that should have been important but just felt like noise.
I took my seat. Tried to focus. Failed completely.
My phone sat in my lap. Hidden under the table. Just in case.
"Luna?" Elder Morrison looked at . "Your thoughts on the dical supply shortage?"
I had no idea what he’d just said. "Sorry. Can you repeat the question?"
His frown deepened. "The shortage of antibiotics and surgical supplies. How should we prioritize allocation given the increased casualties at the border?"
Casualties. The word hit like a punch.
"How many casualties?" My voice ca out too sharp.
"Thirty-seven injured in the past week." Claire pulled up a report. "Thirteen killed in action. Including the attack four nights ago."
Four nights ago. When Damien had last texted.
My heart stopped. "What attack?"
The room went quiet. Everyone staring at .
"The ambush." Elder’s voice was careful. "At the northern camp. The rogues used traps to slow our patrols then hit them with overwhelming numbers."
"Damien—" I couldn’t finish. Couldn’t make my mouth form the words. "The Alpha. Was he—"
"Injured but stable." Claire’s response was quick. Firm. "He took multiple wounds but nothing life-threatening. He’s recovering at the forward base."
The room tilted. I gripped the edge of the table to keep from falling.
Injured. Multiple wounds. Recovering.
He was hurt. Had been hurt for four days. And nobody told .
"Why wasn’t I inford?" The question ca out cold. Deadly quiet.
"We assud you knew." Elder Morrison looked uncomfortable. "The Alpha’s mate is usually—"
"I need details." I forced myself to breathe. To stay calm. To not scream. "Everything. Now."
Claire pulled up more reports. Combat logs. dical assessnts. Casualty lists.
The ambush had been brutal. Coordinated. The rogues had surrounded the camp. Cut off escape routes. Targeted senior warriors.
Targeted Damien specifically.
He’d taken a rogue to the throat. Multiple lacerations to his torso. Deep wounds to his left side. Blood loss significant enough to require imdiate treatnt.
But he’d kept fighting. Kept leading. Kept his warriors alive even while bleeding out.
"He refused treatnt until everyone else was stabilized." Lucas’s report was clinical. Detached. "By the ti dical staff examined him, he’d lost approximately two pints of blood. Required forty-three stitches across six separate wounds."
Forty-three stitches.
My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the table. Tried to stop the trembling.
"He’s expected to make a full recovery." Claire continued. "The wounds are healing well. No signs of infection. He should be back on active duty within three to five days."
I grabbed my phone. Walked out before anyone could respond.
The hallway was empty. Cool. I leaned against the wall. Tried to breathe.
Four days. He’d been hurt for four days and I hadn’t known. Hadn’t even suspected.
I’d been going about my life. Training warriors. Making dinner. Reading bedti stories. While Damien was bleeding. Fighting. Nearly dying.
My phone was in my hand before I realized I’d pulled it out.
I should call Lucas. Demand more information. Get details about Damien’s condition.
My finger hovered over Lucas’s number.
Then I saw the other ssages. The ones I’d ignored. The ones Damien had sent before the ambush.
**Damien: I’m okay. Sorry for not checking in sooner.**
**Damien: Kids doing alright?**
**Damien: Tell them I miss them too. I’ll be ho soon.**
I typed out a ssage. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too.
What could I say? *Sorry I didn’t know you almost died because nobody told and I was too proud to ask?*
Or maybe: *I know we’re getting divorced but please don’t die because I don’t know how to explain that to the kids?*
Nothing felt right. Nothing captured the ss of emotions churning in my chest.
Finally, I just typed:
**: Claire just told about the ambush. Are you okay?**
Simple. Direct. Not too emotional. Not too distant.
I hit send before I could second-guess it.
The ssage showed as delivered. Then read almost imdiately.
He was awake. Looking at his phone. Probably lying in so tent sowhere with forty-three stitches holding him together.
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Finally, a response:
**Damien: I’m fine. Don’t worry.**
*Don’t worry.* Like that was possible. Like I could just turn off the fear that had been eating alive for days.
**: Forty-three stitches isn’t fine.**
**Damien: Could have been worse.**
**Damien: How are the kids?**
Always deflecting. Always redirecting to safe topics. Always protecting everyone else while ignoring his own pain.
**: They’re fine. They miss you.**
I hesitated. Then added:
**: I told them you’re okay. That you’ll be ho soon. Don’t make a liar.**
**Damien: I won’t. I promise.**
The conversation ended there. Nothing else to say. Nothing that wouldn’t make everything more complicated.
I shoved the phone in my pocket. Walked back toward my office. My legs felt weak. Unstable.
---
The drive ho was automatic.
Turn here. Stop there. Park in the driveway. Walk to the front door.
The house was too quiet when I entered. Mrs. Chen had already picked up the kids from school. Probably had them working on howork in the dining room.
I should check on them. Should ask about their day. Should be the present, attentive mother they deserved.
But my feet carried to the kitchen instead.
To the table where I’d left Damien’s letter.
It still sat there. Untouched. The envelope slightly dusty now from days of being ignored.
*Seraphina* written on the front in his handwriting.
*Please read this. It’s important.*
I’d walked past this letter every day for a week. Seen it every morning. Every night. Every ti I made dinner or grabbed a snack or sat with the kids for breakfast.
And every ti, I’d ignored it. Too angry. Too hurt. Too afraid of what it might say.
But now?
Now Damien was hurt. Bleeding. Fighting for his life while I sat here in safety.
And this letter—whatever it said—might be the last thing he ever wrote to .
I picked up the envelope. It felt heavy in my hands. Important.
My fingers traced over my na. That familiar scrawl. The way he’d written "Seraphina" probably hundreds of tis over the years.
My hand reached for it before my brain caught up.
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