POV Blake
Two months of playing dead will fuck with your head.
I'm sitting in the back of a Mercedes that costs more than most people's houses, Amelia's diary pressed against my chest like the world's most depressing security blanket.
Outside the tinted windows, Bloodmoon territory slides by. All ancient pines and mountain views that would be gorgeous if I wasn't about to commit identity fraud on a massive scale.
My sister is currently laying in the ground under my name. Blake Bishop, genetic disappointment, tragic accident victim.
Meanwhile, I'm wearing her face, her designer clothes, her entire fucking life and identity.
The transformation was brutal.
Nine weeks of Mom and Dad playing twisted Pygmalion, carving away everything Blake and sculpting perfect Amelia in her place.
Voice coaching until my throat bled. Movement analysis until I could replicate her walk down to the millimeter. Facial expression drills that would make method actors weep.
"Remember," Mom says from the front seat, not bothering to look back, "one mistake and you expose us all."
No pressure or anything.
The diary weighs a thousand pounds in my hands. I've memorized every entry, absorbed every detail about Matthias Henderson until I could write his biography.
According to Amelia: intelligent, honorable, surprisingly gentle for an Alpha, skilled in combat, strategic thinker, has a weakness for chocolate chip cookies.
She wrote about him like a political dossier with occasional human moments. Respectful but distant. Which tracks that their whole arrangement was about as romantic as a tax return.
She wrote about me too. Constantly.
‘Blake made me laugh until I cried today, doing impressions of Father during his morning rants.’
Or ‘I wish I could take Blake with me to Bloodmoon where she'd finally be safe. She deserves so much more than what our family gives her.’
Plot twist: she left me with something worse.
The car slows. We're here.
Time to put on the greatest performance of my pathetic life.
Beta Zack meets us at the pack house entrance, and holy shit, he's exactly like Amelia described.
Tall, broad, that easy confidence that comes from knowing you could rip someone's throat out but choosing not to. His smile is genuinely warm as he approaches.
"Amelia! You look beautiful."
I shift into character like slipping on a second skin.
Amelia's smile, Amelia's graceful movements, Amelia's voice: "Zack! It's wonderful to see you again."
He pulls me into a hug that nearly breaks character because Amelia didn't mention he was a hugger. I manage to return it with the right amount of familiar warmth.
"How was the drive? Did you see the new solar panel installation on the way in? I remember you mentioning sustainable energy at our last— Oh, and that reminds me of that time you absolutely destroyed Sam in the debate about pack economics. What was it you said about resource allocation?"
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
This wasn't in the diary. Some random conversation from god knows when that I have zero context for.
I can feel Mom tense behind me, ready to intervene, but I need to handle this or—
Amelia's laugh bubbles up, perfect in its dismissive warmth.
"Oh god, don't remind me. I was probably showing off terribly. You know how I get about sustainability."
It's vague enough to work, and Zack chuckles, moving on. But then Mom steps forward with impeccable timing.
"Beta Zack, we're so grateful for your pack's patience during our time of mourning." Her voice drips manufactured sorrow. "These months have been... difficult."
His expression shifts to sympathy, and suddenly I want to be anywhere else.
"Of course. Amelia always spoke so warmly about her twin sister. She wanted to introduce Blake to us all." His voice softens. "Such a tragedy that the Moon Goddess called her home so young."
I stand there in my dead sister's skin while people offer condolences for my own death. There's probably a German word for this level of fucked up.
"Blake was..." I start, then have to stop because what do you say about yourself in past tense? "She was everything to me."
At least that's true.
* * *
The wedding ceremony happens at moonrise because werewolves are dramatic bitches who love their symbolism. Pack members fill the clearing, all dressed in formal wear that somehow manages to be both elegant and predator-ready.
Then I see him.
Matthias stands at the altar like every dark romance novel come to life.
Six-foot-something of pure Alpha energy, dark hair, shoulders that could carry the world or crush it. But it's his eyes that stop me cold—intense green that seems to see straight through every lie I've ever told.
But that's not what makes me stumble.
It's the pull.
The moment our eyes meet, something inside me, something I didn't even know existed, reaches out toward him like a magnet finding north. My whole body goes hot then cold then hot again.
What the absolute fuck?
I force myself to keep walking, to maintain Amelia's serene smile, but inside I'm screaming.
This. Wasn't. In. The diary.
Amelia never mentioned feeling like she'd been struck by lightning, never wrote about this overwhelming need to get closer, closer and closer…
Must be nerves. Or terror.
Or my complete lack of experience with actual attractive men who aren't related to me or trying to beat my ass in training.
The ceremony blurs. Words about unity and strength and blessed bonds. His hands are warm when he takes mine, and that pull intensifies until I can barely breathe.
When the officiant tells him to kiss his bride, I brace for impact.
I am not prepared.
His lips touch mine and the world explodes. Every nerve ending lights up like Christmas, that strange pull snapping into place like a lock finding its key.
I gasp against his mouth, and he deepens the kiss, one hand cupping my face with devastating gentleness.
When we break apart, his eyes are dark with something I don't understand. But there's no time to analyze because everyone's cheering and we're being swept into celebrations and holy shit… I just married my dead twin sister's fiancé.
Later, in a bedroom that probably costs more to decorate than most people's yearly salary, reality crashes back.
This is the wedding night. We're supposed to... yeah.
I stand there in lingerie that Mom picked out (there's more therapy needed), trying to channel Amelia's confidence while my hands shake.
Matthias's watching me from the bed, still in his partially unbuttoned shirt, and that pull is getting stronger.
"Are you alright?" His voice is gentle. "We don't have to do anything you're not ready for."
The unexpected kindness nearly breaks me. I paste on Amelia's smile.
"I'm just nervous. It's been... a difficult few months."
He stands, moves closer, and I have to lock my knees to keep from swaying toward him. "I understand. Losing Blake... I can't imagine that kind of pain."
Oh, you really can't, buddy.
His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheek, and that pull intensifies until I'm drowning in it. "But tonight isn't about grief. Tonight is about us."
Right. Wedding night. Consummation. The whole deal.
Amelia's diary mentioned they'd discussed waiting until marriage—proper wolves saving themselves for their mates or whatever. Which means he thinks I'm a virgin.
Technically accurate, just not the virgin he's expecting.
I'm shaking like a chihuahua in a thunderstorm.
"I'll take care of you." His voice drops to something that makes my insides liquify. "We'll go slow."
He kisses me again, and it's different from the ceremony. Deeper, hungrier and full of promise. That strange pull explodes into need so intense it scares me.
My body responds like it knows his, reaching for him with a desperation I don't understand.
Mom’s pick lingerie (therapy, so much therapy) ends up on the floor. His hands, true to his words, are reverent and careful, treating me like something precious instead of the imposter he didn’t know I am.
When he touches me, that strange pull sings, drowning out every thought except closer, more, yes.
I do my best to channel what I think Amelia would do—confident but innocent, eager but inexperienced. But when we finally come together, when that pull snaps into place like the universe aligning, I forget about playing a role.
I forget everything except him.
Afterwards, he holds me like I might disappear, pressing kisses to my hair while I try to remember how to breathe.
My whole body hums with satisfaction and something else. Something that feels permanent, irreversible.
As I lie there in the dark, feeling him breathe against me, that pull settles into something warm and constant.
Like a rope tying me to him. Like a chain I'll never break.
Amelia never mentioned anything like this. Nothing about feeling like you'd found a missing piece of yourself, nothing about this bone-deep recognition that goes beyond attraction.
Which means I'm completely off script, in bed with my dead sister's husband, feeling things that might destroy everything.
Fantastic.