Chapter 3: Dangerous Whispers
1650words
Dr. Mercer arrived at three o'clock—a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses and cold hands. His examination was clinical and impersonal, as if inspecting furniture rather than a person.
"The stitches are holding well," he announced. "No signs of infection."
I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling my blouse down. After Martha had left, I'd changed into clothes from the wardrobe—simple black pants and a cream silk blouse that felt foreign against my skin.
"Dr. Mercer," I began carefully, "can you tell me more about the accident? About my injuries?"
He busied himself packing instruments. "You suffered a concussion, lacerations to your left side, and minor contusions. The amnesia is not uncommon with head trauma."
"And the wound on my side? It doesn't look like something from a car accident."
His hands stilled momentarily. "The impact shattered your driver's side window. A glass shard caused the laceration."
The explanation sounded rehearsed. "Was anyone else involved?"
"No," he said too quickly. "You were alone in the car."
"And my wedding? I collapsed during the reception?"
Dr. Mercer snapped his bag shut. "Yes. Against medical advice, you insisted on proceeding with the ceremony."
"But why would I insist on marrying someone when I was injured?"
His eyes met mine briefly before sliding away. "That's a question for your husband, Mrs. Thorne."
"And the blood on my dress? There was so much—"
"As I said," he cut me off, "you tore your stitches. I've left pain medication with Martha." He moved toward the door. "I'll return in three days."
"Wait," I called. "My memory—will it come back?"
Dr. Mercer paused. "Most likely, yes. In fragments at first. Sometimes the mind buries traumatic events for a reason."
With that cryptic statement, he was gone, leaving me alone with my suspicions.
As afternoon faded into evening, I tested the bedroom door again. To my surprise, it opened. Either Martha had forgotten to lock it, or someone had decided I could be trusted with limited freedom.
The hallway was dimly lit, lined with oil paintings of stern-faced Thorne ancestors. I moved quietly, passing several closed doors before reaching a grand staircase. I descended slowly, half-expecting someone to appear and order me back. But no one came.
A faint sound drew my attention—voices coming from somewhere to my right. I moved toward them, reaching a partially open door. Warm light spilled from the crack, along with Damian's voice.
"—doesn't remember anything," he was saying. "Mercer confirmed it."
"And you believe him?" Jackson replied. "Convenient timing, brother."
I inched closer, careful to stay hidden.
"There's nothing convenient about it," Damian snapped. "The accident complicated everything."
"Did it?" Jackson's tone was mocking. "Or did it solve your little problem? A wife who doesn't remember investigating you, doesn't remember the evidence she gathered, doesn't remember what she knows about the pact—"
"Enough." Damian's voice dropped to a dangerous growl. "What happened to Elena was unfortunate, but it changes nothing. The blood moon is coming. The ritual will proceed as planned."
Blood moon. Ritual. The words triggered a flash of something—moonlight stained red and shadows moving through trees.
"And what about Victor?" Jackson asked. "He'll come for her when he finds out."
"Victor has no claim on her," Damian said. "The marriage is legal and binding. She's mine now."
"By law, perhaps," Jackson replied. "But human laws mean nothing when it comes to the pact. Three alphas, one mate. That was the agreement."
Alphas. Mate. The strange terminology made my head throb.
"Victor broke the agreement when he tried to take her by force," Damian growled. "I did what was necessary to protect what's mine."
"What's ours," Jackson corrected.
"I haven't forgotten anything," Damian finally said. "But circumstances have changed. Elena is vulnerable now. She needs protection."
"She needs the truth," Jackson countered.
"The truth would destroy her. No, brother. For now, we maintain the story. She's my wife, recovering from a tragic accident. Nothing more."
"And when her memory returns?" Jackson asked.
"If that happens," Damian said, "I'll deal with it."
My heart hammered. Investigating you. Evidence she gathered. Was I an investigative reporter? What was this pact?
I was so absorbed that I failed to notice approaching footsteps until a hand clamped over my mouth from behind. I was pulled backward against a solid chest.
"Not a sound," a woman's voice whispered—not Martha's, but younger, with a faint accent. "Unless you want them to know you're eavesdropping."
I nodded slightly, and the hand eased. The woman spun me around—tall and lithe, with close-cropped dark hair.
"This way," she said, gesturing toward a narrow corridor. "Quickly."
She led me through servants' passages to a greenhouse attached to the main house—a riot of plants and flowers under glass.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Iris," she said simply. "I tend the gardens."
"You're not just a gardener," I said.
A smile flickered across her face. "No. And you're not just Damian Thorne's amnesiac bride."
"You know who I am?"
"We've met before," she confirmed. "Three times. Though you introduced yourself differently each time."
"What do you mean?"
Iris moved to a workbench. "The first time, you were Lisa Coleman, journalist for Metropolitan Magazine. The second time, you were Ellie Chambers, researching a book on wealthy families. The third time..." She glanced up. "The third time, you told me your real name."
"What is it? What's my real name?"
"Elena Collins is your real name," she said.
"So Elena Collins really is my true name?" I asked.
"Yes," Iris confirmed. "The others were covers. You're an investigative journalist specializing in exposing corruption. You came here hunting a story about the Thorne family's... unusual business practices."
"What kind of business practices?"
"The kind that have made three men—Damian Thorne, his brother Jackson, and their former partner Victor Blackwood—wealthy beyond imagination."
Victor Blackwood. The name sent a jolt of recognition through me. "The third alpha," I murmured.
Iris's hands stilled. "You remember something."
"No, I—I overheard Damian and Jackson talking about three alphas and some kind of pact."
"The Three Wolves Pact. An agreement made between three very dangerous men."
"What does this have to do with me?"
"Everything. Your role is far greater than even they understood when you first came here."
She traced a pattern on my palm—three interlocking spirals. The touch sent an electric shock up my arm, and another fragment of memory surfaced: the same symbol drawn in blood on a stone altar, moonlight filtering through trees.
I jerked my hand away. "What was that?"
"A trigger to help you remember. Your memories aren't gone, Elena. They're locked away."
"Why are you helping me?" I asked, suddenly suspicious. "Who are you really?"
"Someone who recognizes the danger you're in," she replied. "Damian Thorne didn't marry you because he fell in love with a journalist. He married you because of what you are—what's in your blood."
"My blood?" I echoed.
"Moon blood. It's rare—one in a million. Those born with it can either empower the pact or break it entirely. That's why all three want you."
"What should I do?" I asked, surprising myself with how readily I believed her. Perhaps it was desperation, or perhaps some buried instinct recognized truth when I heard it. Whatever the reason, something told me that among all the lies in this house, Iris was offering me a rare glimpse of reality.
"For now, play the part," Iris advised. "Meanwhile, look for your journal."
"My journal?"
"You kept one—detailed notes on everything you discovered. Find it, and you'll find your way back to yourself." She glanced toward the door. "You need to return now."
"Come," Iris whispered, leading me back across the greenhouse toward the servants' corridor. At the entrance to the passage, she pressed something into my palm—a small key on a silver chain.
"For the locked drawer in your nightstand," she whispered. "Damian locked your journal inside and believes he has the only key. Check it when you're certain you're alone."
With that, she disappeared back into the greenhouse, leaving me to find my way through the servants' passages and back to my gilded cage.
I made it back to my room undetected, slipping inside just as I heard footsteps approaching down the main hallway. Moments later, a knock sounded at my door.
"Elena?" Damian called. "May I come in?"
I quickly tucked the key beneath my pillow. "Yes," I called.
Damian entered, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," I said. "Dr. Mercer says I'm healing well."
"Would you feel up to joining me for dinner? In the small dining room rather than having trays brought up here."
An opportunity to see more of the house. "I'd like that."
"Good." He smiled, and for a moment, I glimpsed what might have attracted me to this man—the charm beneath the cold exterior. "I've missed your company."
"Have you?" I couldn't keep the skepticism from my voice.
"You don't believe me."
"I don't know you," I countered. "Or at least, I don't remember knowing you."
"Then perhaps dinner is a chance to start again," he suggested, extending his hand. "Hello, I'm Damian Thorne. And you're my wife, Elena."
Despite everything I'd just learned, I found myself taking his hand.
"Nice to meet you, Damian," I said, playing along. "Though I have to say, this is the strangest first date I can imagine."
Damian laughed, the sound rich and genuine, transforming his severe features into something almost boyish.
As he led me from the room, I couldn't help but wonder what game we were really playing. The pieces were forming a bizarre picture in my mind—the howling at night, the "Three Wolves Pact," talk of "Alphas" and "Mate."
Behind that charming smile lurked a predator. Tonight I'd play his docile wife. But when the mansion slept, I'd hunt for the truth he'd locked away.
