The Forgotten Pulse of the Bond Novel – The Daughter Who Should Have Died It had been ten years since her sister died. Ten years since the world stopped calling her “Alpha’s daughter” and started calling her a curse. And he was there again. Her father sat hunched on the bench across from Camille’s grave, a half-empty bottle of bourbon cradled between his calloused fingers. The wind tugged at his tattered coat, but he didn’t seem to notice.
His head lolled back against the splintered bench, grey eyes glazed, barely conscious. He looked like a relic worn down by guilt, drink, and the weight of too many years. Magnolia stopped a few feet away. She said nothing. She never did. There was no point. Then his voice came slurred, brittle, and cruel. “Why did she die… but not you?” Her throat tightened. It didn’t sting anymore not the way it used to. But something in her chest still caved a little, like a bruise being pressed over and over again. She crouched down in front of the headstone, ignoring the tremor in her fingers as she arranged the bouquet of lilies and wild sage she’d brought.
The marble was cracked. The engraving faded. But the name was still there. Camille Blake 2007–2017 Beloved daughter. Sister. Gone too soon. Gone, yes. But Magnolia had never really left that river either. She stood slowly, brushing her palms against her jeans, and turned away. She didn’t spare her father a glance. He was too deep in the bottle to even know she’d come. The walk back to the main road was longer than she remembered. Or maybe it just felt heavier. The wind had picked up, turning the trees into restless ghosts. Her wolf stirred beneath her skin not with power, but with quiet unease.
It always happened after a visit. That familiar ache. That buried shame. That reminder she no longer had a pack. She reached the edge of the woods just as the town’s lights blinked into view. St. Louis had been her sanctuary since she was eighteen, but nothing about it ever felt like home. Home was a lie she couldn’t afford to chase anymore. Beckett Winslow’s flower shop stood on the corner of Chestnut and Gray. The windows glowed warm with light. Inside, Magnolia could already see the mess ribbons everywhere, roses stacked in buckets, one of the cats sleeping in a basket full of dried lavender.
She pushed open the door. The chime jingled, and Beckett popped up from behind the counter, hands covered in pink petals and green wire. “Hey,” he said, flashing a grin. “You survived your annual guilt pilgrimage.” “I brought you sage,” she replied, dropping the bouquet on the counter. “Don’t say I never give you anything.” “Wonderful. Nothing like grief herbs to make the workspace feel festive.” She smirked, shedding her coat and stepping into the back room where the kettle was already on. Beckett had always known how to read her moods never asked too many questions. Just offered quiet kindness and black tea.
Magnolia sipped in silence. Outside, the sky was turning darker, the clouds pulling tight across the horizon like bruised skin. The house she lived in the one her parents left behind was just ten minutes away. Crumbling, fading, but still hers. Until the bank came for it. “I got another warning notice,” she said quietly. Beckett paused mid-trim. “You’re kidding.” “I have three days.” He exhaled, clearly restraining frustration. “You can’t keep doing this. This martyr routine. You could’ve sold it years ago.” “It’s the only thing I have left of them.” “You don’t even go upstairs anymore, Mags.” “That’s not the point.” Beckett didn’t argue.
He knew better. She returned home just after nine. The house creaked with every step, its bones as tired as hers. She lit a single candle in the front hallway, then curled into the old chair by the fireplace with her laptop balanced on her knees. She hadn’t checked her email in days. Most of it was spam. One from the bank. One from the city about overdue taxes.
And then… one with a gold-embossed header and her full name in the subject line. Her pulse stopped. From: Callahan Enterprises Subject: Invitation to Private Meeting She clicked it open, hands suddenly unsteady. Ms. Magnolia Blake,