Chapter 6: The Truth Beneath the Blood

My lawyer friend called:

His voice was urgent, worried. I could hear the clatter of keys in the background.

"Derek, something’s off—your marriage license is fake! I checked your ID, and you’re listed as single. And your wife is weird. She was only found by the Langley family half a year ago, and her blood supposedly saved the Langley patriarch. Haven’t you noticed she’s been making you donate blood a lot?"

The words hit me like a punch. The room tilted. My breath came in short, shallow gasps.

"Also, remember Tom—the construction worker who fell? His death might not have been an accident. That’s all I can say. Be careful!"

The line went dead. I stared at the phone, mind racing. Nothing made sense anymore.

All the clues came together. I started shaking.

My hands trembled, sweat on my forehead. I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, the ground crumbling under me.

Alpha once told me he found me as a child. Before he left the country, furious, he’d already found leads on my birth parents. But then, we were ambushed by the rival pack.

I remembered the stories, the way Alpha’s eyes would darken when he spoke of the past. I’d always thought they were just old wounds. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

If all this was a setup, what kind of game was Savannah playing?

I tried to piece it together, but every answer led to more questions. My head spun.

Fighting my nausea, I carefully packed my books and collectibles, only to find an old, yellowed file among the scattered papers.

The file was thick, edges curled with age. My hands shook as I flipped it open.

It clearly stated that, twenty-six years ago, Mrs. Langley was kidnapped while pregnant by a rival pack. She died of hemorrhage after giving birth. The remote town where people were hidden was the same place where Alpha found me.

The words blurred before my eyes. I felt cold, numb. Was I the child in the story? Was everything I knew about myself a lie?

Looking at the photo of Mrs. Langley’s kind, familiar face, my heart tightened with anxiety.

She looked like someone I’d seen before—maybe in a dream. I pressed my palm to the image, wishing I could step through the page and ask her who I really was.

The first year I married Savannah, my lodge earnings easily paid for her school. But after her father died the second year, her expenses soared.

I started getting suspicious—credit card bills, new clothes, trips she never mentioned. She always had an excuse, but the numbers never added up.

At first, we saw each other once a month. Then she got obsessed with cosmetic tweaks. I thought it was just insecurity and tried to reassure her, but her face got stranger and stranger—like all the life was draining out of it.

She started coming home with bandages, bruises she blamed on accidents. Her smile faded, replaced by a cold, distant stare. I missed the girl I’d married.

We used to talk for hours, but after a while, all she wanted was for me to donate blood again and again. A few bags of candy and some half-hearted comfort—that was all she’d give me.

She’d sit beside me, scrolling through her phone, barely looking up. I felt like a ghost in my own home.