"I may be your second chance, Wade, but I will not be your second choice."
Reeling from the death of his mate, Alpha Wade tried everything in his power to bring her back to life. So consumed with raising her from the dead, he almost missed his secon...
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TIME at the Training Grounds passed in a blur. Each day's schedule was different, but the feeling after each class and session was the same: exhaustion. In addition to the rigor of classes, I also had Amira's words toying with my mind.
While I knew I did not need to heed her advice, I couldn't help but wonder if I could, in some way, help bring Alpha Wade to his senses. Days passed, the number of people infected increased, and there was still no word from our Alpha.
If he was doing something to get to the bottom of Lupoxia, no one knew about it. Or, no one who would say anything knew about it.
And I couldn't help but feel like Spencer deserved better. Hell, the entire pack deserved better.
As time with Spencer's cousin quickly ran out, he had grown increasingly agitated, which was to be expected. Grief could do that to you—sneak up on you even when you thought you had it handled.
I tried my best to be there for Spencer, but watching him prepare for his cousin's funeral only brought up terrible memories from my past. Paralyzed in fear, I made an effort to at least mind link him once a day.
Growing restless after a particularly dull Training 101 lecture, I sauntered to the library. I had decided that rather than try and pry answers out of the elusive Alpha Wade, I was going to get my own answers about our bond through the good old text of ancient novels, which would maybe give some insight on the hold I had—or didn't have on Alpha Wade.
It took longer than I had anticipated to locate the library, but I chalked my lack of navigation skills to having missed the orientation. Spencer told me they had been handed a map of the facilities. A map I had not received.
Upon finally locating the library, I was able to walk in without notice. A lonely librarian sat near the front of the library, her head nuzzled in a book. She did not look up when I entered the room and the bell chimed.
The library was small yet expansive. Books covered the walls for as far as the eye could see, not a vacant spot in sight. Towering bookcases lined all the walls and created intricate paths in the main room. A few tables made out of the same wood as the bookshelves rested in the foyer of the building. No one else had chosen to spend their unexpected downtime in the library.
Weaving in and out of the bookcases, the bookshelves had been organized by category. I passed by Combat, Training, History, and many more different specialized sub-sections, but I did not find one—unfortunately—that had read Mate.
Much less did I find one that read Second Chance Mate.
To find the information I sought, I would have to roll up my sleeves and get my hands dirty, rummaging through countless books. Some of the books looked fresh off the press, while others were so tattered and frayed the spines were falling off. Every time I grabbed a book off the shelf, a subsequent cloud of dust would fill the air in its place.
