Pursuing My Rejected Luna by Cara Anderson novel Chapter 235

Ch. 7

Noah

“That’s not funny, Sera!” I chuckle weakly, still not believing She truly thinks I have RMS. “I feel like shit, doc. This isn’t the time for joking around.”

She holds my gaze, but her sympathetic expression never leaves. “I know that, Noah. I wish it were a joke, but it’s not.”

“What?” I scoff, still not convinced this isn’t some elaborate ruse. But her scent thickens, souring with her distress, and I know that can’t be faked. “The symptoms match?” I confirm, just to be sure I heard her correctly.” The temperature regulation, the brain fog?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“The headaches?”

“Early neurological involvement. Yes.” She reaches for my hand, giving it a squeeze. “All your symptoms are consistent.” She opens the folder now. “These are early stage,” she explains. “The condition advances.”

“To what?” I’m pretty sure I already know the answer but I need to hear her say it.

She tells me everything. It takes several minutes and she doesn’t soften it, which I’m grateful for even as I’m less grateful for the information itself. Progressive neurological deterioration. Organ failure in the later stages. Variable timeline-some wolves lasted years, some months, the historical record is inconsistent. She tells me clearly and without emotion and I try to receive it the same way. I can break down later.

“What’s the treatment?” I ask when she finishes her very thorough, very dismal description of what my future holds.

“There is only one confirmed path,” she states.

“Great! No need to waste time weighing my options then. What is it and how soon can I start?”

“Noah,” just the way she says my name tells me I’m not going to like what she says next, “reunion with the fated mate and completion of the bond is the only viable option. In every documented case where reunion occurred before severe deterioration, the syndrome arrested fully.” She pauses to let me digest. “The evidence on this is consistent.”

“And if that’s not possible,” My voice is muted, full of defeat.

“There is one documented case of a chosen mate bond arresting the progression.” She says it carefully, willing me not to get my hopes up. “Sixty years ago. One wolf survived the syndrome through bonding a chosen mate rather than the fated one. He lived another forty years.”

“One case,” I repeat.

“One documented case,” she confirms. “There may be others. The condition is rare enough that the records are incomplete-wolves who didn’t know what they had, wolves who recovered through reunion without understanding what happened.” She closes the folder. “I’m not recommending the chosen mate path. I don’t have sufficient evidence to recommend it as a reliable treatment. I’m giving you the full picture.”

“I understand.” I nod, standing to leave.

“Noah.” She calls out before I get too far and I stop, but don’t turn. “I need to ask-is reunion a possibility?”

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“No,” I answer. It comes out flat and certain. “It’s not.”

Mankfully, she doesn’t push it. “Then we manage the progression and monitor closely. You come to me every two weeks. You tell me immediately if symptoms worsen or new ones develop.” She pauses, then adds, “And you tell someone in your life what’s happening.”

“I need you not to tell anyone,” I do turn around now, piercing her with my stare.

“Of course I won’t.” she assures me. “You’re my patient. I need your informed consent to share your medical information, which I won’t give without it.” She holds my gaze. “But Noah-I’m going to ask you, every time we speak, whether you’ve told someone. Because you should.”

“I know,” and I will. “But not yet.”

“Not yet,” she agrees. “For now.”

“Thank you,” I say, then walk out the door. Because what else is there?

I drive back to the Alpha house in the dark. Park, sit in the car.

The temperature thing makes more sense now. The headaches make more sense. Everything makes absolute, terrible sense, now that the puzzle pieces have come together.

Even the bond I rejected-which I told myself I couldn’t feel anymore, which I had decided was gone, which I had not permitted myself to examine in six months-makes more sense.

It’s not gone like I’d hoped. It’s still there. Causing this. Because apparently my heart wasn’t enough for her. Cassandra Winters won’t be done until she’s taken everything from me. That’s what she does, takes until there is nothing left.

My phone buzzes, startling me out of my downward spiral.

Cole: Still at the office. Everything alright?

I could text him back but instead, I call. I’m going to need to get really good at pretending I’m fine. Might as well

start now.

“Hey,” he says when he picks up. “Long day?”

“Medical appointment. I’m fine.” Some version of the truth is probably better than an outright lie.

“Okay.” He says it in the tone that means he doesn’t believe me and has decided to let it go for now.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say before he decides to probe further.

“Yeah,” he says. “Get some sleep.”

I hang up. I get out of the car. Go inside and sit at my desk and open my laptop. Type: Rejected Mate Syndrome historical records.

I read for four hours. By the time I’m done, I understand what I didn’t before.

Things I wish I didn’t need to understand.

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