The Alpha's Unclaimed Mate (Jason and Laila) by Caroline Above Story novel Chapter 49

Chapter 49

Laila’s POV

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During the next break in our continued meetings, my feet carried me to the garden. I’d told myself I wouldn’t go there again. That it was too dangerous, with too many memories waiting to ambush me around every comer.

But here I was anyway. Always circling back.

The roses were in full bloom. Pink and white, climbing the trellis exactly as they had six years ago. Someone had been taking care of them—pruning them, feeding them, making sure they thrived.

I wondered if Jason did it himself or if he’d assigned someone. Either option hurt.

The stone bench felt cool under my hand. I remembered Jason proposing we carve our initials here once. I’d laughed and told him that was too cliché, too obvious. Someone would see.

“Then let them see,” he’d said. “I want everyone to know you’re mine.”

But we’d never carved those initials. Never got the chance.

This was where he first kissed me. Right here by this bench. We’d been arguing about something stupid–probably pack politics or his refusal to acknowledge our relationship publicly–and then suddenly he was kissing me and nothing else mattered. 3

The world had narrowed to just us. His hands in my hair. My back against the trellis, roses dropping petals around us like snow.

“I love you,” he’d whispered against my lips. “I don’t care that you’re human. I don’t care what anyone says. You’re mine, Laila. You’ll always be mine.”

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I’d believed him. God, I’d believed every single word.

Lies. All of it lies.

He’d chosen Brittany the moment the mate bond snapped into place. Forgot every promise. Every whispered declaration of

forever.

I forced my feet to walk out of the garden. I’d spent too much time out here already. The memories were haunting, and I’d rather forget them.

I just entered back into the main building when I say her. Ms. Agnes.

The elderly woman who’d practically raised both Jason and me growing up. She was moving slowly now with a cane, her frame so much frailer than I remembered.

Time had carved deep lines into her face. Stolen the color from her hair. But her eyes–those eyes I’d recognize anywhere. Something urged me to turn around, run before she could spot me. Every survival instinct I possessed screamed at me to disappear. But I couldn’t move. My feet had grown roots.

Her eyes lifted–cloudy with age but still sharp underneath—and suddenly lit up with recognition.

“Laila!” Her voice rang out, cracked but delighted. Joy transformed her weathered features. “Sweet Laila, you’ve come back!”

My blood turned to ice.

Arms trembling–that’s what I noticed first. Ms. Agnes shuffled toward me, weathered face streaming tears. Joy radiated from every wrinkle like sunlight through cracked glass.

“Laila! My sweet girl!”

Something cracked. Right there in my chest cavity.

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Run. Every Instinct screamed it. Vanish before this moment detonated six years of careful construction.

My feet? Absolutely immobile, They were practically cemented to the floor.

Her gnarled fingers reached desperately needing to touch, to confirm reality. “Where’ve you been, sweetheart? We’ve missed you so much. I’ve been waiting. Every day I look for you. Every single day.”

Suddenly, a caretaker appeared from around the corner and rushed forward, apologetic panic scrawled across her features. “I’m so sorry, miss. Ms. Agnes sneaked away from me just now. She has advanced Alzheimer’s. She confuses people constantly. Yesterday she mistook me for her sister who passed away about twenty years back. The day before that, she thought the mailman was her husband.”

Relief should’ve flooded me. The perfect excuse was right there. Medical explanation wrapping everything in innocent

confusion.

Ms. Agnes patted my hand gently, lost somewhere in her own reality. “You seerp sad. Did Jason upset you? Don’t let him bother you, dear. He’s always been such a rascal. Always getting into trouble, that one. But he has a good heart underneath it all. You remember that, won’t you? He loves you, even if he doesn’t always know how to show it.”

“I’m sorry,” the caretaker said again and gently eased Ms. Agnes away.

“Thank you, Ms. Agnes,” I said, unsure what else to say as I watched the caretaker lead Ms. Agnes away. As she turned her head from me, it was like I was forgotten again. Her eyes went back to being lifeless.

My heart ached with grief and nostalgia.

Seeing Ms. Agnes and having been recognized by her made me feel like a teen again.

Looking around, I realized where I was. How close to the residential part of the house.

To Jason’s room.

Turn back. Stay in public spaces. Don’t be stupid.

But something magnetic pulled me forward. Some invisible thread I couldn’t cut no matter how hard I tried.

Jason’s door appeared before I could stop myself.

This was insane. Dangerous beyond measure. Completely idiotic.

Yet my fingers moved independently. Typing in the old code from pure muscle memory. 1

4-7-2-8.

The lock disengaged with a soft click.

My breath stopped completely. He’d kept the same code. Six years later, nothing had changed.

I pushed the door open slowly. Stepped across the threshold into forbidden territory.

Everything looked identical. His scent slammed into me immediately–pine and leather and that indefinable something that belonged only to Jason. It wrapped around me like coming home after years lost in the wilderness.

I’d forgotten how much I missed that smell.

His bed was made with military precision. Desk organized meticulously. Everything exactly where it belonged.

Then I spotted the shelf.

It used to be empty. Now it held treasures that made my chest physically ache.

I approached like I was defusing a bomb. One wrong move and everything would explode.

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The bookmark I’d made in high school. Construction paper and peritianent markers. Childish artwork, sincere effort. The edges showed wear, like he’d actually used it regularly.

A photograph. Both of us at some pack–bonfire. I’m laughing at something he’d said He’s watching me with this expression- like I’d hung every star in the sky personally.

I’d completely forgotten that photo existed.

The scarf I’d knitted during winter break. My absolute first attempt at knitting. Riddled with mistakes and dropped stitches. He’d worn it anyway, claimed it was perfect.

Now it sat folded carefully. Preserved like something precious.

A dried flower. From the garden where we’d kissed. I’d picked it nervously while babbling about botanical classifications to cover my awkwardness. He’d taken it from my trembling hand, tucked it behind my ear, and leaned in.

My knees gave out.

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