Unmatched Wife: Not His To Claim Anymore novel Chapter 5

Chapter 5

“Alpha Morrison, did you hear what I said? Your mate could die. At minimum, she’ll be severely weakened for months, possibly years. She’ll need to stop working, stop all strenuous activities. The toll on her body will be immense.”

“I heard you.” Matthew’s voice was steel now. “But Mia will die without this, correct? The Feral Lupin Phase 2 will eventually—”

“Eventually, yes. But we’re talking years, not months. With proper management, Ms. Mia Roberts could live a relatively normal life for quite some time. This cure isn’t urgent—”

“But it would cure her completely.”

“Yes, but—”

“Then we do it.” Final. Absolute. The Alpha voice he used when giving commands that wouldn’t be questioned. “Bianca will understand. She’s a healer—she took an oath to save lives. And if she doesn’t…” He paused, and I heard something cold enter his voice. “Then I’ll owe her. I’ll give her whatever she wants. But I won’t risk Mia’s chance at being completely safe, at living without this disease hanging over her.”

He’d never said my name with such casual dismissal before. Like I was a tool to be used, a resource to be negotiated with. Not a person. Not his wife. Not the mother of his child.

Certainly not someone whose life mattered as much as Mia’s comfort.

“I need to consult with your Luna directly,” Dr. Hartwick said, his voice uncomfortable now. “Medical ethics require—”

“I’ll handle Bianca. You just prepare for the procedure. How long will the treatments take?”

“Six to nine months of intensive sessions. Three times a week, minimum. Each session will last several hours and will leave your mate extremely weak. She’ll need bedrest between treatments, careful monitoring. The strain on her body will be—”

“She’s strong. She’ll manage.” Matthew’s voice was distant now, already moving on to logistics.

“What else do we need?”

I couldn’t hear the rest. Couldn’t process the rest. Because my legs had finally remembered how to move, and I was stumbling backward, into Mrs. Finch’s apartment, closing the door as silently as I could manage with hands that shook so hard I nearly dropped the knob.

Mrs. Finch was asleep now, her breathing soft and labored. I stood there in her dim apartment, surrounded by photos of a life well-lived, and tried to remember how to breathe myself.

He’d do it anyway. Even knowing I could die. Even knowing it could destroy my healing abilities, could leave me damaged permanently. He’d made the decision without me, was already planning how to “handle” me, was treating my potential death as an acceptable risk to cure a disease that wasn’t immediately fatal.

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that he was right about one thing.

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