Chapter 3 Echo Of A Future

A heavy silence settled over the room.

Dyana looked triumphant, though a flicker of suspicion marred her expression. Lysandra had surrendered far too quickly.

"Lysa... are you sure?" Dyana asked.

Maurice frowned. "Logan Montclair is a complete stranger. He lives isolated up in that cliffside estate... People say strange things about him and his relatives..."

"Every family has its secrets, Father," Lysandra replied smoothly, before adding, "But I do have one condition."

She turned to him, finally letting a flash of genuine emotion—a fierce, protective desperation—bleed into her gaze. "Grandma Lucylle comes with me."

"What?" Dyana blurted out. "Lysa, Grandma is sick! The climate up on that cliff is brutal, and the isolation—"

"Exactly because she's sick," Lysandra cut in, not even glancing at her sister. Her gaze remained locked on Maurice. "I am the one who takes care of her. I know every single one of her medications and every shift in her mood. Separating us now would be cruel to her, and irresponsible of me. Besides, it would do Mr. Montclair some good to show the island that he accepts not just a wife, but the family ties she brings with her. It proves he has the humanity people claim he lacks."

The argument was sharp. It played perfectly to Maurice's obsession with status and reputation. He stroked his beard, mulling it over.

"And if he refuses?" Dyana pressed, her mask of sisterly concern cracking just a fraction around the edges.

"He values his privacy. He only keeps two companions in that mausoleum of his... or so I've heard," she added, quickly looking away.

"Then there is no marriage," Lysandra declared. Her voice held a quiet, absolute finality that left no room for debate. "That is my one and only condition."

"And you'll just be left alone?" Dyana asked, her face twisted in distress.

Lysandra knew exactly what her sister was actually worried about. If Lysandra didn't have a suitor, their father would force Hunter to marry the eldest daughter to secure the future of House Dubois.

"Another suitor will come along. Even if I have to leave the island to find one," she said, turning back to her father with unwavering resolve. "Mr. Montclair's answer doesn't matter. I refuse to stand in the way of Dyana and Hunter's marriage."

Maurice stared at his eldest daughter as if seeing her for the very first time. There was a new, hardened strength to her—a steel he had never witnessed before. That, more than anything else, seemed to win him over.

"All right," he murmured, finally relenting. "I will send word to Mr. Montclair. I'll inform him of Dyana's match with Hunter, your choice of Logan, and your condition."

~~

The smell and taste of blood were the first things to hit him. Warm and sharply metallic, it flooded his mouth and coated his throat.

Then came the pain. A deep, piercing cold bloomed in his chest, draining the last dregs of strength from his limbs.

Finally, the faces materialized—Dyana's cruel smirk, Hunter's cold eyes as he drove the sword through his heart... and Lysandra. Her lilac eyes wide, but utterly unsurprised.

Logan jolted awake, a choked roar tearing from his throat. He lunged forward in his heavy leather office chair, his claws snapping out and shredding the thick armrests as if they were wet paper. He dragged in ragged, rapid breaths, his heart hammering violently against his ribs.

For a disorienting second, his own office—his ultimate sanctuary—felt completely alien. Late afternoon sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was the exact same light from the day he died, but... he was alive.

His chest still burned as if the blade were buried to the hilt, but when he checked, there was no wound...

The click of the office door opening sent him leaping to his feet, muscles coiled and ready to slaughter the traitors he had foolishly welcomed into his home. But the tension instantly drained from his shoulders when the fresh, salt-kissed scent of the sea hit his nose. It was Kael, his most loyal shadow.

"The choosing ceremony just wrapped up, and the bride made a demand—" Kael cut himself off, freezing in the doorway as he took in Logan's frantic state. He quietly shut the door and kept a respectful distance. His calm gray eyes swept the room, taking in the shredded chair, his boss's heaving chest, and the lingering, dangerous red glow in Logan's eyes. "Did you have an episode?"

"Those bastards tried to kill me!" Logan roared, his voice raw. His canines had fully descended, digging sharply into his lower lip. A boiling, feral rage clawed at his insides, threatening to rip through his skin and let the beast loose right there in broad daylight.

"Who exactly are you talking about?" Kael asked, tracking Logan as he paced the floor like a caged predator.

"Dyana. That treacherous woman I took as my wife. Her sister, and her brother-in-law—the ones I let into my home out of pity for their mourning."

"With all due respect, sir, you aren't married to anyone," Kael replied, using the slow, measured tone of someone explaining basic facts.

"The marriage contract with Lysandra Dubois won't be signed until next week. And that's only if you agree to her terms," he added.

"Have you lost your mind? I married Dyana a year ago—" Logan's voice abruptly died in his throat as his eyes locked onto Kael's neck. The skin was perfectly smooth. "What happened to the cut?"

"What cut?" Kael frowned, forcing himself to hold his ground when Logan—a man who despised physical contact—suddenly closed the distance, grabbed his shoulders, and intensely inspected his neck.

"The one you got earlier this week, when we inspected the factory," Logan muttered, speaking more to himself than to his bodyguard. "That's why you weren't at the lunch my damned wife dragged me to," he growled, his furious glare snapping back to the door. "Where are they? Where is Dyana and the rest of those bastards who tried to murder me?"

Kael firmly caught his boss by the arm before Logan could storm out into the hallway.

"Sir, I didn't get hurt last week, and we never went to the factory," Kael said calmly, though a flicker of genuine concern crossed his face—worry that the curse was finally rotting his Alpha's mind. "And you aren't married yet. I came in here specifically to tell you that Maurice Dubois's messenger just left. Lysandra Dubois chose you as her mate. But she demanded that her grandmother come live here with you."

The air punched out of Logan's lungs. He blinked hard, a violent wave of confusion washing over him as his vivid memories collided with Kael's words.

"What? No. That... that isn't right," he stammered, shaking his head as if he could physically dislodge the contradiction. "I married Dyana... We've been together for a whole year... And Lysandra... she helped them kill me."

Kael didn't flinch, though a deep crease formed between his brows.

"Sir, until yesterday, you didn't even know which of the Dubois sisters would be offered to you. It was just a nightmare. Probably brought on by the stress of your grandfather's dying wish and your condition."

"It wasn't a nightmare, Kael!" Logan's voice boomed, rattling the glass in the windows. "It was real. I lived through an entire year of it! Dyana was my wife on paper, but she was screwing Hunter behind my back. And Lysandra... she was always hovering around, reeking of that scent of hers..."

He sucked in a harsh breath, desperately trying to anchor himself. "They poisoned me. Slipped something into my food or my drink. And then Hunter drove his sword straight through my chest! I felt my life bleed out on the floor... I watched her stare into my eyes as I died... And then, suddenly, I woke up here!"

Kael silently studied his Alpha's agonized fury. No man could just invent that level of detail, or fake such visceral, bone-deep pain. But logic was logic.

"Logan, think about this," Kael urged gently. "If any of that actually happened, you'd be dead. I'd be planning your funeral right now, not your wedding. It's impossible."

"I know it's impossible!" Logan roared. His fists clenched so tight his claws bit into his own palms, sending the sharp tang of fresh blood into the air. "But it happened. It was as real as you standing in front of me right now."

"Maybe it's a side effect of the curse. Premonitions. Or hallucinations brought on by the stress of returning here and being forced into this marriage," Kael suggested, choosing his words with extreme care. "Your bloodline's connection to the moon and the cycle of life and death runs deep. What you saw... it could be an echo of a future that might have been, had the choices played out differently. In your vision, the bride was Dyana. But in reality, it's Lysandra."

Logan squeezed his eyes shut, the rigid tension slowly draining from his broad shoulders.

"Maybe," he finally grated out, his voice dropping to a low rumble as his claws slid back into his fingertips. "Maybe that's all it was. But the feeling... the absolute certainty of their betrayal... it's still burning in my veins."

"And what do you intend to do with this 'certainty'?" Kael asked, ever the pragmatist. "Lysandra Dubois chose you. Not Dyana. But she came with a condition. Her sick grandmother, Lucylle Sage, has to move into the estate with her. Are you going to accept this bride and her demand?"

Logan turned back to the window. Far below, the village lights were just beginning to flicker on against the gathering dusk, looking perfectly innocent.

Lysandra. The wolf in sheep's clothing. The woman who, in his "dream" or "premonition," had stood at the very epicenter of his brutal downfall.

Hers was the last face he had seen before the darkness swallowed him whole... And now, she was coming here to be his wife?

A slow, utterly joyless smile curved one corner of Logan's mouth. The crimson glow that had nearly faded from his eyes flared back to life—no longer burning with blind rage, but with a cold, predatory hunger.

Deep inside him, the Beast rumbled. Alert. And thirsty for blood.