Home / Werewolf / His Secret Reborn Warrior Fated Mate

His Secret Reborn Warrior Fated Mate

Alma

5.0

Werewolf

10 Chapters

3 View

Read Now

I fought brutal battles on the front lines, bleeding to earn military honors for the Carlisle family. But the moment I returned, my adoptive mother demanded I transfer all my hard-earned achievements to her useless biological daughter, Corinne. "It's best to look humble when you're begging for a favor," her maid sneered, tossing me a faded gray dress. Desperate for a crumb of my adoptive mother's affection, I foolishly agreed. That single act of submission was my ruin, stripping me of my only leverage. Once I was useless, she framed and executed my brilliant brother. She slowly poisoned my true mother to death under the guise of illness. Finally, she locked me in my room and set it on fire. As the flames seared my flesh from bone, the last thing I saw was my adoptive mother's triumphant, contemptuous smile. Until I burned to ash, I didn't understand. I had sacrificed everything for them. Why was my blind loyalty rewarded with the brutal slaughter of my real family? Opening my eyes again, I was back at twenty years old. It was the exact morning they were coming to make me surrender my honors to Corinne. I looked at the drab gray dress laid out for my humiliation, and tore it to shreds. This time, I put on my battle armor.

His Secret Reborn Warrior Fated Mate Chapter 1

Aurora POV:

The smell of smoke filled my lungs, thick and suffocating. Flames licked at my skin, searing flesh from bone. I tried to scream, but the heat had stolen the air, leaving only a raw, silent agony. The last thing I saw was my brother Sterling's lifeless eyes, and the triumphant, contemptuous face of my adoptive mother, Genevieve.

I gasped, shooting upright in bed.Cold sweat drenched the thin, worn cotton of my nightgown, clinging to my skin like a second, icy layer. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, shocking silence of the room.

My breath came in ragged, shallow bursts. I clutched my chest, feeling the frantic pulse beneath my palm.

I was alive. My skin was whole.

My eyes darted around the small, sparsely furnished room. The cracked plaster on the ceiling, the threadbare rug on the floor, the single, narrow window showing a sliver of the pre-dawn sky. This was my room in the Carlisle Manor. The room I'd lived in for twenty years. The room I had died to escape.

No. It couldn't be.

My legs trembled as I threw back the thin blanket and stumbled out of bed. The wooden floorboards were cold against my bare feet. I lurched towards the small, tarnished mirror hanging on the wall.

The face that stared back was mine, but not the one I remembered from the fire. This face was young, unmarred by scars. My silver hair, a trait of the Carlisle lineage, fell in a tangled mess around my shoulders, not a singed ruin. I was twenty years old again. The dark circles under my eyes were from exhaustion, not from weeping over a dead family.

It was real. I was back.

The memories of my past life flooded me, a tidal wave of pain and rage. Genevieve's saccharine smiles hiding a viper's venom. My brother Sterling, so brilliant and kind, executed for a crime he didn't commit. My real mother, Adeline, wasting away under Genevieve's slow poisoning, all while believing she was merely ill. The complete and utter destruction of my family, all for Genevieve's ambition.

A guttural sound, half-sob, half-growl, escaped my lips. I pressed my hands against the cold glass of the mirror, my reflection staring back with an intensity that burned. Hate. It was a physical thing, a coil of ice and fire tightening in my stomach. I dug my nails into my palms, the sharp sting of pain a welcome anchor in the storm of my past. I needed the pain to know this wasn't another dream.

A sharp knock on the door made me flinch.

"Aurora, are you awake? The Matron is waiting for you."

Louisa. The maid's voice was as sharp and unpleasant as I remembered, dripping with the casual disdain she saved for me, the "side-branch" charity case.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the storm of emotions down, packing it into a tight, hard knot in my chest. When I spoke, my voice was a stranger to my own ears, devoid of the timid tremor it once held. It was flat. Cold.

"I know."

The door creaked open and Louisa bustled in, her face already set in its usual pinched expression of disapproval. She took in my disheveled state with a sniff.

"Hurry up. Don't keep the Matron waiting. She wants to speak with you about Miss Corinne's Title of Honor."

Of course. I searched the timeline of my memories, the pieces clicking into place with chilling clarity. Today. This was the day it all began. The day Genevieve would "persuade" me to petition the Alpha King, to transfer the military honors I had bled for on the battlefield to her precious, useless daughter, Corinne.

In my first life, I had agreed. I had been desperate for a crumb of my adoptive mother's approval, foolishly believing that this sacrifice would earn me a place in the family. That single act of submission had been my first step toward ruin. It stripped me of my only leverage, my only claim to worth in their eyes.

Louisa tossed a bundle of fabric onto my bed. It was a plain, gray dress, clean but faded from countless washings. The uniform of my humility.

"Wear this. It's best to look humble when you're begging for a favor."

I stared at the dress. It was a shroud. The symbol of my weakness, my compliance. A cold, sharp smile touched my lips, a grim parody of amusement.

I didn't move. I simply looked at Louisa, my gaze steady and unblinking.

"You can go. I need to get ready."

The command in my tone, quiet but absolute, made her blink. She was used to my flustered obedience, not this unnerving stillness. She saw the look in my eyes and, for the first time in her life, she hesitated. A flicker of uncertainty, maybe even fear, crossed her face.

"You'd better be quick about it," she muttered, her usual bluster sounding hollow. She backed out of the room, closing the door with a soft click instead of her usual slam.

The moment she was gone, I moved. I walked to the door, listening until her footsteps faded down the hall. Then I turned back to the bed.

I picked up the gray dress. The fabric was soft and yielding in my hands. The dress of a girl who knew her place. The dress of a girl who was about to die.

I didn't put it on.

My hands tightened on the neckline. With a sharp, focused grunt of effort, I ripped the fabric. The sound was loud in the quiet room, a satisfying shriek of protest. Once. Twice. I tore the dress into ragged, useless strips of cloth.

My breathing was even. My hands were steady.

I walked to the small, cramped wardrobe and pushed aside the few drab garments Genevieve allowed me. At the very back, wrapped in oilcloth, was the uniform I had earned. It wasn't a dress uniform, but the practical, durable fatigues I wore in the field. Black, reinforced leather trousers and a fitted tunic. Not finery, but a suit of armor. A symbol of strength.

I dressed quickly, the familiar weight of the clothes settling on my shoulders like a second skin. I pulled my long silver hair back, tying it in a tight, severe knot at the nape of my neck.

The girl in the mirror was different now. Her eyes were not the soft, pleading eyes of a girl desperate for love. They were the eyes of a soldier. Sharp, cold, and filled with a purpose as hard as steel.

I took the shredded remains of the gray dress and tossed them into the small, cold fireplace. I watched the strips of cloth lie there, a pathetic heap of my past. I would burn them later. A final funeral pyre for the girl I used to be.

"From this day forward," I whispered to my reflection, "I, Aurora Carlisle, will never be anyone's stepping stone again."

I strode to the door and pulled it open. Louisa was pacing impatiently in the hallway. When she saw me, her jaw dropped. Her eyes widened in disbelief, traveling from my sturdy boots to the clean, sharp lines of my military tunic.

"You... what are you wearing? The Matron told you to..."

I cut her off, my voice level. "Lead the way. I have something to discuss with my 'mother' as well."

I put the slightest, most deliberate emphasis on the word "mother." It dripped with a sarcasm so cold it was almost imperceptible.

Louisa was so stunned by my transformation, by the sheer force of my presence, that she forgot to argue. She just stared, then turned dumbly and started walking.

I followed her down the path toward the main house. Each step was solid, deliberate. I could feel the cool morning air on my face, a reminder that this was real. This was my second chance.

And this time, the war had already begun.