Page 37 of Reclaiming His Lost Mate (Secret Legacy #3)

C aroline

“Open your eyes, Caroline. They came for me. They got me!”

James’s terrified, his shaky voice pierced through the fog of my sleep, and the raw tension in his words forced me to snap my eyes open.

There, standing over me, was James—blood dripping from a deep gash on the side of his head, a dreadful look in his eyes.

His face was drawn and pale with exhaustion, as if every part of him was hanging on by a thread.

He looked like a man who had run out of options and was on the verge of breaking down.

But this couldn’t be real. I hadn’t seen James in over six years. Not since...not since he rejected me.

How was he here?

I instinctively backed away from him. A wave of fear I couldn’t explain washed over me, and I felt a cold knot form in my stomach.

“What do you want?” I demanded, pulling my claws. My eyes are glowing, ready for a fight if necessary. My gaze darted around the room, searching for any signs of danger. There were shadows moving beyond the window, creeping closer.

“They’re here,” James whispered urgently, his voice strained and barely audible.

The room...this room—the artwork on the walls, the deep purple curtains, the ornate runner statue on the dresser—it couldn’t be. I hadn’t been in this room in so long. Not since...since that night James had rejected me before his men.

Why was I back here now?

The shadows beyond the window pressed forward, and I could hear faint footsteps skittering across the kitchen floor. They were coming here.

“What’s happening?” I asked again, my pulse quickening.

“No time to explain,” James replied, his eyes desperate. “But you must come with me.” He extended his hands toward me, his plea silent but loud in his expression.

Something in his gaze made me hesitate, then trust him.

I slid off the bed, gripping his hands tightly.

Without another word, he moved to the window, shattering the glass with a swift motion.

He lifted me through the jagged opening, and as I dropped down to the ground below, I quickly glanced up to see him following me.

Once he landed beside me, I could see the full extent of his injury. The wound on his head was deep and festering—an old injury, one that hadn’t healed, but rather had rotted, as if it had been there for far too long.

“Hey, what’s wrong with your head?” I asked.

But once again, he dismissed my question. “We need to run,” he said sharply, urgency threading through his words.

As if on cue, the shadows appeared at the window above us. I couldn’t hear them, but their presence was unmistakable—they pointed at us, and then, one by one, they began to climb down after us.

James tugged at my arm, pulling me along as we sprinted down the slick, rain-drenched street. The pavement gleamed under the dim light. Just like that night, the night he left me, when he told me I wasn’t worthy of him, that I wasn’t good enough.

“What’s happening?” I gasped, still trying to make sense of the nightmare.

“No time to explain. We need to get to safety,” James repeated, his voice urgent, strained.

We rounded a corner, and at the end of the street, the shadows closed in, blocking our path. They came from all directions, surrounding us, closing in little by little. I turned to James, searching for a way out, but then he stopped, his face falling into an expression of surrender.

“It’s all you now,” he said, his voice hollow.

“We can still run,” I insisted, desperate.

“Not anymore,” he choked out. “Go!” he gasped, his voice hoarse. “Run at them!”

His instruction made no sense, but I obeyed nonetheless.

I ran toward the shadows that were closing in, my pulse pounding in my ears.

As I neared them, realization struck—they remained nothing more than shadows, dark wraiths with no faces, no substance.

Still, I ran, my breath ragged, my lungs burning, until I collided with them and then—

The scene changed. And the memory of all that happened before suddenly became hazy, like a drunken moment one is aware of but can’t quite remember.

I was somewhere else. Somewhere I knew all too well.

At the back of my mind, I knew I had been somewhere before this present moment, yet I couldn’t remember it. It felt like moving from one part of a dream to another made the memory of the other dream hard to recollect.

Yet, this fact didn’t disturb me. It was a dream, and I had given myself totally to it.

There was mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. It caught my eye. James and I had shared our first kiss under the mistletoe. My breath hitched. I stepped toward it, needing to be sure it was real, when a door creaked open.

James emerged from the bathroom, a smile playing on his lips.

“What do you think?” he asked, spreading his arms for me to take him in. He was dressed in a black tuxedo.

I turned toward the mirror and saw I was in a stunning red satin dress.

“You look wonderful,” I murmured.

James stepped closer, pulling me into his arms.

He shouldn’t be doing this, I thought. And yet, I didn’t resist.

His lips met mine, deep and demanding, his hunger spilling into me like an intoxicating tide. I kissed him back, biting down on his lower lip, feeling the raw desire pulse between us.

“We should go back,” I whispered against his lips, but I made no move to leave.

“My father and his people can wait,” he said, his voice laced with heat. “I want you.”

He kissed me again, and I unraveled completely.

The air between us shifted, thickening with something deep and primal. James was a fire, a blaze I longed to drown in. I want to let him consume me entirely.

He swept me into his arms, a breathless giggle escaping my lips as he carried me to the bed. Reverent urgency laced his movements as he laid me down, his hands skimming over me, tracing the contours of my body as if engraving me into memory.

His fingers found the hem of my dress, lifting it slowly, his lips following the path his hands uncovered, kissing me, tasting every inch of open skin.

And when I was finally bare beneath him, my skin tingling with longing, he was still fully clothed.

I reached for him, desperate to even the playing field, peeling away his tuxedo and then his crisp, white shirt.

With one swift motion, he undid his belt, lowered his zipper, and freed himself. My breath hitched. He was hardened, throbbing, ready. My body clenched in anticipation.

There was no time for teasing. I needed him fast. When he finally thrust into me, my world splintered. The girth, the sheer fullness of him, left me gasping.

“James,” I moaned, my clawing digging into his back and I drew blood from it. But James didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop.

He drove into me, each thrust a devastating rhythm, matching my desperate grinding motions. With every movement, the pleasure climbed, winding tighter, until it finally shattered over me, a blinding explosion of sensation.

It was too much, too consuming. And it wrenched me from the dream.

I jolted upright, breathless, my body trembling.

Even back in reality, the evidence lingered—the lingering pulse of pleasure, the wetness dripping between my thighs.

I sat there for a long time, disbelief coursing through me. The dream was so...disturbingly real. The shadows. The old room I used to live in before James rejected me. Before I had his son.

Even the way we had touched—so visceral, so real.

I had experienced countless vivid dreams before, ones that clung to my mind like memories. But none had ever felt like this. None had ever unsettled me like this.

I hadn’t dreamed of James in over six years. I had worked tirelessly to build a life for myself and my son, far away from him and his family. I wanted nothing to do with him.

Yet now, after all this time, I was dreaming of him. And not just any dreams. Erotic ones and dreams where he seemed to be in trouble with a rotting wound in his head.

Why?

“Open your eyes, Caroline. They came for me. They got me!”

Who were they? Those shadows?

Was there something in the dream I had failed to see? Some hidden message lurking beneath the surface?

I was too tired to unravel its meaning.

Tomorrow would be a long day. I had too many meetings, too many responsibilities. I needed to sleep.

But I couldn’t.

I needed to purge myself of these thoughts. I shouldn’t concern myself with anything about James.

I got out of bed, moving quietly through the dimly lit halls of my mansion. The house was silent at this hour, steeped in the kind of stillness that made the walls feel like they were listening.

At the end of the hallway, I stopped by the window and pulled apart the heavy velvet drapes, looking down at the grounds below.

The crescent moon offered little illumination, but the night lights did their job. I spotted three guards patrolling the perimeter.

Two of them were werewolves—I could tell by the way they moved, their bodies subtly attuned to their surroundings, every step measured, every sense engaged. The third was human, walking without the heightened awareness of his supernatural counterparts.

The stark difference between us had always amazed me.

One of the werewolves glanced up and saw me standing by the window. He nodded. I returned the gesture before closing the blinds and continuing down the hall.

I wasn’t an Alpha. The werewolves who guarded my estate didn’t pledge unyielding loyalty to me like they would to a true leader. But I paid them well, and they were professionals.

Still, I had human guards too, as a fail-safe. Because, unlike werewolves, humans weren’t susceptible to the control of an Alpha.

Finally, I reached my destination—a door just a few feet away, tucked around the corner.

I turned the handle and stepped inside.

He was fast asleep, his small face soft and peaceful in the dim glow of the bedside lamp.

My heart clenched at the sight of him. He was so beautiful.

I pulled a chair closer and sat down, watching him for a moment longer, memorizing the way his chest rose and fell with each steady breath.

He stirred slightly, then turned toward me, his eyes fluttering open.

“Mom?” Eric murmured sleepily.

“Shh, love,” I whispered, brushing my fingers over his hair. “Go back to sleep. I just came to check on you.”

He nodded, but didn’t do as I asked. Instead, he sat up in bed, his small face shadowed with curiosity.

“Did you have a dream?” he asked.

I cocked my head, surprised that he guessed right.

“Yes, I did.”

“Is that why you can’t sleep? Was it a nightmare?”

Oh, you sweet boy. You’re worried about me.

“No, it wasn’t a nightmare.”

A nightmare would have been easier. I would have woken up, shaken it off, and fallen back asleep. But this…this was different. This lingered, refusing to loosen its grip on me.

And now, I was disturbing my four-year-old son’s sleep over it.

“Okay,” Eric murmured, then scooted over, making space beside him. “Do you want to join me?”

“Oh, you’re so sweet,” I said, slipping under the covers beside him. I pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “My beautiful boy.”

“It’s okay, Mommy. You can go to sleep now.”

“Yes, love, I will,” I whispered, closing my eyes, willing sleep to come.

But it didn’t.

Instead, I listened to Eric’s heartbeat—soft, steady, perfect. My perfect little boy.

He was my reason for living. The reason I did all this. The reason I took the biggest risk of my life…and the reason that risk had borne such great fruit.

A year after I had him, I started my own company—a tech firm called Roog Tech—and it had flourished beyond my wildest dreams.

“Mom?” Eric’s soft voice pulled me from my thoughts.

“Yes, love?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“I had a dream.”

“Was it a nightmare?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I saw him in there.”

I frowned slightly. “Who did you see?”

“My dad.”

My breath caught. I let out a small chuckle, but there was no humor in it.

“That’s not possible, Eric.”

It wasn’t possible.

Eric had never seen James before. He didn’t even know what he looked like. James didn’t know Eric existed either. I had gone to great effort to make it that way, and it would stay that way until the day I died.

Anyone who could toss me aside the way James did was undeserving of a son.

I had built a life far from him, far from the Yorke name, far from their twisted hierarchy. My son would never be subjected to their madness.

“I know,” Eric murmured, “but I saw him.” He paused, searching for the right words. “He didn’t tell me who he was, but I knew. I felt it in my head.”

A strange unease prickled down my spine. My dream about James and now this?

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing,” Eric said. “He just stood there, staring at me. And he was crying. He looked really sad.”

“Crying?” My voice came out quieter than I intended. “Why was he crying?”

“I don’t know.”

I forced a smile, smoothing a hand over his soft curls. “It was just a dream, love. Don’t worry about it. Wherever your father is, I’m sure he’s happy.”

Eric hesitated, his dark eyes searching mine. Then, in the smallest voice, he asked, “Do you think I can see him?”

The question struck me like a blade to the heart.

He had never asked to see James before. He had never questioned his absence.

He had always been content with the world I built for him—the world where it was just the two of us, where I was all he needed.

I hadn’t prepared for this moment.

“Mom?” Eric pressed.

I swallowed. “Yes, love. We’ll see what we can do about it, all right?”

He smiled, satisfied with my vague response, and nestled into me.

I exhaled shakily, brushing my fingers against his cheek.

His eyes were just like James’.

I had spent years convincing myself I had moved on, that I had buried him in the past where he belonged.

But looking at my son, I knew I had never truly let him go.

“Mommy…” Eric murmured, his voice so quiet I almost didn’t hear him.

“Yes, love?”

“I think my daddy is in trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

Eric’s small fingers clutched the fabric of my nightgown. He swallowed, his brows knitting together in distress.

“I know why he was crying,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “They were dying, Mommy. His friends. They were all dying.”

A cold dread curled around my heart. The way he spoke was too distressing for a child his age.

Eric lifted his wide, solemn eyes to mine.

“Is it coming for me too, mommy?”