Seven Years His Luna, Just the Nanny

The words echoed in my head like a death sentence, which I supposed they were.

"Terminal lupus spiritus failure," Dr. Patterson repeated, his voice gentle but clinical. "The deterioration of your wolf spirit has reached a critical stage. I'm afraid we're looking at six months, possibly less."

I sat in the sterile hospital room, still in my robe and slippers, feeling oddly disconnected from my own body. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in harsh, unforgiving clarity.

"How?" The word came out as barely a whisper.

Dr. Patterson pulled up my chart on his tablet, his expression grave. "It's rare, but we see it sometimes in wolves whose chosen bonds have been... neglected. When one partner consistently rejects or ignores the mate connection, the other's wolf spirit begins to consume itself trying to maintain the link."

Negligence. Seven years of Sterling's cold indifference, his refusal to acknowledge our bond, his complete emotional withdrawal—it had been slowly killing me. Literally.

"The symptoms would have been gradual," the doctor continued. "Fatigue, weakness, a sense of your wolf growing distant or quiet?"

I nodded, remembering how my inner wolf's voice had grown fainter over the years, how the howling in my chest had become more desperate, more pained. I'd thought it was just heartbreak. I hadn't realized it was my soul dying.

"Is there..." I swallowed hard, my throat feeling raw. "Is there any treatment?"

Dr. Patterson's silence was answer enough, but he spoke anyway. "In theory, if the bond could be fully restored—if your mate were to recommit completely, to pour energy back into the connection—it might slow the progression. But the damage is extensive. And it would require total dedication from both parties."

Total dedication. From Sterling, who couldn't even look at our daughter, who was already building a new family to replace us.

"I should contact your mate," Dr. Patterson said, reaching for his phone. "He'll need to know—"

"No." The word came out sharper than I intended. "He won't care."

The doctor's eyebrows rose slightly, but he'd probably seen enough broken bonds to understand. "Mrs. Mills, this is serious. Your family needs to be prepared—"

"He won't care," I repeated, my voice hollow. "Trust me."

I drove home in a daze, the diagnosis settling over me like a shroud. Six months. Maybe less. Willow would be five and a half when I died. Old enough to remember me, young enough to need me desperately.

And Sterling would finally be free to live the life he'd always wanted—the one that didn't include us.

The house was quiet when I slipped back inside, my keys jingling softly in the stillness. I could hear movement upstairs, Sterling's voice drifting down as he helped Briar get dressed for the day. The sound of his gentle laughter made my chest ache with more than just the physical pain.

I was hanging my keys on the hook when footsteps on the stairs made me freeze. Sterling appeared, fully dressed in one of his expensive suits, his hair still damp from the shower. He looked polished, successful, completely unaware that his wife had just received a death sentence.

"Where did you go?" he asked, his tone mildly curious rather than concerned.

For a moment, I considered telling him. Imagined the words spilling out: *I'm dying, Sterling. Our broken bond is killing me, and I have six months left.* But the clinical detachment in his voice, the way he looked through me rather than at me, stopped the confession cold.

"Just needed some air," I said instead.

He nodded absently, already checking his phone. "Listen, I need to talk to you about something."

My heart jumped. Maybe this was it—maybe he'd realized what he was doing to our family, maybe he was ready to fight for us, for the bond that was slowly destroying me.

"About Willow," he continued, and hope flared in my chest.

He was going to acknowledge her. Finally going to step up as her father, to give her the love and attention she'd been craving her entire life.

"Ivy is coming the day after tomorrow to see Briar," Sterling said, his tone matter-of-fact. "I need you to take Willow somewhere else for the day. Maybe to your sister's. I don't want any... complications."

The hope died so quickly it left me breathless. Complications. That's what we were to him—his wife and daughter were complications to be managed, obstacles to his new perfect family.

"Sterling," I started, my voice cracking.

"It's just for the day," he said, not looking up from his phone. "Briar is still adjusting, and Ivy wants to spend time with her daughter without any distractions."

Distractions. The same word he'd used about Willow when I was pregnant. We were still just distractions to him, inconveniences in his carefully ordered life.

I turned away, my chest tight with more than just the physical symptoms. The pain was getting worse—sharp, stabbing sensations that made my vision blur at the edges.

"Fine," I whispered, because what else could I say? I was dying, and he was worried about his ex-girlfriend's comfort.

Sterling pocketed his phone and headed for the door, pausing only to call upstairs. "I'll be back tonight, princess. Be good for Daddy."

The endearment—the one he'd never used for Willow—twisted in my chest like a blade. As soon as the front door closed behind him, I doubled over, a violent coughing fit seizing me.

When I pulled my hand away from my mouth, the tissue was stained bright red.

Blood. Dr. Patterson had mentioned internal bleeding in the later stages. I stared at the crimson stain, my hands shaking as I crumpled the tissue and threw it in the trash.

Upstairs, I could hear Briar singing to herself, her sweet voice drifting through the house like a mockery of the family I'd always dreamed of having.

Six months. Maybe less.

And Sterling was already planning our erasure.