Desire mixed genre collection

Cordelia's Pov

You'd think after five years of living as a hermit in the Scottish Highlands, I'd have perfected the art of avoiding awkward situations. Apparently, I was wrong. Dead wrong. Standing in my cozy little pottery studio, clay-covered apron tied around my waist, I stared at the official-looking envelope that had somehow found its way to my deliberately obscure address.

The return address made my stomach drop faster than a poorly thrown pot; Ravenshollow Pack Council.

"Brilliant," I muttered, wiping my hands on a tea towel that had seen better decades. "Just absolutely bloody brilliant."

My name is Cordelia Blackthorne, and I used to be somebody important. Well, important-adjacent. The rejected mate of Alpha Lysander Ashworth, to be precise.

These days, I prefer to think of myself as Delia the Potter, maker of questionably shaped mugs and seller of overpriced ceramic nonsense to tourists who think everything handmade is automatically charming.

The letter sat there like a particularly venomous spider, daring me to open it. I'd been perfectly happy pretending the supernatural world had forgotten about me entirely.

My little cottage, nestled between rolling hills and absolutely nowhere, had become my sanctuary. No pack politics, no hierarchy drama, no devastatingly handsome alphas making speeches about how I wasn't "luna material" in front of everyone I'd ever cared about.

Good times.

I picked up the envelope with the enthusiasm one might reserve for handling week-old fish. The official seal was still intact, all gold foil and pompous ceremony. Trust the pack council to make even their correspondence intimidating.

*Miss Blackthorne,* the letter began, because apparently five years wasn't enough time for them to figure out I preferred Delia now.

***Your immediate presence is requested at Ravenshollow Estate regarding a matter of utmost urgency concerning Alpha Ashworth's wellbeing.***

I snorted. Lysander's wellbeing had stopped being my concern the moment he'd stood up at our mating ceremony and announced to three hundred guests that he'd "reconsidered his choice." In front of my parents. In front of his parents. In front of the visiting dignitaries from seven other packs.

The humiliation had been so complete, so devastating, that I'd actually laughed. Not a pleasant laugh, mind you. The kind of laugh that makes people take a step back and wonder if you've finally snapped. Which, to be fair, I probably had.

The letter continued with typical pack council verbosity, but the important bits were these: Lysander was dying, they needed me specifically, and refusal wasn't really an option.

The last part wasn't stated outright, but five years of pack politics had taught me to read between the lines.

I set the letter down and looked around my studio. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating dozens of ceramic pieces in various stages of completion.

A half-finished set of bowls sat on the wheel, abandoned when the postman had arrived with his delivery of unwanted complications.

This was my life now. Simple, peaceful, and blissfully free of dramatic alpha nonsense.

I made things with my hands, sold them to people who appreciated craftsmanship, and spent my evenings reading romance novels where the supernatural love interests had the common decency to appreciate their mates from the beginning.

My phone buzzed. A text from my friend Imogen, who ran the local tea shop.

***Saw the fancy car with tinted windows parked outside your place. Is everything alright?***

I glanced out the window. Sure enough, a sleek black sedan sat in my gravel driveway like a dark omen. The driver was probably some pack enforcer, waiting to escort me back to face whatever crisis required my particular brand of magical intervention.

Because that was the thing about being rejected by your mate – it didn't actually sever the supernatural connection. The bond was damaged, certainly, but traces remained. Enough traces that if Lysander was dying, I might be the only one who could heal him.

The irony was so thick you could serve it with a spoon.

Another text from Imogen;

***That car's been there for twenty minutes. Should I call the police?***

I typed back quickly;

***No need. Just old friends dropping by.***

Friends. Right. If by friends, I meant the people who'd watched silently while their precious alpha had destroyed my life for the entertainment of pack politics.

The same people who were now, presumably, desperate enough to come crawling back to me, the very ones who had once been happy to see me exiled. The irony wasn't lost on me.

They hadn't just stood by and watched as I was cast out; they'd played their part in it with those quiet nods, complicated silences, maybe even a few gleeful whispers when they thought I wasn't listening.

And now? Now they needed me. Of course, they wouldn't come out and say it. Pride's a funny thing like that. But I could feel it. Hear it in the way they softened their tones, tested the waters in conversation.

I imagined them rehearsing what they'd say, trying to frame their desperation as diplomacy. But I remembered everything.

Every cold shoulder, every locked door. And while they might finally be knocking, I wasn't sure if I was ready to open that door or just let them stay out there and feel the chill.

After a few minutes that seemed like hours, I untied my apron and hung it on its hook. My reflection in the studio mirror showed someone who'd changed considerably in five years.

The nervous young woman who'd once desperately wanted to please everyone had been replaced by someone with callused hands, practical clothes, and zero tolerance for supernatural dramatics.

But underneath the newfound confidence, my wolf stirred uneasily. Despite everything that had happened, despite the rejection and the humiliation and the years of self-imposed exile, some part of me still responded to the call of my pack.

Or more specifically, to the call of the man who'd once been meant to be my everything.

"Right then," I said to my reflection. "Let's go see what sort of trouble the great Lysander Ashworth has gotten himself into."

I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door, trying to ignore the way my heart had started beating just a little too fast. After all, what was the worst that could happen?

Famous last words, those.

Cordelia's Pov

The enforcer waiting by the car was someone I recognised, which was both a blessing and a curse. Rupert Whitmore had been Lysander's beta back when I'd been foolish enough to think I belonged in their world.

He'd also been one of the few people who'd looked genuinely sorry during my very public humiliation.

"Delia," he said, straightening as I approached. His voice carried that careful neutrality that screamed 'this is awkward for everyone involved.'

"Rupert." I kept my tone equally neutral, though inside, my wolf was doing complicated gymnastics. Being around pack members again after five years of isolation was like stepping back into a coat that no longer fit properly. "Lovely weather we're having."

He glanced at the grey Scottish sky, currently threatening rain with the determination of a disgruntled deity. "Quite."

We stood there for a moment, two people who'd once known each other well enough to share inside jokes, now separated by years of carefully maintained distance. Rupert looked older, more worn around the edges.

There were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before, a tension in his shoulders that spoke of too many sleepless nights.

"How bad is it?" I asked, because dancing around the obvious seemed pointless.

His expression shifted, and for a moment, I saw past the professional facade to genuine worry. "Bad enough that the council overruled his objections to bringing you back."

That was interesting. So Lysander hadn't wanted me involved. Typical. The man who'd rejected me in front of half the supernatural community was apparently too proud to ask for help, even when his life depended on it.

"And what exactly makes you all think I can help?" I climbed into the passenger seat, noting that the car still smelled like expensive leather and pack authority. Some things never changed.

Rupert started the engine, and we began the winding drive back toward Ravenshollow.

The landscape rolled past, achingly familiar despite my best efforts to forget it, stone walls, sheep that looked perpetually judgmental, and in the distance, the spires of the estate where I'd once thought I'd spend my life.

"The pack healers are baffled," Rupert said, navigating a particularly aggressive curve. "Whatever's affecting him, it's not responding to conventional treatment. The bond you shared... even damaged, it might be enough."

"Might be." I stared out the window, watching my old life approach with all the enthusiasm of a dental procedure. "Hardly inspiring confidence."

"Delia..."

"It's fine." I cut him off before he could launch into whatever apology or explanation he'd been rehearsing.

"I'm here, aren't I? Despite every rational instinct screaming at me to barricade myself in my studio with enough tea and biscuits to wait out the apocalypse."

The silence stretched between us, filled with things neither of us wanted to address. Like the fact that I'd been in love with Lysander since we were teenagers. Like the fact that the mating bond had been so strong, so obvious, that the entire pack had assumed it was destiny.

Like the fact that he'd chosen pack politics over his supposedly fated mate, and I'd been naive enough to be surprised.

"He asks about you," Rupert said quietly as we turned through the familiar iron gates of Ravenshollow Estate.

My stomach did something complicated. "Does he now?"

"Not directly. But he... notices things. When your pottery shows up in the village shops. When tourists mention the eccentric artist living in the hills."

"Eccentric." I laughed, but it came out sharper than intended. "I prefer 'selectively social.'"

The estate came into view, and despite everything, I felt a pang of something that might have been homesickness. Ravenshollow had been in the Ashworth family for centuries, a sprawling Gothic revival manor that managed to be both imposing and oddly welcoming.

I'd spent countless hours here as a young woman, learning the intricacies of pack politics and dreaming of a future that had spectacularly failed to materialise.

Rupert parked in the circular drive, and I noticed the subtle signs of neglect that spoke of a pack under stress.

The gardens weren't quite as pristine as they once were, and there was a general air of things being maintained rather than lovingly tended.

"Before we go in," Rupert said, turning to face me properly. "You should know... he's not the same. The illness, whatever it is, it's changing him. Making him..." He struggled for the right word.

"More of an arse than usual?" I suggested helpfully.

"Desperate," he said seriously. "And that makes him dangerous."

I considered this as we walked toward the front door, our footsteps echoing on the ancient stone. A desperate Lysander was indeed a concerning prospect.

The man had been formidable enough when he'd been secure in his power. Backed into a corner, facing his own mortality... Well, that had the potential to be spectacularly unpleasant for everyone involved.

The front hall hadn't changed much. Still intimidatingly grand, still designed to make visitors feel small and significant simultaneously.

The portraits of previous Ashworth alphas looked down with their painted expressions of aristocratic superiority, and I wondered if any of them had been stupid enough to reject their fated mates for political expediency.

"Miss Blackthorne." The voice came from the top of the main staircase, crisp and disapproving. Margaret Ashworth, Lysander's mother and current pack matriarch, descended with the grace of someone who'd been practicing intimidation since birth.

"Mrs Ashworth." I inclined my head just enough to be polite, not enough to be deferential. Five years of independence had done wonders for my spine.

She looked me over with the sort of assessment usually reserved for livestock at market. "You look... rustic."

"Thank you," I said cheerfully. "I will try."

Her lips thinned, but before she could respond, a commotion erupted from somewhere inside the house. Shouting, the crash of something expensive hitting something solid, and underlying it all, a sound that made my wolf whimper.

It was a pain-filled, desperate, and undeniably familiar howl.

"Right then," I said, squaring my shoulders. "Let's go see what sort of mess you've all gotten yourselves into."

Cordelia's Pov

Following the sound of destruction through Ravenshollow's corridors was like following breadcrumbs in a particularly violent fairy tale. A Ming vase lay in pieces near the library door. Claw marks scored the wallpaper in the hallway. Someone had definitely been having a proper tantrum.

"Perhaps," Margaret Ashworth said with the sort of brittle composure that suggested she was one broken antique away from a nervous breakdown, "you might consider a more... measured approach."

"Measured?" I paused outside what used to be the blue drawing room, listening to the low growls emanating from within.

"Your son sounds like he's trying to redecorate using only his claws. I'm thinking measured might not be the appropriate response."

Another crash. Something expensive meeting an untimely end.

"He's been like this for weeks," Rupert muttered, running a hand through his hair. "The pack healers can't get near him when he's in one of these states."

"Right." I rolled my shoulders back and reached for the door handle.

"Well, the good news is, I've had five years to get over being intimidated by Lysander Ashworth's dramatics."

Margaret's eyebrows rose to somewhere near her hairline. "You always were impertinent."

"Still am, thankfully."

I turned the handle and stepped into chaos.

The blue drawing room looked like it had been redecorated by a particularly artistic hurricane. Furniture was overturned, paintings hung askew, and in the centre of it all stood the man who'd once been my everything and was now apparently committed to destroying his family's antique collection.

Lysander Ashworth, in all his tragic, infuriating glory.

Five years had changed him, but not in the way I'd expected. He was still devastatingly handsome in that aristocratic way that made sensible women forget their own names.

Still tall, broad-shouldered, and possession of those ridiculous cheekbones that belonged in a renaissance painting. But there was something wrong with the picture now.

His skin had a greyish pallor that spoke of serious illness. His dark hair, usually perfectly styled, hung lank around his face. Most concerning of all, his eyes – those startling green eyes that had once made my knees go weak – now held a wild, desperate quality that made my wolf instincts scream WARNINGS.

He spun toward me as I entered, and for a moment, I thought he might actually shift right there in his mother's favourite room.

"No," he said, voice rough as gravel. "Absolutely not. Get her out."

"Lovely to see you too, darling," I said, closing the door firmly behind me. "You look terrible, by the way. Has anyone mentioned that lately?"

He stared at me like I was a particularly unwelcome hallucination. Which, to be fair, I probably was. "I said get out."

"And I said you look terrible. We seem to be at an impasse." I picked my way carefully through the destruction, noting how he tracked my movement with predatory focus.

Whatever was wrong with him, it was affecting his wolf nature as much as his human side. "When did you last sleep? Properly, I mean, not whatever you've been calling sleep lately."

"This is none of your concern."

"Isn't it?" I settled into the one chair that had somehow survived his redecorating efforts, crossing my legs with deliberate casualness.

"Because from what I understand, you're dying, the pack healers are useless, and I'm apparently your last hope. That sounds rather like my concern, whether I want it to be or not."

He laughed, and the sound held no humour whatsoever. "My last hope. How poetic."

"I've been called worse things."

We stared at each other across the wreckage of the room, five years of silence stretching between us like a canyon.

He looked like he wanted to pace, but something was stopping him. Weakness, maybe, or the knowledge that sudden movements might trigger whatever was eating him alive from the inside.

"You shouldn't have come," he said finally.

"Probably not," I agreed. "But here we are. So why don't you tell me what's actually wrong with you, and we can both get on with our lives."

His mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile if you were feeling generous. "Our lives. Right."

"Lysander." I leaned forward slightly, and he tensed like a cornered animal. Interesting. "Whatever happened between us, whatever you think of me, I'm not here for revenge or closure or any of that tedious emotional nonsense.

I'm here because people seem to think I can help. So let me help, or let me go home to my pottery wheel."

"Your pottery wheel," he repeated, as if the words tasted strange.

"Yes. It's very therapeutic. I make mugs now. Lots of mugs. Some of them are even round."

Despite everything, despite the years and the hurt and the sheer impossibility of the situation, his lips twitched. Just slightly, but enough to remind me of the man I'd once known.

The one who'd laughed at my terrible jokes and brought me flowers he'd stolen from his mother's garden.

The one who'd broken my heart so thoroughly I'd had to rebuild myself from scratch.

"The healers say it's a curse," he said quietly, sinking into the chair across from me with a careful movement. "It's something old that specifically targets the alpha line."

"A curse." I considered this. "How wonderfully melodramatic. Any idea who might want to curse your bloodline? Because I have to say, the list of people with grudges against the Ashworth family is probably extensive."

His eyes flashed, and for a moment, I saw the old Lysander. Arrogant, commanding, absolutely convinced of his own righteousness. "Are you volunteering?"

"If I was going to curse you," I said cheerfully, "I'd have done it five years ago. And it would have been much more creative than whatever this is."

The silence that followed was loaded with memories neither of us wanted to acknowledge.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper.

"It's killing me, Delia. Slowly, but efficiently. And according to the pack seers, you're the only one who might be able to stop it."