just returned from seeing the witch doctor, Tamara Howe.
“Dr. Howe, how is Belinda?” he asked.
Tamara’s fingers curled around the gold coins Belinda had slipped her, her lips twisting into a satisfied smile.
Belinda coughed weakly, her frail body sinking into Connor’s embrace. “Alpha, I feel much better. You don’t have to bear Luna’s fault.”
Connor gazed at her tenderly. “You’re too kind, Belinda. But don’t worry. Clara has been punished. She won’t trouble you again.”
As they shared their tender moment, I chuckled softly behind them.
But no one noticed.
There was nothing I could do to Belinda anymore.
After all, I was already dead.
I struggled in despair for days, but even in my final moments, I couldn’t lie down and rest. The well was too narrow, too cramped—I couldn’t even sit.
Days without water had left my hair falling out in patches, my exposed skin shriveled and dry.
Venomous snakes coiled around my limbs while maggots and insects feasted on my flesh.
When my soul finally broke free, I didn’t dare look back at the well.
