My Convicted Wife is My Mate (Bella and Kane) novel Chapter 13

chapter 12
KANE’S POV

Bella knelt near the table. Her hands were folded in front of two old photographs.

She looked human, completely, painfully human. There was no wolf inside her. I knew what that did to a person.

Without a wolf, life was emptier… quieter in all the wrong ways. The bond between body and spirit was broken. It made even breathing feel heavier.

But she prayed like she still believed in something. That caught my attention more than I wanted to admit.

Her lips moved slowly as she whispered her words to the photos. Her voice trembled. raw. She looked fragile. She looked..broken.

Even her smile looked sad. It was a smile that had learned to survive pain.

And damn it, she was beautiful.

Not in the way my ex-fiancée Sophia was. Sophia had been flawless. She was graceful, proud, the kind of woman who turned heads the moment she entered a room.

Bella wasn’t like that. She was ordinary. Simple. Her hair was plain. Her face was pale, and yet… there was something that drew me in.

I watched the candlelight dance across her skin, and for a second, I forgot how to look away.

I almost scoffed when she said she was doing well.

She was in a falling-apart cabin, barely making ends meet with a shitty job. She was an ex convinct for that matter. To call that doing well was a stretch.

But I understood why she said it. Sometimes, the lies we tell the dead are the only way we can breathe.

Then, she paused. Her shoulders tensed slightly, and she turned her head toward me. Her eyes met mine through the candlelight.

“There’s someone with me now,” she said quietly. “His name is Kane. He’s my” she hesitated, smiling a bit, “—husband.”

Our eyes locked for a long moment before she looked back at the photos. Her voice softened again. “He’s kind, in his own way. I think… I think Mom would’ve liked him.”

I said nothing. I didn’t know what to say.

When she finished, she blew out a breath and leaned back.

“I’ll make some soup,” she murmured. “Then dinner.”

She turned toward the small kitchen, and that’s when I saw it, a small purple mark on her cheek.

A bruise.

I walked closer to her and held her cheek. “This is new.”

Her hand froze on the counter.

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, not looking at me.

“Nothing?” I repeated.

My hand brushed her chin gently, tilting her face toward the light. The skin was tender. The bruise was fresh.

“Who did this?” I asked.

She stepped back. “it's nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”

I didn’t like that answer. I wasn’t used to people refusing me. When I asked questions, I got answers. Always. But she looked so defensive, so small yet stubborn that I forced myself to step back.

“Sit,” she said softly.

I did, not because she told me to, but because I wanted to see what she’d do next.

She poured me a glass of water, set it in front of me, then turned back to the stove.

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