Juan Pov.

Her unconditional acceptance brought unexpected tears to my eyes. After a decade of unconsciousness followed by my deliberate deception, her love remained steadfast and unquestioning.

"Take whatever time you need to tell others," she added gently. "Though I suspect Sunny deserves to know sooner rather than later. That girl has waited for you through circumstances you can't yet imagine."

I pulled back slightly to study her expression. Curiosity about Sunny's experiences during our separation grew more urgent.

"But what happened a year ago?" I asked directly. I needed to understand the cryptic reference to Sunny potentially dying without my mother's intervention.

The mention of life-threatening danger created immediate protective rage alongside overwhelming guilt that I hadn't been present to shield her from whatever threats she had faced.

"What exactly are these letters going to tell me? How bad was it?"

The anxiety in my voice was unmistakable. Part of me dreaded discovering the full truth while another part knew understanding was essential to helping Sunny heal.

She inhaled deeply. Her expression was grave as she considered how to respond.

"You need to read all the letters first, then I will tell you the rest," she advised. She clearly believed the chronological account would provide necessary context before her own explanation.

The deliberate sequencing suggested experiences that had evolved over time rather than isolated incidents. A progression that might be lost without following Sunny's own documentation.

"The letters will give you her perspective in her own words. After that, I can fill in the gaps about what happened when I finally went to that school."

Her careful phrasing confirmed intervention had eventually been necessary. Though the specifics remained unclear.

Indeed, she walked to her desk. She deliberately gave me space with the letters rather than hovering as I read.

"Take your time," she suggested. She organized papers that appeared to be official documents. "I have some pack business to attend to while you read. Administrative matters don't pause even for family crises," she added with a slight smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Just let me know when you're ready to discuss what you've learned."

The privacy she offered seemed both considerate and strategic. Allowing me to process my initial reactions without an audience while remaining available when I inevitably had questions about what I discovered.

I opened the first letter with fear. I noted immediately that it had been written nearly ten years ago.

The childish handwriting reflected Sunny's young age at the time. The carefully formed letters suggested concentrated effort from small hands.

[I don't hate you, Juan. For sending me to this horrible place.]

The simple sentence struck me with unexpected force. The absence of anger where it would have been justified. The forgiveness offered despite evident suffering.

I remembered back then how I had insisted and practically demanded that Alpha Nathan send her away from the packs to a boarding school.

My justification had seemed reasonable at the time. Protecting her from attachment to someone who might never recover. Giving her opportunity for normal childhood development away from the constant reminder of tragedy.

But I had never investigated the specific school where she'd been sent. Never questioned whether the environment would actually benefit her rather than causing harm.

Almost all the letters followed similar patterns in the early years. With similar phrasing that became increasingly concerning as I progressed through the bundle.

The shaking handwriting reflected emotional distress even when the words attempted reassurance. With capitalized sections suggesting mounting desperation despite attempts at restraint.

The repetition of "I don't hate you" across years of correspondence created a hollowing sensation in my chest. Her continued forgiveness making my role in her suffering even more unbearable.

"She never blamed me," I whispered incredulously. "Even when she had every right to."

The maturity and compassion reflected in that consistent absolution from a child experiencing evident hardship humbled me completely.

Until letters from approximately a year ago, when her communication took a dramatically darker turn.

[Juan, please help me. Isn't that enough? You have sent me to hell! I'm dying here. But I don't hate you.]

The escalation from difficult circumstances to life-threatening danger created immediate alarm. My hands tightened around the paper until it crinkled between my fingers.

"What kind of school was this?" I demanded of no one in particular. My voice emerged as a growl. "What were they doing to her?"

The desperate plea continued across subsequent letters. Each more urgent than the last.

[Juan, please come back and save me. They are killing me. Please help me.]

The vague references to "they" without specific identification created frustrated confusion. Who exactly had been hurting her? Staff? Other students? Someone else entirely?

[Juan, I always loved you. I am sure I'm your mate. I couldn't take you out of my mind. Juan help me before I kill myself.]

This letter from approximately fourteen months ago created immediate retrospective terror. The suicidal ideation suggested desperation beyond anything I could have imagined during my unconsciousness.

The declaration of mating certainty alongside thoughts of self-harm painted a picture of someone clinging to connection while simultaneously contemplating its permanent severance.

"She knew we were mates even then," I realized with mixed emotion. I was touched by her certainty while devastated by the circumstances surrounding that recognition.

"She held onto that belief even while contemplating ending her life."

The depth of her attachment created both gratitude and guilt. Her devotion had perhaps kept her alive while simultaneously binding her to suffering she might otherwise have escaped.

[Juan - I'm dying! Juan, help your mate. Save me.]

The increasingly frantic tone suggested deteriorating circumstances rather than momentary distress. A downward trajectory that had clearly accelerated in the months leading up to my mother's intervention.

The brevity reflected either lack of time for correspondence or diminishing energy to communicate. Neither option suggested anything but worsening conditions.

I found myself wondering how these desperate pleas had been delivered. Had the school actually mailed letters containing such obvious distress signals? Or had Sunny found alternative methods to send her increasingly urgent messages?

And her last letter was truly horrifying. The content confirmed my worst fears while raising new questions about exactly what she had faced.

[Juan, this is my last letter. At the end of the day, I will end my life. I promised you and made a vow to keep myself for you. But they want to take me, to take my soul, my body. Sorry - but I have to end my life. See you in another life. I love you, Juan.]

The farewell note created immediate physical reaction. My hands trembled with rage and horror. My breath came in sharp gasps as I processed the implications.

The reference to others wanting to "take" her body suggested sexual threat rather than mere physical abuse. Creating nauseating combination of protective fury and retrospective terror at how close she had come to ending her life.

I crumpled the last letter in my fist. Unable to continue holding the physical evidence of her desperation without reaction.

My heart thundered painfully in my chest as emotion overwhelmed rational thought.

"Mom! Mom!" I called out. My voice emerged as a desperate bellow rather than controlled inquiry.

The physical manifestation of my distress was immediate and undeniable. Tremors running through my body. Sweat beading my forehead despite the room's comfortable temperature. My claws partially extending as my wolf responded to perceived threat against its mate.

She abandoned her paperwork immediately. She rushed to my side with maternal concern evident in her expression.

"Yes? What is it?" she asked. Though her tone suggested she already anticipated my reaction to Sunny's correspondence.

She placed a calming hand on my shoulder. The gesture was both restraining and comforting as she recognized the signs of my wolf threatening to emerge.

"Deep breaths, Juan. Remember she's safe now. She survived this."

The reminder helped marginally. Though the rage at what Sunny had endured remained potent enough to make complete control challenging.

I shivered violently. I struggled to formulate coherent questions through the haze of protective fury.

I cleared my throat repeatedly. I forced myself to approach the situation with some semblance of rationality despite the primal emotions raging through me.

"Mom, what happened to her?" I finally managed. The question emerged with forced calm that barely masked the storm beneath.

The letters had painted a horrifying picture of escalating danger without providing specific details about the nature of the threats or Sunny's eventual rescue.

"Please tell me everything. I need to understand what she experienced."

The knowledge felt essential not just for my own peace of mind but for any hope of helping Sunny heal from whatever trauma she had endured.

She fiddled with her fingers nervously. Her hesitation suggested information she found difficult to share.

Whether from guilt over not intervening sooner or concern about my reaction to the full truth, she clearly struggled with how to proceed.

Eventually she sighed. She seemed to decide direct honesty was the only viable approach.

"Well, shortly, it seems that Sunny was sent to a hybrid vampire and werewolf school by mistake," she began. The explanation immediately raised red flags given vampires' historical hostility toward werewolves.

"The vampires there despised her for her werewolf heritage. They bullied her mercilessly from the beginning. They beat her repeatedly, sometimes to the point where..." she hesitated. Apparently reluctant to complete the thought.

"To the point where her life was genuinely in danger," she finally concluded. Confirming the severity suggested in Sunny's letters.

She gulped audibly before continuing with evident discomfort.

"Until last year... they wanted to force her into sexual acts. Some kind of dominance ritual disguised as 'training' to break her will. They wanted her to forget you completely. To sever any possible mating bond. Their ultimate goal appeared to be transforming her into a vampire like her mother."

The revelation landed like a physical blow. It confirmed my worst fears about the nature of the threats Sunny had faced.

The systematic abuse described went beyond ordinary bullying into territory of deliberate torture and attempted sexual assault. All apparently designed to break her spirit and erase her identity.

"From what I gathered after intervening, this wasn't random cruelty. They seemed to have specific plans for her. Though I never fully understood their motivations beyond general hatred of werewolves."

I stood up abruptly. Unable to contain my rage at this revelation.

"What!" The shout emerged more as roar than word. My partial shift beginning as claws fully extended and canines lengthened in response to overwhelming protective fury.

The thought of Sunny - gentle, loyal Sunny - subjected to such systematic abuse and sexual threat created murderous rage that threatened to overwhelm rational thought completely.

"Who specifically was responsible? Are they still alive? What school was this exactly?"

The rapid-fire questions emerged between growls. My control slipped dangerously as I imagined hunting down every individual who had participated in her torment.

My mother raised her eyebrows. Her expression reflected surprising pride rather than concern at my volatile reaction.

"What! Did you think I would let anyone touch my daughter-in-law?" she responded with unexpected fierceness. Her own maternal protective instincts evident in her tone.

"Of course I killed all of them once I understood what was happening. She's all yours now, completely safe. No one touched her in the way they intended - I got there in time."

The casual confirmation of multiple deaths delivered with such maternal certainty created conflicting emotions. Profound gratitude alongside concern about potential legal or political consequences of such decisive action.

"I may be primarily Luna rather than warrior these days," she added with grim satisfaction. "But I haven't forgotten how to fight when my family is threatened."

I sighed in genuine relief at this confirmation that Sunny had been spared the final humiliation her tormentors had planned.

The knowledge that my mother had intervened successfully before irreversible harm occurred provided essential comfort. Though it couldn't erase the years of suffering Sunny had already endured.

"But still. She had bruises all over her body. She suffered because of an asshole like me who sent her away without ensuring her safety."