Marking Death

“Stop the car, Lela,” he begs as tears blur my vision.
“No!”
Reversing back an alpha growl rips through his chest as he continues to bash against the thick glass.
“Stop the car baby, stop the car. Lela,” I see the pain in his eyes and I force myself to look over my shoulder, to hit the gas and reverse, “I love you, it didn’t mean anything. Please just stop the car.” I cast one last look at Blaze.
His black hair, mussed and green eyes filled with sadness, regret. With guilt. While his jeans hang low on his hips still unbuttoned from his quick dressing. I shake my head.
“No, I hate you,” I state anger overriding all else, “I hate you.”
...
My name is Lela Morgan or at least it was until the day I died and since police kind of notice when you use a dead gal’s ID, I am no longer, now for better or worse I’m Faith Dawson.

Faith Dawson. It’s the name whispered in panic from rogue lips.
Lela Morgan. It’s a name that has been engraved on a tombstone for four years.
Who are they? One in the same.
Lela once was mated. Once was happy. That is until the day it all came crashing down. The day she died.