After His Mistress Poisoned My Omega Pup

Three seconds.

That's how long I let the silence hold after Skylar closed my journal. Three seconds where every wolf in the hall watched me. Waiting for the collapse. The tears. The begging.

I pressed my thumb against my bare neck one last time. Then I dropped my hand.

"I invoke my right to a formal Pack Tribunal under Lycan Council authority," I said.

My voice was level. Clear. The kind of voice I'd used to brief strategy sessions during Ironvale's reconstruction—reporting facts, not performing emotion.

The hall went very still.

Skylar's expression didn't change. But something flickered behind her eyes. Just for a moment.

One of the Council representatives in the gallery above leaned forward. An older wolf with silver at his temples. "That's an unusual request from someone of your... status."

I looked up at him. "My status is advisor to the Nighthollow Court. And the accusation made against me concerns territorial security and mate bond integrity—matters that fall under Council jurisdiction, not individual pack authority. I'm invoking the legal mechanism that exists precisely for this situation."

The representative's eyes narrowed slightly. Not hostile. Assessing.

Beside me, Chandler shifted. Not standing. Not speaking for me. Just—a subtle movement that drew every Alpha's attention to the fact that he was there. Present. The Lycan Prince who had brought me into this hall as his Court's strategic advisor.

He inclined his head toward the Council representatives. Once. A gesture that said: the request carries Nighthollow's formal weight.

The silence stretched longer.

Then the representative nodded. "The Tribunal is granted. Three days from now. Neutral territory. Full Council adjudication."

The murmur that went through the hall was immediate. Shocked. A wolfless omega—or whatever I was—demanding a Tribunal. Unprecedented.

I sat down. My legs felt distant. My hands went to the files in front of me, shuffling papers I wasn't actually reading, just needing something to do with the energy that had nowhere else to go.

Across the hall, Seth's hand was still pressed against his neck. His face had gone very pale. He was staring at me like he'd never seen me before.

I didn't look back.

Skylar remained standing for a moment longer. Then she sat, placing my journal carefully on the table in front of her. Claiming it. Evidence for the proceedings to come.

I pressed my thumb against my bare neck again and went back to my notes.

---

I spent the next three days in the Nighthollow archives.

Not hiding. Working.

I pulled every document I'd kept from my years at Ironvale. Alliance proposals I'd drafted. Training schedules I'd authored. Financial records showing my personal funds—every coin I'd scraped together from odd jobs and saved—invested in the pack house reconstruction. I cross-referenced everything. Annotated it. Had neutral witnesses from the archive staff certify the dates and authenticity.

By the second day, I had a stack two inches thick.

But that wasn't the document I placed on top.

The veterinary analysis sat at the center of my submission. Clinical. Precise. Tissue samples preserved from Buster's body before I'd left Ironvale, analyzed at Nighthollow's healer facility. The report confirmed silver traces in concentrations consistent with deliberate, sustained poisoning. Not accidental contamination. Not environmental exposure.

Deliberate.

I'd commissioned the analysis the week I arrived at Nighthollow. Not because I'd planned to use it. Just because I needed to know. Needed confirmation that what I'd suspected—what I'd felt in my gut when Buster started getting sicker, when Skylar's smiles got sharper—was real.

Now I placed the report on top of the stack and stared at it.

My hands were steady.

---

The night before the Tribunal, I couldn't sleep.

I stood in the studio long past midnight, staring out at the sea. The moon was full. Silver light poured through the three walls of windows. No darkness anywhere.

My thumb pressed hard against my bare neck. The skin was smooth. Unmarked. No bond-scar. No claim. Nothing.

I didn't hear Chandler enter. I just felt his presence at the edge of the room, the way I always did now. Not intrusive. Just—there.

He crossed to the window and stood beside me. Not touching. Not speaking. Just present.

We stood in silence for a long time.

Eventually, without looking at him, I said: "I don't know if it will come. The wolf."

My voice came out flat. Factual. The way I reported strategy assessments.

Chandler was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "It doesn't have to come tomorrow for you to win tomorrow."

I looked at him.

His eyes were steady on mine. Not pitying. Not commanding. Just—certain.

Something in my chest shifted. Not the bond-ghost. That was still cold and silent. Something newer. More tentative. Something I didn't have a name for yet.

I turned back to the window.

This time, I didn't press my thumb against my neck.

We stood there together until the moon set and the first gray light of dawn touched the horizon. Then Chandler left without a word, and I went to gather my files.

The Tribunal convened at noon.

I walked into the neutral territory hall with my submission in hand, my spine straight, and my neck bare. The Council representatives sat in a semicircle at the front. Skylar stood at the accusation podium, my journal open in her hands.

Seth sat in the gallery. His hand pressed against his neck. His wolf must have been howling.

I took my place at the respondent's table.

The lead Council representative called the session to order. "The accused may present her defense."

I stood. Placed my two-inch stack of documents on the podium. And at the very top, where every wolf in the room could see it, I set the veterinary analysis.

Then I opened my mouth—

And the first crack of pain hit me like lightning down my spine.