After His Mistress Poisoned the Alpha, I Walked Away

The moonlight bathed the destroyed sanctuary in silver, highlighting the extent of the devastation. My hands trembled as I knelt in the mud, carefully excavating what remained of the Moon-Lily roots. Ten years of work—reduced to a handful of mangled bulbs.

"These might still survive," I whispered to myself, brushing dirt from a partially intact root. "If I can nurse them back to health..."

Silver stirred within me, her presence a comforting warmth against the cold night air. *We should leave, Elena. Something feels wrong.*

"I can't," I murmured, gently placing the salvaged roots in a cloth. "Without these, Carson will—"

A low growl cut through the night.

My head snapped up, eyes scanning the treeline. The sound hadn't come from Silver.

*Danger,* she warned, her anxiety flooding my consciousness.

A pair of yellow eyes gleamed from the shadows between the trees. The rogue wolf emerged slowly, its matted fur hanging in clumps from its emaciated frame. Foam dripped from its mouth as it stalked toward me, drawn by the scent of blood from my scratched hands.

"Get away," I commanded, scrambling backward. My body still ached from Carson's Alpha command, my muscles protesting as I tried to rise.

The rogue lunged forward with surprising speed. I threw myself sideways, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Carson!" I called through our mind link, desperation overriding pride. "Rogue in the sanctuary. Help!"

There was a pause—then his response, cold and dismissive: *Stop seeking attention, Elena. Go to sleep.*

The link went silent. He'd blocked me out.

Panic surged through me as the rogue circled back, teeth bared. Silver howled within me, demanding release, but my weakened state made shifting impossible.

"You won't find what you're looking for here," I said, backing away step by step. "This place is dead."

The rogue snarled, then charged.

I barely had time to grab a glass beaker from my fallen supplies. As the wolf's jaws snapped at my throat, I smashed the container against its face.

The concentrated wolfsbane solution inside splashed across its eyes. The rogue yelped in pain, clawing at its face as the caustic liquid burned.

Seizing my chance, I scrambled to my feet and ran.

A sharp pain tore through my right arm as the rogue's teeth sank into flesh. I screamed, twisting away as its jaws locked tighter.

With my left hand, I grabbed another beaker—larger this time—and brought it down with all my strength. The glass shattered against the rogue's skull, sending it staggering backward.

Blood soaked my sleeve as I clutched my wounded arm. The venom already burned through my veins, sending waves of numbness spreading outward from the bite.

"Not my hand," I whispered, horror washing over me as I realized which arm the rogue had attacked. "Not my hand."

I stumbled through the forest, each step sending fresh agony through my body. The pack hospital—not the Alpha house—became my destination. I wouldn't give Carson or Bria the satisfaction of seeing me broken.

The fluorescent lights of the empty clinic hurt my eyes as I pushed through the doors. The night staff had gone home hours ago, leaving me alone with my injury.

"Let's see how bad it is," I murmured to myself, stripping off my blood-soaked jacket.

The bite was deep—four puncture wounds that had torn through muscle. Purple veins spread outward from the wound, carrying the rogue's venom through my system.

I gritted my teeth and reached for the surgical tools. With my left hand—my non-dominant hand—I cleaned the wound as best I could.

"The nerve," I whispered, probing the damage. "It's severed."

The numbness continued to spread, my fingers tingling then going limp. I tried to grip a scalpel but couldn't close my hand properly.

"I can't operate like this," I said aloud, the reality crashing down around me. "I can't heal like this."

Silver whined within me. *Then we leave.*

"Yes," I agreed, reaching for bandages to cover the wound. "We leave."

I moved methodically around the hospital, gathering only what I needed—bandages, painkillers, a small jar of healing salve. My movements were deliberate, controlled.

From a storage locker, I retrieved a small bag I'd hidden months ago—a contingency plan I never thought I'd use. Inside went a change of clothes, identification documents, and what little money I had saved.

As I sealed the bag, I caught my reflection in a chrome surgical tray. My face was pale, eyes hollow with resignation.

"I won't go to the ceremony tomorrow," I told my reflection. "I won't beg him to see me."

The numbness in my arm had reached my shoulder now, but it was nothing compared to the coldness spreading through my heart.

"I'm done," I whispered. "I'm finally done."