After My Mate Chose Her, the Lycan King Chose Me

The candles had burned down to nubs, pooling wax onto the linen tablecloth I had imported from Italy for this exact night. The roast was cold. The wine, a vintage red from the year we met, sat uncorked and breathing, turning to vinegar with every passing hour.

Ten years. It was our tenth mating anniversary. A decade of partnership, or so I had deluded myself into believing.

I checked my watch. Midnight. He wasn't coming.

I reached for the bond in my mind, pushing past the static he used to wall me off. Usually, I respected his privacy, but tonight, rage made me bold. I shoved against the barrier, finding a hairline fracture in his concentration. Through it, I didn't feel guilt or work stress. I felt… elation. And the scent of pine mixed with that cloying vanilla.

I didn't bother changing out of my anniversary dress. I grabbed my keys and drove.

The bond led me to the edge of our territory, to a secluded hunting cabin Conor claimed was for "alpha meditation." I parked a mile out and walked through the damp woods, my heels sinking into the mud. Hera remained silent in my head, her grief a heavy stone in my gut.

Through the cabin window, the scene was bathed in the warm glow of the fireplace. Conor stood in the center of the room, holding a champagne flute. Zoya was there, radiant and flushed, wearing a white silk slip that left little to the imagination. She had just shifted for the first time; I could tell by the residual energy crackling in the air. A First Shift ceremony. He had skipped our anniversary to celebrate her puberty.

But that wasn't what stopped my heart.

Conor reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box. Zoya gasped, turning her back so he could fasten the jewelry around her neck. When she turned around, the firelight caught the glimmer of sapphires and silver.

My hand flew to my mouth to stifle a cry. That was my grandmother’s necklace. The one I had worn on my wedding day. The one Conor told me had been lost during the renovations of the Pack House two years ago. He hadn't lost it. He had stolen it, hoarding it like a dragon, waiting for a neck he deemed worthy.

I didn't storm in. I didn't scream. Something inside me, the part that still hoped this was a nightmare, finally died. It withered and snapped, leaving behind a cold, crystalline clarity.

I turned around and walked back to the car.

***

The next week was a blur of silent calculation. Conor barely came home, and when he did, he smelled of her. He offered no apologies for the missed anniversary, only vague excuses about border patrols.

I sat in my office, the glow of the monitor the only light in the room. I logged into the pack’s shared accounts. For a decade, I had poured my personal inheritance—money from my family’s pharmaceutical empire—into the Silver Moon coffers. I had built our infrastructure, our schools, our armory.

I opened the transfer window. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

*"Are you sure?"* Hera whispered. *"This is war."*

*"He declared war when he gave her my history,"* I replied.

I typed in the routing numbers for three offshore accounts in the Lycan Territories, places where Silver Moon jurisdiction meant nothing. With a single click, the numbers on the screen plummeted. Millions of dollars, gone in seconds. The pack accounts were now drained back to exactly what they had been before I arrived: nearly empty.

I stood up and walked to the bookshelf. There, in a crystal case, sat a wooden box of dried Moonflowers. Conor had picked them for me during the Pack Wars, amidst the mud and blood, promising that beauty could survive anywhere.

I took the box to the fireplace. I didn't hesitate. I threw it onto the logs and struck a match. The dry petals caught instantly, curling into black ash. I watched them burn until there was nothing left but smoke.

***

The monthly Pack Gathering arrived two days later. The great hall was packed, the air thick with the scent of roasted meat and ale. I sat at the Beta table, my demotion now public and official, while Zoya sat at the Alpha’s right hand.

Midway through the speeches, Zoya stood up. The room went quiet. She picked up two glasses of wine and walked down from the dais, her hips swaying. She stopped in front of me, offering a glass with a shy, trembling smile.

"Luna Harper," she said, her voice pitching perfectly to sound meek. "I know we got off on the wrong foot. I just… I want to serve the pack. Please, drink with me? For peace?"

The pack murmured their approval. *Look at the sweet girl, trying to bridge the gap.*

I took the glass. I brought it to my nose, inhaling deeply. Beneath the oaky notes of the Merlot, there was a sharp, acrid tang. Metallic and bitter.

Wolfsbane. A high concentration.

She wasn't trying to make peace. She was trying to poison Hera. With my wolf already scarred, a dose this size wouldn't just make me sick—it could kill my spirit entirely, leaving me a human shell.

I looked into Zoya’s eyes. The innocence was a veneer; beneath it, her gaze was predatory. She knew I would smell it. She wanted me to react.

"I won't drink this," I said calmly, setting the glass on the table.

Zoya’s face crumpled. "You… you think I'm dirty?" she sobbed, backing away. "I just wanted to apologize!"

Then, she threw herself backward.

It was a performance worthy of an award. She didn't trip; she launched herself, flailing her arms, and crashed hard onto the stone floor. She curled up instantly, clutching her stomach, screaming a blood-curdling shriek.

"My baby!" she wailed. "She pushed me! She tried to kill my baby!"

The hall erupted.

"NO!"

The roar shook the stained glass windows. Conor leaped from the dais, his eyes glowing a terrifying, demonic red. He didn't look at Zoya. He looked at me.

He moved faster than I could track. Before I could stand, his hand was around my throat, slamming me against the wall. My feet dangled off the floor, my windpipe crushed under his grip.

"You jealous, barren bitch," he snarled, his spit hitting my face. "You try to harm my heir? I will rip you apart!"