After My Mate Claimed Another Luna

Two hours past the Ironveil border, we pulled off the highway and stopped at a quiet motel tucked behind a pine grove. Caden carried the locked case inside and set it on the laminate table under the buzzing fluorescent light.

I popped the brass latches open.

Spread out before me were seven years of my own life. I had drawn every single patrol route by hand. I knew the cadence of the guards, the timing of the shift rotations, and the exact blind spots where my boundary wards thinned out. Next to my ledgers, Caden smoothed out a map of regional rogue attacks he had quietly pulled from the Alpha network.

Red ink marked the Bloodmaw rogue incursions over the last five months. Blue ink marked the patrol shifts Garrett had altered on Warren’s private orders.

I laid the clear tracing paper over the map.

The lines overlapped with disgusting accuracy.

Every single time a Bloodmaw pack unit slipped over our northern ridge, a patrol had been pulled back forty minutes earlier. The gaps were surgically precise. They weren't accidents. They were invitations.

"They only hit areas with zero coverage," Caden said, leaning his hands on the table. His knuckles were pale. "Nobody had that schedule except Warren, Garrett, and the shift leads."

"And Warren wasn't giving it away for free," I said quietly.

My fingers traced the dates beside the wolfsbane vault logs. The timing lined up to the exact hour. Laylah used my Luna seal to pull military-grade wolfsbane from our stores. Two nights later, an incursion occurred, and Warren returned to the pack house smelling like metallic mint and damp ash.

Silver-leaf root.

It was a rare suppressant herb that only grew deep inside Bloodmaw territory. It was used for one thing: killing the natural scent of a werewolf's skin. Warren had traded our warriors' patrol routes and our pack’s emergency wolfsbane to buy illegal herbs from the rogues—all so he could scrub my scent from his skin and hide his Omega in the shadows.

It was bad enough that he broke our bond. But he had traded the lives of his own people to do it.

I took out my black pen and drew a bold red line connecting the vault access records, the rogue crossings, and Warren’s signed patrol authorizations. Personal betrayal was one thing. This was pack treason.

I closed the folder with a dry snap. Then I picked up my phone and dialed a private number.

"Ronald," I said when the line clicked open. "Did you reach the southern camp?"

"I'm sitting outside their perimeter right now, Luna," my private investigator answered. His voice was low over the static. "I'm looking into the records you asked for. Give me two hours."

"Take your time," I said. "Just make sure it's solid."

***

By evening, the mangled mate bond in my chest began to throb.

It wasn't the sharp, biting agony of that morning's phantom teeth. It was an erratic, irritated pulse. Even thirty miles away, I could feel Warren's growing agitation bleeding through the severed channel.

He was suffocating.

I knew the Ironveil pack house better than he did. For seven years, my healing light had seeped into the cedar beams and the granite foundation every time I reinforced the inner wards. My scent—wild honeysuckle and silver birch—was baked into the floorboards. In the training yard, the young warriors fought using the defensive stances I had drilled into their muscle memory.

Warren had thought getting rid of me was as simple as handing me a demotion slip. But now, with me gone, the phantom scent of our bond was clawing at his throat. He couldn't wash it out, no matter how much wolfsbane ointment he rubbed over his skin.

My phone vibrated against the desk. A text from a kitchen maid who had served under me since her first shift:

*Laylah moved three wardrobe trunks into the master suite an hour ago. Alpha Warren is furious. He broke a glass in the study and ordered everyone to stop speaking your name. Garrett told the hall you ran away because you couldn't face the pack. Everyone believes him.*

I looked at the screen and let out a soft, humorless breath.

Let Garrett talk. Let Laylah unpack her dresses in my closet. The higher they built their little tower, the harder they were going to hit the ground.

***

At ten that night, the phone rang again. It was Ronald.

"You were right, Margot," Ronald said without preamble. "Laylah Voss didn't crawl out of the woods as a tragic orphan."

I leaned back in the motel chair. "Go on."

"Her mother is Elara Voss. She's living in a broken-down trailer camp three miles from the Bloodmaw border line. Her sixteen-year-old son, Toby, is with her. They're barely scraping by on odd jobs."

"Put her on," I said.

A moment of rustling followed, then the line crackled as an older woman picked up. Her voice was rasping, worn thin by harsh winters and cheap tobacco, but the sharp bite in her cadence was unmistakable.

"Who's this?" the woman demanded.

"My name is Margot Ashveil. I'm the Luna of Ironveil."

There was a sudden, sharp intake of breath. "The woman Laylah went to?"

"The woman who pulled your daughter out of a ditch, clothed her, and gave her a home," I corrected evenly. "She told us her entire family was slaughtered by rogues."

Elara let out a bitter, raspy laugh that sounded like dry gravel. "Of course she did. Little bitch packed her bag the night she saw your patrol flags near the ridge. Left her sick brother with half a loaf of bread and never looked back. Said she was going to be someone who didn't smell like dirt anymore."

"She’s getting mated on Saturday," I told her. "She’s taking my place beside the Alpha."

Silence hung on the line for three long seconds.

"She thinks she's a queen now?" Elara's voice shook with a mother's cold, festering hatred. "After leaving us to starve in the mud?"

"I have a driver waiting outside your camp," I said calmly. "Clean clothes, hot meals, and private rooms for you and your son. All you have to do is show up on Saturday and look your daughter in the eye."

"I'll do it for free," Elara spat.

"Good. The car will take you to a safe house near the capital."

I hung up, opened the dossier on the desk, and turned to the section marked *Laylah Voss*.

Beneath her forged pack admission papers, I picked up my pen and wrote three words:

*Orphan claim: fabricated.*

I closed the file, tapped the leather edge against the wood, and stood up.

Everything was in place. It was time to go see the Lycan Prince.