After My Mate Sold Me to His Enemy

The power of the Lycan King hummed beneath my skin, a stark contrast to the hollow agony I had lived with for days. Maxwell held me in the center of the arena, his silver eyes searching mine, before he reached into his tactical vest. He pulled out a small, crushed velvet pouch.

"My spies in Silverclaw are efficient," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against my chest. "They recovered this from the floor of the Alpha House before the cleaners could sweep it away."

My breath hitched. I took the pouch with trembling fingers. I didn't need to open it to know what was inside. The jagged remains of my mother's Moonstone amulet.

"It’s just dust now," I whispered, the old pain pricking at my eyes. "Thatcher destroyed it."

"Open it, Lottie."

I loosened the drawstrings and tipped the contents into my palm. A pile of shimmering blue sand sat against my skin. Suddenly, the fresh bite mark on my neck throbbed, and a single drop of blood—mixed with Maxwell’s saliva and my own essence—fell from my wound onto the dust.

The reaction was instant. The dust didn't clump or muddy. Instead, it hissed, igniting with a soft, ethereal blue light. The particles swirled, rising a few inches above my hand like a miniature galaxy.

I gasped, trying to pull away, but Maxwell caught my wrist, his gaze intense. "Do you know what this means?"

I shook my head, mesmerized by the dancing lights. "It’s… magic?"

"It’s blood memory," Maxwell corrected, a reverence in his tone I hadn’t heard before. "Moonstone only reacts this way to the blood of one lineage. The Crescent Royals. A family thought to be extinct for fifty years."

He gently closed my fingers over the glowing dust. "Thatcher called you low-born. He called you a stray. But this?" Maxwell kissed my knuckles. "This proves you are royalty, Lottie. You outrank him in every way that matters."

A tear slipped down my cheek, but for the first time, it wasn't from sadness. It was vindication.

***

The next morning, the reality of my new position settled in. Maxwell wanted me to rest, to let the bond fully heal my spirit, but my wolf was restless. She didn't want to be coddled. She wanted to bite back.

I found myself at the Royal Training Grounds. The Lycan Elite Guard—men and women twice the size of regular wolves—were running drills. Their movements were synchronized, beautiful, and utterly predictable.

"Your stance is too rigid!" I barked from the sidelines, unable to help myself.

The training stopped. Twenty pairs of silver-flecked eyes turned to me. Viktor, Maxwell’s Beta and a man built like a tank, stepped forward. He bowed his head slightly, but his eyes held a challenge.

"My Queen," Viktor said, his tone polite but patronizing. "These are traditional Lycan forms. They have served us for centuries."

"And they’ll get you killed by a rogue with a rusty knife," I countered, stepping into the ring. I wasn't wearing tactical gear, just leggings and a loose shirt, but I felt the Enforcer instinct snap into place. "Silverclaw Enforcers don't fight for honor. We fight to survive. Attack me."

A ripple of unease went through the guards. "I cannot strike the Queen," Viktor stated.

"That’s an order, Beta," I snapped, dropping into a low crouch. "Come at me."

Viktor sighed and lunged. He was fast, terrifyingly so, aiming a disciplined strike at my shoulder to incapacitate me gently. But I didn't block. I dropped to my knees, sliding through the dirt. As he overcommitted, I grabbed a handful of loose gravel and flung it upward.

"Dirty!" someone shouted.

Viktor flinched, blinded for a microsecond. That was all I needed. I drove my shoulder into his knee, using his own momentum to topple him. As he hit the ground, I didn't let up. I scrambled onto his back, locking my arm around his throat, pressing my pressure point into his jugular.

"Dead," I whispered in his ear.

Silence descended over the training grounds. I released him and stood up, dusting off my hands. Viktor sat up, blinking the grit from his eyes, a slow grin spreading across his face.

"Well," Viktor chuckled, rubbing his neck. "I see why the King chose you."

The guards slammed their fists against their chests—a salute not to a title, but to a warrior.

***

That night, the exhaustion finally claimed me. But sleep brought no peace. The severed bond with Thatcher, though rejected, still had a phantom thread—a jagged nerve ending that hadn't quite died.

I was pulled into a nightmare. Or perhaps, a vision.

I was seeing through Thatcher’s eyes. The view was blurry, tinged with a sickly yellow haze. I looked down at my hands—his hands—and saw them trembling. The golden fur on the back of his knuckles looked dull, thinning and patchy, as if his wolf was rotting from the inside.

*"I accept you, Penny Jones..."* his voice echoed in my head, hollow and unconvincing.

I felt the sensation of teeth sinking into flesh. He was marking her. But instead of the rush of power I had felt with Maxwell—the explosion of gold and warmth—there was nothing. Just a cold, sucking emptiness. It felt like biting into ash.

The scene shifted. I felt his nausea, the rolling sickness of a wrongness deep in the soul. He was in his bedroom, tossing and turning, the sheets soaked in sweat. He sat up, gasping for air, his heart racing with panic.

*"Lottie?"* he whispered into the dark.

He inhaled deeply, desperate. For a second, his brain lied to him. He smelled rain and wildflowers—my scent. He clawed at the empty side of the bed, his eyes wild, seeking the comfort of a mate he had thrown away.

*"Where is she?"* his wolf whined, a pathetic, broken sound. *"Where is the rain?"*

But there was only the cloying, artificial stench of vanilla from the other room. Thatcher fell back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling, the Bond Sickness taking its first real bite out of his sanity.

I woke up in the Lycan King’s bed with a gasp, my own heart hammering. Maxwell was instantly awake, pulling me against his solid, warm chest.

"He marked her," I whispered into the darkness, the horror of the vision fading as Maxwell’s scent grounded me. "He marked her, and he feels nothing."

"Then his hell has begun," Maxwell murmured, kissing the top of my head. "Go back to sleep, my Queen. You are safe here."