After My Mate Sold Me to Rogues

The Silverfang Pack's banquet hall was all polished wood and silver candelabras. Six regional Alphas sat at the high table with their delegations fanned out below—wolves in formal dress, the kind of gathering where alliances were made and broken over wine and careful words.

I sat at Caleb's table. Not beside him—that would have been a statement neither of us was ready to make publicly—but close enough that my position was clear. Representative of the Lycan Court's war council. Not a guest. Not a refugee. A strategist with a seat at the table.

Marcus sat to my left. Kieran was across from me, reviewing a patrol report between courses. Caleb was at the head, speaking quietly with the Silverfang Alpha about border coordination. The bond hummed low in my chest, steady and warm. I'd gotten used to it over the past weeks—the constant presence of it, the way it didn't demand anything, just existed.

Bentley sat three tables over with the Ironvale delegation.

Paris was beside him. Chosen Luna, wearing a pale blue dress and a silver circlet that caught the candlelight. She looked polished. Perfect. But there was something off about her scent—I'd noticed it the moment I walked into the hall. The floral notes that used to be so strong were thinner now, with a faint chemical edge underneath. Like perfume that had been reapplied too many times.

She'd seen me when I entered. Her hand had gone to Bentley's arm, fingers tightening. He'd looked up, found me at Caleb's table, and his expression had shuttered completely.

I'd felt nothing. The dead mark on my neck stayed cold. The bond that used to connect us was gone, and in its place was just silence.

Ember had stirred once, a faint flicker of awareness, then settled back into her fragile stillness.

The third course arrived—roasted venison with herbs. Conversation flowed around the hall. Alliances and politics and the careful dance of pack hierarchy. I answered questions when the Silverfang Beta asked about rogue patterns near his territory. Kept my voice even and my information precise.

Paris excused herself halfway through the course.

I noticed because Bentley's head turned to watch her go, and there was something in his expression—concern, maybe, or suspicion. She walked toward the corridor that adjoined the banquet hall, her steps careful and deliberate.

I went back to my conversation with the Silverfang Beta.

Two minutes later, Paris screamed.

The sound cut through the hall like a blade. Every head turned. Bentley was on his feet instantly, moving toward the corridor. Several other wolves stood, hands going to weapons that weren't there—this was a formal banquet, no one carried blades inside.

Paris stumbled back into the hall, clutching her forearm. Her face was twisted in pain, tears streaming down her cheeks. And on her arm—a burn. Angry red, blistering, the kind of mark that came from direct contact with heated metal.

"She attacked me!" Paris's voice was raw, shaking. She pointed directly at me. "Skylar—she—she had something silver, she burned me in the hallway—"

Six Alphas turned to look at me.

I didn't move. Didn't stand. Just sat there with my hands flat on the table and met Paris's eyes across the hall.

Bentley's face went hard. He didn't ask for a healer. Didn't request an investigation. Didn't even look at the corridor to check if there was evidence.

He just looked at me, and his eyes filled with something that looked like vindication.

"Skylar Pierce," he said, and his voice carried the full weight of his Alpha tone. It pressed against every wolf in the room like a physical force. "You have been rejected and expelled from Ironvale for instability. Your presence at this banquet is a threat to regional safety. You are a violent rogue sympathizer, and you will—"

The Alpha tone hit me mid-sentence.

It should have worked. Should have pressed me down, forced submission, made my wolf cower. That's what Alpha tone did—it was a command that bypassed conscious thought and spoke directly to the wolf inside.

But I wasn't bound to Bentley anymore.

The rejection vow had severed that bond. His Alpha tone had no purchase on me. It slid off like water off stone.

Inside my chest, Ember snarled.

It was the most present she'd been since the rejection—a hot spike of rage that lit up the empty space where she'd been curled in silence for weeks. Not a whimper. Not a collapse. A snarl.

I felt her fury like a living thing, and for the first time since Bentley spoke the rejection vow, I felt her fully awake.

I stood slowly. Several wolves around me were already lowering their eyes, responding to Bentley's Alpha tone even though it wasn't directed at them. The pressure in the room was immense.

I rolled up my left sleeve.

The silver burns were still there. Faint now, mostly healed, but visible—thin lines across my wrist where the ceremonial shackles had sat during the rejection ceremony. The shackles Bentley had ordered placed on me while he spoke the vow. The ones that had burned into my skin while the entire Ironvale Pack watched.

I held my arm up so every Alpha in the hall could see.

"These," I said, my voice steady and cold, "are from the silver restraints Alpha Bentley ordered placed on me during our rejection ceremony. In front of his entire pack. Three weeks ago."

The hall went very quiet.

I looked at Paris. Her hand was still clutching her burned forearm, her face pale.

"You want to talk about who uses silver as a weapon?" I said. "Let's talk about it."

Three Alphas stood from their tables. Not to challenge me. To look more closely at the burns on my wrist.

Bentley's face drained of color.

And across the room, Caleb rose from his seat. He didn't use his Alpha tone. Didn't raise his voice. He just stood, and the weight of what he was—Lycan Prince, royal blood, the wolf whose authority superseded every Alpha in this hall—filled the space like a cold wind.

"I think," Caleb said quietly, "we need a healer."