After His Luna Poisoned My Wolf, I Became the Lycan Prince’s Mate

The photo came through on my phone just after breakfast. A packmate I barely knew — someone who'd worked supply runs with me years ago — sent it without comment. Just the image.

I stared at the screen.

It was the pack notice board. The decree was typed on official Luna stationery, pinned front and center where everyone would see it.

*By order of Luna Zoe Ashford: Layla Maren is hereby barred from all pack gatherings and communal spaces. Her presence as a rejected Omega disturbs pack harmony. Effective immediately.*

I read it three times. The words didn't change.

I set the phone down on the kitchen table. My hands were steady. That surprised me. I thought I'd shake. I thought I'd feel something sharp and immediate. But all I felt was a dull, distant ache — like pressing on a bruise that had been there so long I'd forgotten it could still hurt.

The morning light came through the window. I'd opened it earlier, like I did every morning now. The air smelled like pine and rain. I sat there for a long time, just breathing.

Then I reached for my journal.

I'd kept it for years. The early pages were full of pack logistics — supply inventories, event schedules, notes on who needed what and when. The invisible work that held Silverfang together. Work no one asked me to do and no one thanked me for.

I flipped past those pages. Found a blank one. And I started writing.

Not logistics this time. Names. Dates. Tasks. Every single thing I'd done for Silverfang across eight years. The supply archives I organized that saved the pack thousands in lost inventory. The events I coordinated. The gaps I filled when no one else stepped up. The hours I spent making sure everyone else's lives ran smoothly while mine fell apart in the margins.

I wrote for two hours. My hand cramped. I kept writing.

I didn't know why I was doing it. I just knew I needed to see it. All of it. Written down. Real.

When I finally stopped, the page was full. I closed the journal and set it aside. My coffee had gone cold. I drank it anyway.

Outside, I heard the rhythmic thud of the axe. Elio was chopping wood again. He did that most mornings. I watched him through the window sometimes. The steady swing. The way he moved like he had all the time in the world.

I stood and walked to the sink. Washed my cup. Dried it. Put it back on the shelf.

The decree didn't surprise me. That was the worst part. I'd known, somewhere deep down, that Zoe wouldn't stop. That Conor wouldn't intervene. That the pack would let it happen.

I'd just hoped I was wrong.

That evening, I needed a pen.

I checked the drawer in the kitchen. Empty. I walked down the narrow hallway to Elio's room. The door was open. He was outside somewhere — I'd heard him leave an hour ago.

I stepped inside.

The room was sparse. A bed with a plain gray comforter. A single chair by the window. A small shelf against the wall with a few books, a hunting knife, and a stack of folded clothes.

I scanned the shelf for a pen. My eyes caught on something else.

A yearbook.

It was old. The cover was scuffed, the spine cracked. I recognized it immediately. Silverfang High. My senior year.

I pulled it off the shelf. Flipped it open.

The first page was the usual group shots. The football team. The student council. I turned the page.

And stopped.

There I was. A candid photo from the homecoming game. I was in the stands, laughing at something someone had said. My hair was pulled back. I looked happy.

And there, at the edge of the frame, slightly out of focus, was Elio.

He wasn't looking at the camera. He wasn't looking at the game. He was looking at me.

I turned the page.

Another photo. Graduation day. I was walking across the stage, diploma in hand. Elio was in the back row of the audience. Looking at me.

Another page. The talent show. I was on stage, singing. He was in the shadows near the side exit. Looking at me.

I kept flipping. Page after page after page. Four years of candid photos. And in every single one that had me in it, Elio was there. Always at the edge. Always out of focus. Always watching.

Not the event. Not the crowd. Me.

My hands started to shake.

I sat down on the edge of his bed, the yearbook open in my lap. My chest felt tight. My wolf stirred — not a flicker this time, but a deep, rolling presence that pushed against my ribs like she was trying to tell me something I should have known all along.

Eight years.

He'd been there for eight years.

I closed the yearbook. Set it on the bed beside me. Stared at the wall.

I thought about the jacket he'd wrapped around my shoulders in the stairwell. The coffee he made every morning without asking. The way he'd carried me out of the pack house when no one else even looked. The quiet, steady presence that had held me together when everything else fell apart.

I thought about the gold flash in his eyes. The way he'd said *I'll tell you, but not tonight.*

And I thought about my wolf. The way she woke not for Conor, but for him.

I didn't hear the door open. I didn't hear his footsteps.

"Layla."

I looked up.

Elio was standing in the doorway. His eyes went to the yearbook on the bed. Then to me.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, waiting.

I picked up the yearbook. Held it up so he could see.

"How long?" I asked. My voice was steady. Quiet.

He didn't pretend not to understand.

"Eight years," he said.

The air between us felt heavy. Charged. Like something enormous was about to break open and neither of us knew how to stop it.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked.

He stepped into the room. Closed the door behind him. Sat down in the chair by the window and leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees.

"Because you were scent-locked on Conor," he said quietly. "And I wasn't going to force you to choose."

I stared at him. "You knew."

"I knew the first day of sophomore year."

My wolf pushed harder against my ribs. I pressed my hand to my chest. "Your wolf recognized me."

"Yes."

"And you just... buried it."

"Yes."

"For eight years."

"Yes."

I didn't know what to say. The weight of it — eight years of silence, eight years of watching, eight years of choosing me without ever asking me to choose him — was too much. Too big.

"Layla," he said. His voice was rough. "I need you to understand something. I never asked you to see me. I just needed you to be safe."

I looked at him. Really looked at him. The scar on his jaw. The tired lines around his eyes. The way he sat like he was holding himself together by sheer will.

"I see you now," I said.

His breath caught. Just for a second. Then he nodded.

We sat there in the dim light of his room, the yearbook open between us, and everything I thought I knew about my life rearranged itself into something I was only beginning to understand.