My Alpha Let His Mistress Murder My Mother

The wolfsbane made time strange. Hours stretched into days, or maybe minutes. I couldn't tell anymore. The injection came every morning—or what I thought was morning. A healer in scrubs would unlock my cell, grip my arm, and press the needle into my vein. The burn spread fast, silver fire through my blood, and my wolf would whimper and retreat deeper inside me until I couldn't feel her at all.

I stopped counting days after the first week. What was the point? Dereck wasn't coming. No one was.

The cell was concrete. Grey walls, grey floor, a metal cot bolted to the corner. A single fluorescent light buzzed overhead, never turning off. The only break in the monotony was the slot in the door where they shoved a tray of food twice a day. I ate because my body demanded it, not because I cared.

But then I heard the growling.

It came through the wall to my left. Low, feral, barely more than a vibration in the concrete. At first I thought I'd imagined it—another trick of the wolfsbane fog. But it came again. And again. A wolf in pain, fighting something I couldn't see.

I pressed my palm against the cold wall. "Hello?"

Silence.

I tried again the next day. And the day after that. My voice felt strange, unused. "Is someone there?"

Nothing.

On the fourth day—or maybe the fifth—I gave up asking questions. I just started talking. About my mother. About the video. About Dereck's face when he told me to trust him, and how that trust had killed her. The words spilled out, raw and broken, and I didn't care if anyone heard. I needed to say them. Needed to prove I still existed.

The growling stopped.

Then, after a long stretch of silence, a voice came through the wall. Rough, cracked, like it hadn't been used in months. "They lied to you."

I jerked upright on the cot, my heart slamming against my ribs. "Who—"

"Your Alpha," the voice said. "They all lie. It's what they do."

My throat tightened. "Who are you?"

Another pause. Then: "Maverick."

The name meant nothing to me, but the way he said it—flat, detached, like he'd forgotten it belonged to him—made my chest ache. "Why are you here?"

"My father put me here." His tone didn't change. "I refused to be his weapon. So he made me disappear."

I stared at the wall, trying to picture the wolf on the other side. "Your father?"

"Lycan King." He said it like a curse. "Doesn't matter now. I've been here long enough that I barely remember what the sky looks like."

My wolf stirred faintly, a flicker of recognition at the word Lycan, but the wolfsbane smothered her before she could surface. I swallowed hard. "How long?"

"Months. Maybe a year. Hard to say." He exhaled, the sound scraping through the concrete. "What about you? What did you do to end up in here?"

"I told the truth," I whispered. "And my mate didn't believe me."

Maverick didn't respond right away. When he did, his voice was quieter. "Then he's a fool."

Something inside me cracked. I pressed my forehead against the wall and closed my eyes. "They killed my mother. And he let them."

"I'm sorry." The words were simple, but they carried weight. Like he understood what it meant to lose everything. "You didn't deserve that."

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

After that, we talked every day. Small things at first. He told me about the throne he'd walked away from, the father who valued power over blood. I told him about my mother's pendant, the way Dereck had crushed it under his boot like it was nothing. Maverick described the northern woods beyond Greyhaven's walls, the sound of wind through pine trees, the way moonlight looked on snow. I clung to those images, let them fill the grey void the wolfsbane left behind.

He never asked why I was really here. Never pushed for details I wasn't ready to give. He just listened. And when the silence stretched too long, he'd start talking again, his voice a thread pulling me back from the edge.

"There's a drainage system," he said one night—or maybe it was day. "Beneath the compound. Old tunnels that lead to the woods. The guards don't patrol them anymore. Too narrow."

I opened my eyes. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you're going to need it," Maverick said. "When the time comes."

"When what time comes?"

He didn't answer.

But something in his tone had shifted. There was an edge to it now, sharp and deliberate. Like he'd made a decision.

I pressed my hand against the wall again, wishing I could see his face. "Maverick?"

"I've been mapping this place for months," he said quietly. "Guard rotations. Injection schedules. Weak points. I was waiting for the right moment. But I think—" He paused. "I think the right moment just found me."

My pulse quickened. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying we're getting out of here." His voice was steady now, certain. "Both of us. Soon."

I wanted to believe him. Wanted to feel hope. But the wolfsbane had stolen that too. "They'll catch us."

"Maybe," Maverick said. "But I'd rather die trying than rot in this cell."

I closed my eyes and let his words settle over me. For the first time since Dereck had thrown me in here, I felt something other than despair.

I felt anger.

And anger, I was learning, could burn just as bright as hope.