My Mate Accused Me of Poisoning His Heir

The headlights cut through the rain before I hear the engine. I'm still stuck, wheels buried axle-deep in mud, when Jaxson's truck skids to a stop twenty feet from where I sit. The door slams. His boots hit the ground with a sound that carries even over the storm.

I don't look up. I keep my hands on the wheels, even though they won't move, even though my arms are shaking so hard I can barely grip the metal.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

His voice cuts through the rain. Not the Alpha Tone—not yet—but close. I can hear the edge of it, the warning.

'Leaving,' I say. My voice is steadier than I expected.

He's in front of me now, close enough that I can see the rain running down his face, the way his jaw is locked tight. 'You don't get to leave.'

'I'm not your prisoner.'

'You're my mate.' He spits the word like it's poison. 'You're bound to this pack. You don't just—' He gestures at the mud, at my pathetic attempt at escape. 'You can't even make it fifty yards without getting stuck.'

The truth of it burns worse than the cold. He's right. I'm trapped by my own body as much as by him.

He grabs the handles of my wheelchair and yanks it backward. The wheels come free with a sucking sound, and the sudden movement throws me forward. I catch myself on the armrests, but barely. He drags me back toward the Pack House, not walking, not helping—just pulling the chair like it's a piece of luggage he's annoyed to be carrying.

'Jaxson—'

'Shut up.' The Alpha Tone, finally. It hits me like a physical force, and my mouth closes against my will. My wolf is gone, but the bond still responds to his command. I hate it. I hate him.

We reach the service entrance. He shoves the chair through the doorway hard enough that I have to grip the wheels to keep from tipping. Martha is there, her face pale, her hands twisting in her apron.

'Get her cleaned up,' Jaxson says. He doesn't look at me. 'And make sure she understands she doesn't leave this building without my permission.'

He turns to go, and that's when I see it—the way his eyes drop to my left hand. To the ring.

My mother's ring. The one she wore as Luna. The one the pack elders gave me when they forced Jaxson to accept the bond. It's simple—silver band, small moonstone—but it's mine. The only thing I have left of her.

Jaxson's hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. His grip is iron.

'You don't deserve this,' he says.

He pulls. The ring catches on my knuckle, and for a second I think it won't come off, but then it does. He holds it up between us, and the moonstone catches the light.

'This belongs to a Luna,' he says. 'Not a crippled pretender who can't even make it to the border.'

He pockets the ring and walks away.

I sit there, dripping rainwater onto the floor, staring at my bare finger. Martha's hand touches my shoulder, but I can't feel it. I can't feel anything.

---

Two days later, I'm alone in my room when I pull out the burner phone Martha smuggled to me last week. My hands are steady as I dial the number I memorized.

'Thorne Hospice.' Dr. Marcus Thorne's voice is calm, professional.

'It's Liliana Anderson,' I say quietly. 'I need to arrange a transfer.'

There's a pause. 'Are you in immediate danger?'

'Not the kind you're thinking.' I take a breath. 'I have an inheritance. My mother's estate. I want it liquidated and transferred to your facility. For the Wolfless Pups program.'

Another pause. 'Liliana—'

'After,' I say. 'It goes into effect after. Martha will bring you a letter. You'll know when.'

He's quiet for a long moment. Then: 'I understand.'

I end the call and destroy the SIM card. Martha will dispose of the pieces. She's good at that—at making things disappear.

---

The scream comes from the Luna Suite just after dawn.

I'm in the medical wing, restocking supplies, when I hear it. High, panicked, followed by Jaxson's roar. My hands freeze on the bandage roll.

Footsteps thunder down the hallway. The door to the medical wing slams open.

'You.' Jaxson's eyes are wild. 'What did you do?'

I turn slowly. 'I don't—'

'Gia's sick. Vomiting. Shaking.' He crosses the distance between us in three strides. 'She said you brought her tea last night.'

My blood goes cold. 'I didn't—'

'She said you poisoned her.'

The accusation hangs in the air between us. I see it in his eyes—he believes her. He doesn't even question it.

'I haven't been near the Luna Suite in weeks,' I say. My voice is calm. Too calm. 'You know that.'

'You're lying.'

His hand closes around my throat.

The world narrows to the pressure of his fingers, the way my airway collapses, the burning in my lungs. I claw at his wrist, but he's too strong. His eyes glow gold—his wolf is surfacing.

'If anything happens to my heir,' he growls, and his voice is layered now, human and wolf speaking together, 'I will kill you myself.'

The edges of my vision go dark. I can't breathe. Can't think. There's only the pressure and the gold of his eyes and the certainty that this is how I die.

He releases me.

I collapse against the medical cabinet, gasping, my hands at my throat. He stands over me, chest heaving, and for a moment I think he's going to do it anyway. Finish what he started.

But he just turns and walks out.

I sit there on the floor, my throat burning, my hands shaking, and I feel it—the last thread of the bond, the one I've been holding onto despite everything, finally snap.

He would have killed me. He wanted to.

And I don't care anymore.