My Mate Accused Me of Poisoning His Heir

I stop taking the medication on Tuesday morning.

Martha notices immediately. She sets the pill bottle on my nightstand with that look she gets—the one that says she knows exactly what I'm doing and won't try to stop me.

'You'll need your strength,' is all she says.

She's wrong. I don't need strength. I need clarity. The pills dull the pain, but they also dull everything else. The edges of my thoughts go soft, my memories blur. I can't afford that. Not now.

The migraine hits by Wednesday afternoon. It's a living thing behind my right eye, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. I press my thumb against my wrist and count to eight. Then sixteen. Then thirty-two. The pain doesn't stop, but the counting gives me something to hold onto.

I spend the hours mapping the Pack House in my mind. I know every patrol route, every guard rotation, every blind spot in the security system. I've had years to learn them—years of sitting in corners, being invisible, watching.

The East Gate is the answer. It's the most dangerous exit—the path that runs closest to rogue territory, the one that opens onto unstable ground. Jaxson never patrols it himself. He sends the Deltas, and only during daylight hours. After dark, it's considered too risky. Which makes it perfect.

On Wednesday night, I'm in the garden when I hear it. Gia's voice, high and bright, drifting through the open window of the Luna Suite. She's on a phone—not her regular one. I can tell by the way she's speaking, clipped and careful.

'...the full moon,' she's saying. 'Yes. East side. The sensors will be down.'

My hands still on the Moon Lily stem I'm trimming.

She's coordinating something. A rogue attack, most likely. Timed for when the pack is most vulnerable—during the transformation, when everyone's focus is internal, when the Alpha is consumed by his wolf.

She's going to use the chaos to solidify her position. Maybe stage another 'threat' to the pregnancy. Maybe frame someone else. It doesn't matter. What matters is the timing.

I finish with the flowers and wheel myself back inside. Martha is waiting in my room with a bundle wrapped in cloth.

'What you asked for,' she says quietly.

I unwrap it. The herbs inside are pungent, sharp—bloodroot, black cohosh, and something else I don't recognize. Martha's older than she looks. She knows things the younger wolves have forgotten.

'This will mask your scent?' I ask.

'Not mask,' she corrects. 'Change it. Make you smell like...' She hesitates.

'Like I'm already gone,' I finish.

She nods. Her eyes are wet, but she doesn't cry. 'When?'

'Full moon. Stay in the kitchens. Don't come looking for me.'

'Miss Lily—'

'Promise me, Martha.'

She looks at me for a long moment. Then she takes my hand—the one with the bare ring finger—and squeezes it once.

'I promise.'

---

The full moon rises on Friday night. I can feel it even without my wolf—a pull in my chest, an ache in my bones. The pack is restless. I hear them moving through the Pack House, their voices pitched higher, their footsteps faster.

I wait until the transformation begins. The howls start just after midnight, echoing through the walls. Jaxson's is the loudest—a sound that used to make me feel safe. Now it just sounds empty.

I apply the herb mixture to my pulse points. The smell is wrong—decay and earth and something metallic. It makes my stomach turn, but I force myself to breathe through it. This is what I need. This is what will buy me time.

The hallways are empty. Everyone's either transformed or gathered in the main hall, waiting. I wheel myself toward the security room, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.

The door is unlocked. Of course it is. No one expects a threat from inside.

The control panel is old—older than Jaxson's reign, probably older than his father's. I've watched the Gammas use it enough times to know the basics. I find the East Gate sensors and flip the manual override.

The screen flickers. Zone 7: OFFLINE.

I stare at it for three seconds. Four. Five.

This is real. I'm doing this.

I turn my chair and head for the service exit. The wheels are silent on the tile. My hands are steady. The migraine is a white-hot spike drilling through my skull, but I don't care. I'm past caring.

The East Gate is a quarter mile from the Pack House. The path is rough—roots and rocks and mud from yesterday's rain. My arms burn with the effort of pushing through it, but I don't stop.

I'm halfway there when I hear the first explosion.

The rogues. Right on schedule.

Behind me, the howls shift—from transformation to alarm. I hear Jaxson's Alpha command cutting through the chaos, rallying the pack. He'll be focused on the attack. He won't notice I'm gone. Not yet.

The East Gate looms ahead, rusted and ancient. I reach for the latch.

My hand freezes.

Because standing on the other side, backlit by moonlight, is a figure I don't recognize.

And they're holding a silver blade.