My Mate Drugged My Wolf for His Mistress

I walked until my legs stopped being legs.

The borderlands stretched flat and gray under a moon I could not feel anymore. My father's journal was pressed against my ribs. The drive was still in my pocket. My mark was a dead scar under my collar, cold the way metal gets cold—not from temperature but from the absence of anything living.

I had no destination. Rogues don't get destinations. They get distance.

Somewhere behind me, hours ago, the Summit hall had emptied. Landon would be sleeping beside Ariana now, her fake scent filling the room, the wolfsbane in her system keeping the illusion alive. My hymns would still be filed under her name. The pendant would still be around her throat.

I kept walking.

My wolf did not stir. She had folded the moment the rejection vow landed, and the silence where she used to be was so complete it felt like I had imagined her. Maybe I had. Maybe I had imagined all of it—the bond, the mark, the three years I spent believing my sacrifice was building something that belonged to both of us.

My knees buckled. I did not decide to stop. My body simply ran out.

I hit the dirt hard, palms first, then knees. The journal slid from my grip. I stayed there, on all fours, breathing like I had been running. I had not been running. I had been walking very slowly for a very long time.

I pressed my forehead to the ground. The dirt smelled like nothing. I waited for something—grief, rage, the wolf clawing her way back. Nothing came.

Then, without choosing to, I started humming.

It was not a hymn I recognized. The melody was unfinished, raw, the kind of fragment I used to scribble in the journal's margins when I was too tired to shape it into something usable. My voice cracked on the second phrase. I kept going. The sound felt like the only thing I still owned.

My wolf did not respond. The melody continued anyway.

I do not know how long I stayed like that—face in the dirt, humming a song no one would ever hear. Long enough for the moon to shift. Long enough for my throat to go dry.

Long enough for someone to find me.

***

I heard boots first. Multiple pairs. Then they stopped.

A voice, low and precise: "Hold position."

I did not lift my head. If they were going to kill me, I did not have the energy to stop them. If they were going to leave me, that was fine too.

The boots came closer. One pair. Slow, deliberate steps that stopped three feet from where I was kneeling.

A pause. Then the voice again, quieter now, like he was talking to something easily startled.

"You are on Lycan territory. You are under the Crown's protection. No one will touch you."

I opened my eyes.

The first thing I saw was the ground. Dirt, small stones, a piece of dried grass near my hand. Then boots—black, military-grade, spotless despite the terrain. I followed the line of them up. Dark tactical pants. A long coat that moved slightly in the wind. Broad shoulders. And a face that was watching me with an expression I could not read.

He was crouched now, eye-level with me, close enough that I could see the faint scar along his jaw. His eyes were pale gray, the kind that looked silver in certain light. He was not smiling. He was not frowning. He was just—present. Completely, carefully present.

He did not reach for me. He did not move at all.

"Can you stand?" he asked.

I tried. My legs shook. I made it halfway before my knees gave out again.

He caught me—one hand under my elbow, steadying without gripping. His touch was brief, clinical, gone the moment I had my balance.

"I'm going to take you to our healers," he said. "You will not be questioned. You will not be touched without your consent. Do you understand?"

I nodded. I did not trust my voice yet.

He straightened and turned slightly toward the others—three wolves in identical tactical gear, standing at a distance with their eyes carefully averted. "Prepare a transport. Healers' quarters, not the throne room. Inform Maren Sollis directly. No one else."

One of them nodded and moved immediately.

The man in front of me looked back. His gaze went briefly to my neck—to the mark, cold and dead under my collar. Something shifted in his expression. Not pity. Something sharper.

"My name is Caelan Ashford," he said quietly. "Lycan Prince. You collapsed on Crown land, which means you are under my authority now. That authority will not be used against you."

I stared at him. Lycan Prince. The words should have meant something. They felt distant, like information that belonged to someone else's life.

He waited. When I did not respond, he continued.

"The healers will examine you. After that, you will have three days before anyone asks you anything. If you want to speak, you can. If you want silence, you will have it."

My throat tightened. I managed two words. "Why three?"

"Because that is what you need," he said simply.

Behind him, a vehicle pulled up—sleek, black, quiet. One of the guards opened the back door.

Caelan stepped aside, giving me a clear path. He did not guide me. He did not touch me again. He just waited.

I picked up my father's journal from the dirt. My hands were shaking. I walked to the vehicle on legs that did not feel like mine and climbed inside.

Caelan got in on the opposite side, keeping the space between us deliberate and wide. The door closed. The vehicle moved.

I looked out the window at the borderlands disappearing behind us. My mark was still cold. My wolf was still silent.

But for the first time since the rejection vow, I was not walking alone in the dark.

I pressed the journal against my chest and let my eyes close.