My Mate Poisoned Me to Protect His Mistress

I woke to the smell of antiseptic and the cold press of bandages against my shoulder.

The infirmary. Ironveil's pack healer had wrapped the worst of Briar's mauling—three deep gashes that ran from my collarbone to my upper arm, the kind of injury that would scar even after a wolf's accelerated healing kicked in. My left side throbbed with a dull, insistent ache. I shifted against the pillow and felt the pull of stitches beneath the gauze.

Preston sat in the chair beside my bed.

He wasn't pacing. He wasn't holding my hand. He was simply there, his posture upright, his expression calm. In his lap sat a leather folder—the kind the pack healer used for medical documentation—and in his hand, a small glass vial filled with amber liquid.

I recognized it immediately. The wolfsbane tonic. My "healing herbs."

For six months, I hadn't touched it. For six months, I'd poured it into the earth at the base of the tree nearest to where Mia was lost, a private ceremony witnessed by no one. And for six months, Selene's voice had been growing clearer—not words yet, but vibrations, instincts, a low growl of presence that reminded me I wasn't as weak as the pack believed.

Preston leaned forward. "You're awake."

"How long was I out?"

"Eighteen hours." He set the folder on the side table, still holding the vial. "The healer stabilized you. You'll recover fully in a few days."

I nodded. I didn't ask about Briar. I didn't ask why she'd been allowed to walk away after mauling a marked Luna on Ironveil territory. I already knew the answer.

Preston's gaze moved to my shoulder, then back to my face. "The healer prepared a report."

He opened the folder and turned it toward me. I didn't need to read it closely to recognize what it was. The handwriting was too neat—too deliberate. The pack healer's actual reports were always hurried, cramped, written between patient visits. This was someone's careful forgery.

The words jumped out at me anyway: *Exhibits signs of severe emotional instability. Wolf dormancy likely stress-induced. Recommend continued herbal treatment and restricted Luna duties until further assessment.*

"This isn't real," I said quietly.

Preston didn't flinch. "It reflects what the healer observed."

"The healer didn't write this."

"Sarah." His voice was calm. Reasonable. The tone he used when he wanted me to feel like I was the one being irrational. "Briar's father would withdraw the Silverpine alliance if his daughter faced consequences. You understand what that means. Three hundred wolves depend on that partnership. The pack's survival depends on it."

I looked at him. At the man who had claimed me as his fated mate eight years ago. At the mark on my neck that had gone cold three nights ago and hadn't warmed since.

"So this is the cost," I said.

He set the folder aside and held up the vial. "This is for your stability. For the pack's stability. You've been under a great deal of stress. The tonic will help."

He placed the vial in my hand. His fingers were warm. Mine were not.

"Drink it," he said gently. "For your own good."

I lifted the vial to my lips. I met his eyes. And I did not swallow.

The liquid touched my mouth, bitter and familiar, and I let it run down the inside of my wrist onto the sheets where the gauze would hide it. I tilted my head back as though draining the vial, then lowered it and set it on the side table.

"For the pack," I said quietly.

Preston nodded, satisfied. He stood, straightened his jacket, and moved toward the door. "Rest. I'll check on you tomorrow."

He didn't stay. He didn't kiss my forehead or squeeze my hand. He simply left.

The door clicked shut.

I lay still in the infirmary bed, one hand pressed over the bandaged shoulder, the other curled into a fist beneath the blanket. The sheets were damp where the tonic had soaked through. My wrist smelled faintly of wolfsbane.

And then Selene's voice surged through the silence—clearer than it had been in years, the wolfsbane's absence accumulating into something almost coherent.

*He chose her again. He will always choose her. Stop waiting for him to be different and start making him irrelevant.*

I closed my eyes. I recited the Luna Accord's opening clause under my breath, the words I'd memorized by candlelight every night for six months.

*When a marked Luna accuses her Alpha of bond violation before witnesses...*

The adrenaline of the ambush. The cold of the mark. The vial of poison I'd just refused.

None of it broke me.

It calcified me.

Two days later, I used my Luna access to enter the pack records room.

Preston hadn't moved to restrict my title yet. Technically, I still had clearance. The records room sat at the far end of the administrative wing, past Roland's office, past the strategy hall. I waited until midday—when Preston was meeting with the Silverpine delegation and Roland was occupied with patrol schedules—and slipped inside.

The room smelled like old paper and dust. Shelves lined the walls, packed with leather-bound logs dating back decades. I found what I needed within twenty minutes.

The pack healer's actual reports. Her handwriting was unmistakable—cramped, hurried, written in the margins of pre-printed forms. I pulled the reports from the weeks before Briar's attack and laid them side-by-side with the falsified assessment Preston had shown me in the infirmary.

The discrepancy was obvious. Different slant. Different pressure. Different phrasing.

I used the method Cecily had taught me—a healer outside Ironveil's jurisdiction, the woman who had confirmed the wolfsbane in my tonic six months ago and relocated Mia's spirit-tether to sovereign Lycan ground. I photographed both sets of documents using a small camera Cecily had given me, the kind that didn't require a phone or a digital trail. I stored the film in the lining of the gown from Mia's naming ceremony, alongside the pendant receipt and the earlier falsified reports.

Then I pulled the patrol log from the day of Briar's attack.

Three pack members had confirmed my location. Three had seen the wolf tracks. Three had witnessed the mauling and carried me back to the infirmary. Their names were listed in the log, along with their statements.

I copied the page by hand. My penmanship was steady.

I returned the logs to their shelves, checked the room for any sign I'd been there, and slipped back into the corridor.

Roland passed me in the hallway ten minutes later. "Luna," he said, nodding.

"Beta," I replied.

He paused. "Should you be up? The healer said—"

"I needed a walk. I'm feeling better."

He studied my face for a moment, then nodded again and continued down the hall.

I returned to my quarters. I sat at the window with a book in my lap—one of the old histories Preston had given me years ago, back when he still pretended to care what I read.

When Roland checked on me an hour later, the book was open. I was turning pages.

He didn't stay long.

That night, I sat at the window and recited the Luna Accord by candlelight.

*All testimony shall be binding under sovereign law.*

Inside my mind, Selene's voice was a low, steady growl.

*Soon.*