My Mate Traded Me to Rogues for His Mistress

The guards didn't speak as they escorted me through the hallways. Not Alexander. Not Marcus. Just two stone-faced Deltas who walked three steps behind me like I might bolt.

Maybe I should have.

The bridal suite was at the end of the east wing, isolated from the rest of the pack house. They opened the door, gestured me inside, and left. I heard the lock click behind them.

Locked in.

The room was beautiful in that cold, expensive way—silk sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the forest, a chandelier that probably cost more than my family's entire cabin. It should have felt like a dream. Instead, it felt like a cage.

I went straight to the bathroom.

The mirror showed me what I already knew. The bite mark on my neck was angry and red, the skin around it mottled with dark veins spreading outward like roots. Black. It was turning black.

I turned on the faucet and scrubbed at it with soap and water, trying to wash away the corruption I could feel seeping into my bloodstream. The water ran pink, then clear, but the mark stayed. The darkness stayed.

My hands were shaking.

I dried off and went back into the bedroom. My luggage sat in the corner where someone had placed it—the single battered suitcase I'd brought down from the mountain. I knelt beside it and dug through the carefully folded clothes until my fingers found the leather sheath at the bottom.

My grandfather's Silver Dagger.

The blade gleamed in the dim light as I pulled it free. It was old, the handle worn smooth from generations of Healers who'd carried it before me. My grandfather had given it to me the night before I left.

"Silver cuts through lies," he'd said. "And through things that shouldn't exist."

I hadn't understood then. I did now.

I slid the dagger under my pillow, making sure the hilt was within easy reach. Then I sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

The hours crawled by. Outside, the moon rose higher, casting silver light across the floor. I could hear distant sounds from the pack house—laughter, music, celebration. They were still partying. Still toasting the new Luna while the Alpha was off comforting his Omega.

I touched the mark on my neck. It throbbed with a dull, sick heat.

The door opened just after midnight.

Alexander stepped inside, and the smell hit me immediately. Jemma's perfume—that cloying, too-sweet scent—all over him. In his clothes. On his skin. He reeked of her.

He closed the door and leaned against it, his eyes unfocused. "You're still awake."

"You locked me in."

"For your own safety." He pushed off the door and moved toward me, his gait unsteady. "This pack house can be dangerous for someone who doesn't know her place yet."

I stood up, putting the bed between us. "Is Jemma's pup alright?"

His expression flickered. "Fine. It was nothing. She just... she needed me."

"On our mating night."

"Don't start." His voice sharpened. "You don't understand the responsibilities I have. Jemma's been part of this pack longer than you. She's—"

"Poisoning you."

His eyes flashed yellow. "I told you to stop saying that."

"It's true. That mark on my neck is already turning black because of what's in your blood—"

"Enough!" He slammed his hand against the bedpost. The wood cracked. "You come here with your mountain superstitions and your grandfather's outdated theories, and you think you know better than me? Than my pack healers?"

I took a step back. My hand brushed against the pillow.

"You're paranoid," he continued, moving around the bed toward me. "Jealous. You can't handle that I have history here, that I have people who actually care about me—"

"I'm trying to save your life."

"By rejecting me at the altar?" He laughed, bitter and sharp. "By trying to humiliate me in front of my entire pack?"

I moved again, but he was faster. His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, yanking me toward him. The pillow shifted, and the silver hilt of the dagger caught the moonlight.

Alexander went very still.

"What is that?" His voice dropped to something dangerous.

"Nothing. It's just—"

He shoved me aside and grabbed the pillow, throwing it across the room. The dagger lay exposed on the white sheets, gleaming and sharp.

"You brought a weapon." He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. "To our mating suite. You brought a silver dagger."

"It's a family heirloom. For protection—"

"Protection." He looked at me, and his eyes were wild. Paranoid. "Or assassination. You were going to kill me, weren't you? That's why you tried to reject the bond. You're working with someone. Who sent you? Which pack?"

"No one sent me! Alexander, please—"

"Don't lie to me!" He was spiraling, the drugs and paranoia feeding off each other. "You show up here, you insult Jemma, you try to break our bond, and now I find a weapon under your pillow—"

"I would never—"

"Shut up." He set the dagger on the dresser, far from my reach, and turned back to me. His expression shifted, smoothing into something falsely calm. "You're just stressed. Overwhelmed. I understand. This is a big change for you."

The sudden shift was worse than the anger.

He walked to the small bar in the corner and pulled out a bottle of champagne. "We should toast. Properly this time. To our union."

"I don't want—"

"It wasn't a request." He popped the cork and poured two glasses. The liquid fizzed and sparkled in the crystal.

I watched him. Watched the way he angled his body, blocking my view of the glasses for just a moment. Watched the slight movement of his hand.

He'd put something in mine.

He turned back with both glasses, offering me one. "To us," he said. "To the future of Silverfang."

I didn't take it.

His jaw tightened. "Camilla. Take the glass."

"What did you put in it?"

"Nothing. You're being paranoid again—"

"I can smell it. Wolfsbane. The same thing that's killing you."

Something dark crossed his face. "Last chance. Take it willingly."

I stepped back.

His eyes flashed. "DRINK."

The Alpha command slammed into me. My hand moved on its own, reaching for the glass. My fingers closed around the stem. No. No, I couldn't—

He pressed his glass against mine. The crystal chimed, delicate and final.

"To our union," he repeated.

And I watched my own hand lift the poisoned champagne to my lips.