My Mate Tried to Bury Me Alive After Rejecting Me

The footsteps above paused, lingered for a second, and then moved away.

I let out a ragged breath. The air down here tasted like damp lime and bitter, crushed weeds. The wolfsbane painted across the baseboards stung my throat every time I inhaled, sending small, hot needles dancing across my skin.

My fingers were shaking, but I didn't drop the burner phone.

They hadn't even bothered to pat me down before dragging me to the sub-cellar. To Gage and his guards, an unawakened Omega was less dangerous than a stray dog. My own smartphone was still tucked deep in the zippered pocket of my fleece jacket.

I swiped the glass of Gage's burner. It wasn't locked. No PIN, no facial recognition. That was Gage—so thoroughly convinced of his absolute control that he never imagined the woman he locked in a dungeon would look inside his hiding spot.

I tapped into his message history. The screen glowed harshly in the pitch-black cellar.

There were two full years of conversations. All with Saige Hughes.

My stomach dropped into a cold pit.

I scrolled through photos, pet names, and promises. *“When she’s gone, the pack will finally have an Alpha female who matches you,”* Saige had texted him three months ago.

Below that were detailed distribution ledgers. Diesel fuel shipments. Emergency grain rations. Border patrol schedules with marked gaps in our southern fence line. Gage had been systematically stripping Ironveil’s reserves and handing them over to Saige’s rival pack to buy their political support. He was bleeding our people dry to pave her way in.

A sharp ache flared along the right side of my neck. Without realizing it, my thumb came up and pressed hard against the dead mate mark. The skin was numb and freezing cold, like touching a piece of dry ice.

I forced my hand back down. Tears wouldn't help me now.

I pulled out my own phone, switched the flash off, and began taking pictures. Click. Click. Click. I captured every text, every timestamp, every transferred account number. My hands were trembling from the herb fumes, but I kept the camera steady.

When I finished, I wiped the burner clean with my sleeve, tucked it back into the cavity behind the iron pipe, and fitted the loose stone back into the foundation.

I had no water. No heat. Wolfsbane was already burning into my lungs. But I had the truth.

I leaned my back against the wall, closed my eyes, and waited.

***

Six hours later, the iron bolts scraped against the outer frame.

The heavy metal door swung open with a screech. Gage walked down the stone steps.

He looked immaculate. His black coat was tailored to perfection, his leather shoes spotless against the filthy concrete floor. The dim overhead bulb caught the sharp angles of his jaw. In his hands, he carried a cream-colored manila folder.

He didn't look at my face. He didn't look at the dirt smeared across my jeans. He just stepped over the yellow wolfsbane line, dragged a wooden stool forward, and tossed the papers down. A sleek black pen landed on top with a clatter.

"Luna Accord waiver," he said smoothly. His voice carried the same flat, procedural tone he used when approving sanitation budgets. "Sign on the third page."

I didn't touch the pen. I pulled the document onto my lap and read every single word.

It was a total surrender. By signing, I would give up all territorial claims to Ironveil land, forfeit any right to pack support, and permanently renounce my maternal custody of Kaiden. It legally classified me as an outcast who had willingly abandoned her family.

He was erasing me. Leaving no loose ends.

I looked up from the paper. My voice was raspy from the fumes, but I kept it completely level.

"Did you write this before or after the bonfire?"

Gage didn't answer right away. But his right hand reached over, and his fingers pinched the starched fabric of his left shirt cuff, pulling it straight.

It was his tell. The little tic I had noticed during the very first month of our mating. He was lying.

He had drafted this weeks ago. The bonfire wasn't an impulse. It was just the execution date.

I pushed the papers back onto the stool.

"I'm not signing it."

Gage’s expression didn't shift. Not a flicker of anger, not a twitch of frustration. That was the most terrifying thing about him—he didn't hate me; he simply considered me an administrative problem to be handled.

He picked up the folder, slid the pen into his breast pocket, and turned toward the stairs.

"The cellar gets cold at night, Naomi," he said quietly, not looking back. "You'll change your mind."

The iron door banged shut. The lock slid home.

***

The punishment began immediately.

No one brought food. No one brought water. By midnight, the faint hum of the heating pipes died completely, leaving the cellar biting, damp, and freezing.

Days bled into one another. Without food or water to dilute it, the wolfsbane in the air settled directly into my bloodstream. My muscles locked up in violent, agonizing cramps. My tongue felt like sandpaper, swollen and thick. Whenever I stood up, my vision greyed out, filled with dark static.

The dead mate mark on my neck pulsed with phantom cold, sending shivering waves of sickness through my heart.

Normally, an unawakened wolf trapped in wolfsbane would simply wither. It would choke and die in the dark.

Mine didn't.

Instead, she fought.

Deep in my chest, beneath the sickness and the poison, something massive began to stir. It wasn't the timid, broken whimper of a weak Omega. It was a dark, boiling heat. A furious, sustained pressure that hit my ribs like a battering ram.

She paced behind my bones, restless and gigantic, snarling at the cold.

Every breath of wolfsbane only seemed to make her angrier. She pressed hard against the underside of my skin, filling my exhausted body with an impossible, terrifying force—a power far too vast to belong to the woman Gage Alvarez thought he had broken.