Rejected by My Alpha Mate, Claimed by My Royal Fate

I called Healer Maren Ashby at seven in the morning.

She answered on the third ring, her voice still thick with sleep. "Lydia?"

"I need the medical report from the banquet," I said. No greeting. No preamble. "The formal written documentation from your examination. Everything you found."

Silence. Then a shaky exhale. "I—yes. I documented everything. The miscarriage, the trauma, the—" She stopped. "Lydia, there were wolfsbane traces in your bloodstream. Not from a single exposure. The concentration pattern suggested sustained, deliberate long-term poisoning."

My hand tightened on the phone. I already knew. The vials I'd taken from Kendall's kitchen had confirmed it. But hearing it from a licensed pack healer—official, documented, undeniable—was different.

"How long to prepare the signed report?" I asked.

"I can have it ready by this afternoon. I'll bring it to you myself."

"No." My voice came out sharper than I intended. "Send it by courier. Sealed. I'll confirm receipt."

Another pause. "Lydia, I'm sorry. I should have—when I saw you on that floor, I should have done more. I should have—"

"You documented it," I said. "That's what I need."

I ended the call before she could apologize again.

The three vials sat on the motel desk in front of me, lined up precisely. Clear glass. Dark liquid. Evidence. Beside them, I laid out a blank sheet of paper and began drafting the petition in my careful, meticulous hand. Every word measured. Every sentence airtight.

Seraphine stirred inside me, restless and furious. *They poisoned us for months. And he struck us hard enough to kill our pup.*

I know, I told her silently. That's why we're doing this.

The petition took two hours to draft. By the time I finished, my hand ached and the winter sun was climbing through the motel window. I read it over three times, checking for any weakness, any gap someone could exploit.

There were none.

I was sealing the envelope when my phone rang. Unknown number.

I answered. "Yes?"

"Luna—" The voice was female, young, trembling. An Omega. "I mean, Lydia. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be calling, but I thought you should know—"

"Know what?" My pulse spiked.

"Alpha Hayes gave an order this morning. About your dog. Buster." She swallowed audibly. "He said Kendall's wolf feels territorial around him. He ordered him destroyed. The assignment went to Omega Carrick an hour ago."

The phone nearly slipped from my hand.

Buster. My golden retriever. The pup I'd raised from eight weeks old, who slept at the foot of my bed and waited by the door every evening when I came home. The only living thing in Ironvale who had loved me without condition.

"When?" My voice didn't sound like mine.

"I don't know. Carrick left the estate right after he got the order. I'm so sorry. I tried to stall him, but—"

"Thank you," I said, and hung up.

I tried every contact I still had inside Ironvale. Three former staff members. Two junior wolves who had once reported to me. Even the head groundskeeper.

Every call went to voicemail. Every text stayed on delivered, never read.

They'd been told not to answer. Or they were too afraid.

I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in my hand, and felt the fracture inside me widen. Not the bond. Not the miscarriage. Buster.

Seraphine growled low in my mind. *He takes everything. Mate. Pup. Now this.*

I pressed my palms against my eyes. My chest felt hollow. I couldn't breathe right.

Buster was already gone. I knew it. Jonas didn't issue orders he didn't intend to see through.

I don't know how long I sat there. Minutes. Maybe an hour. When I finally lowered my hands, my face was dry. I hadn't cried. I couldn't afford to.

I picked up the petition and slid it into my bag alongside the vials.

If Jonas wanted to take everything, fine. I would make sure he understood exactly what that cost.

---

Dorian Vale stood in Jonas's office, holding a folder he wished he didn't have to present.

Jonas sat behind his desk, fingers drumming impatiently on the armrest. "What now?"

"Riverbend Pack withdrew their border agreement this morning," Dorian said quietly. "That's the fourth pack in a week."

Jonas's hand stilled. "Riverbend? We've had that agreement for three years."

"We have." Dorian opened the folder and set it on the desk. "But if you look at the pattern, Alpha, every pack that's withdrawn had its original relationship built by Lydia. Crescent Ridge. Ember Falls. Northpine. Now Riverbend. She negotiated all of them personally."

Jonas stared at the list. Then he shoved it aside. "Coincidence. They're testing us because they think we're weak after the transition. Send formal letters to all of them. Reaffirm Ironvale's strength. Remind them what we bring to the table."

Dorian hesitated. "Alpha, I'm not sure that will—"

"Do it," Jonas snapped.

Dorian nodded and left.

He drafted the letters that afternoon. Formal. Confident. Unyielding. He sent them to all four packs, plus two others he suspected might be wavering.

Within three days, two more packs sent withdrawal notices.

Jonas called an emergency council meeting and announced he was commissioning a training demonstration—a show of force to prove Ironvale's strength to the region. He authorized the use of war reserves to fund it.

Dorian said nothing. He simply made the arrangements and watched the treasury drain.

Late that night, alone in his office, he pulled up the alliance files and stared at Lydia's handwriting in the margins. Notes. Follow-ups. Small personal touches that had turned business agreements into relationships.

He closed the file and rubbed his face.

He should have said something at the banquet. When Jonas struck her. When the blood spread across the floor.

He hadn't.

And now Ironvale was falling apart, one severed alliance at a time, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.