Rejected By The Alpha, Claimed By The Lycan

Elyse POV

Three days had passed since Elder Marcus froze the Alpha's accounts, and the Shadowcrest Pack House felt like a suffocating tomb.

The tension finally boiled over during dinner in the Alpha's formal dining hall. The long mahogany table was set with heavy pewter cutlery and fine porcelain, but the roasted chicken and salads remained barely touched. The air was thick with Jace's suppressed, agitated Alpha energy, completely polluted by the cloying, sweet scent of Ciera's perfume.

Ciera pushed her plate away with a dramatic sigh. "This chicken is dry. Is this what we're reduced to? Serving peasant food to the Alpha?" She shot me a venomous glare. "Or is this your way of punishing us, Elyse? Still holding a grudge over that ragged tapestry and turning the Elders against Jace?"

Jace rubbed his temples, his golden eyes flashing with exhaustion. "Elyse, please. Just be reasonable. Ciera is going through a hard time right now."

I carefully placed my silver fork down. The sheer audacity of his words extinguished whatever lingering patience I had left.

"She lives in my house, eats my Pack's food, and sleeps with my Alpha, Jace," I said, my voice dropping to a deadly, icy calm that echoed off the stone walls. "How exactly is she struggling?"

The dining room plunged into a dead silence.

Jace's head snapped up. His Inner Wolf, Titan, roared at the blatant disrespect to his authority. He slammed his palms onto the mahogany table, the silverware rattling violently.

"Enough!" Jace bellowed, his chest heaving. He pointed a shaking finger at me, his face twisted in defensive rage. "I haven't touched you out of respect for her! Ciera is my true mate in every way that matters. I should have rejected you a long time ago! I never wanted a *wolfless* mate!"

The word hung in the air, designed to humiliate, to strip away my very identity as a werewolf. Beside him, Ciera smirked, a triumphant gleam in her eyes.

Three years of enduring this political marriage, three years of swallowing my pride, burned to ash in an instant. I felt nothing but absolute, crystalline clarity.

I reached into my clutch and pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope tied with a neat black ribbon. I placed it on the polished wood and slid it smoothly across the table until it stopped right in front of him.

"Happy Anniversary, Jace," I said softly, without a single ripple of emotion.

Jace froze. The furious gold in his eyes vanished, replaced by a sudden, sickening wave of realization and guilt. He had completely forgotten. He stared at the envelope, likely assuming it was a check from my trust fund to save his ruined finances, or perhaps a pathetic letter begging for his affection. He had no idea it contained the legally binding Rejection papers he had already signed blindly days ago.

He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the cream paper.

Suddenly, Ciera let out a piercing gasp. She clutched her stomach, collapsing back into her chair with a dramatic groan. Her trembling finger pointed at her half-empty wine glass, then at me.

"My wine..." she choked out, tears instantly welling in her eyes. "She poisoned me!"

"We all drank from the exact same bottle, Ciera," I stated flatly, not even blinking at her pathetic performance.

But Jace's Alpha instincts—blind, primal, and utterly stupid—took over. He didn't care about logic. He shoved his chair back, completely abandoning the envelope, and scooped the "dying" Ciera into his arms.

"Hold on, baby, I've got you!" Jace roared, sprinting toward the double doors. "Get the Pack Doctor! Now!"

His frantic footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving me alone in the cavernous room.

I stood up slowly. A single drop of red wine had splashed onto the cream envelope during Jace's chaotic exit, leaving a dark, blood-like stain on the paper. I picked it up and walked out into the dimly lit hallway.

Against the wall sat a mahogany console table, holding Jace's black leather briefcase—the one he took to every executive meeting. I unzipped the side pocket, slipped the stained envelope inside, and zipped it shut. A ticking time bomb, waiting for him.

I turned toward the kitchen doorway, where Martha, the loyal head maid, stood trembling, having witnessed the entire spectacle.

"Martha," I said, my tone leaving no room for argument. "Move the packed suitcases from under my bed to the storage room first thing tomorrow morning."

"Luna..." Martha whispered, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

"I'm leaving, Martha," I told her, adjusting my shawl. "Somewhere neither the Silvermoons nor the Blackwoods will ever find me."