The Secret Mistress: Poisoning The Alpha's Unborn Heir

Lana POV:

The rain in the city was relentless, washing the neon lights into blurry streaks on the pavement.

I sat in the passenger seat of Jameson's black SUV. The silence between us was thick enough to choke on.

Before we left the hotel, I had done something petty. Something small. I had posted a photo on the Pack's social media page. It was a picture of Jameson sleeping, captioned: My Alpha. Finally at rest.

It was a territorial marker. A digital pissing contest. I wanted Caren to see it. I wanted her to know that legally, publicly, he was mine.

Now, we were parked outside the Witch Doctor's clinic in the supernatural district.

"Let's get this over with," Jameson grumbled, turning off the engine.

We walked in. The air smelled of sage and antiseptic. The Witch Doctor, an old woman with cloudy eyes, prepared the laser and the magical salve.

"This will hurt, Alpha," she croaked. "Removing ink infused with magic requires burning the skin deep."

Jameson sat on the table, shirtless. He looked at me, his eyes challenging. "See? I'm removing it. Because I love you, Lana."

The words were hollow.

Suddenly, Jameson stiffened. His eyes glazed over. He was getting a Mind-Link message.

His face went pale.

"No," he whispered. "Where? Is she bleeding?"

My stomach dropped.

He jumped off the table, pushing the Witch Doctor aside.

"I have to go," he said, grabbing his shirt.

"Jameson, sit down," I said, standing in front of the door. "We are doing this now."

"Move, Lana!" he roared. "It's Caren. Rogues attacked her apartment. She's hurt!"

"The patrol warriors are already there," I said calmly, though my heart was hammering. "I saw the dispatch report on the pack network. She is safe. Sit down and remove the mark."

"She needs me!"

"She is an Omega. The warriors can handle it. You are the Alpha. You are my husband. If you leave now, everyone will know who you really prioritize."

Jameson looked at me with pure hatred. It was a look no mate should ever receive.

He looked around the room frantically. His eyes landed on the tray of instruments.

He lunged.

Before I could react, he grabbed a silver scalpel.

Silver. The bane of our existence. It burns us like acid. It stops our healing.

Jameson pressed the silver blade directly against the tattoo on his chest.

Sizzle.

Smoke rose from his skin. The smell of burning wolf flesh filled the small room.

"Jameson!" I screamed.

He didn't flinch. His eyes were wild, manic.

"If you don't move," he snarled, his voice trembling with pain, "I will cut this piece of flesh out right now. I will dig it out of my chest until I hit my heart. Do not test me, Lana!"

I stared at him in horror.

He was burning himself. He was willing to mutilate himself with silver just to get to her.

This wasn't love. This was obsession. This was madness.

"You're insane," I whispered.

"I'm going to her," he panted, the silver digging deeper. Blood, dark and thick, began to trickle down his ribs.

I stepped aside. I couldn't watch him kill himself.

He dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor, stained with Alpha blood.

He didn't even look at me. He threw the door open and sprinted into the rain. A moment later, I heard the sound of bones cracking and clothes tearing as he shifted into his massive black wolf, tearing down the street toward the slums.

I stood there, shaking. I knew Caren was manipulative, but seeing Jameson like this... it was pathetic. He wasn't a King; he was an addict, and she was his drug.

Five minutes later, my phone buzzed.

It was a photo from Caren.

There were no Rogues in the picture. No blood. No destruction.

She was lying on a couch, a small, superficial scratch on her arm-likely self-inflicted.

Jameson was there. He was in his human form again, kneeling beside her. His head was bowed over her arm.

He was licking the scratch.

In wolf culture, licking a wound is intimate. It is a claiming act. It releases enzymes that soothe pain, but it is also deeply sexual. It says, I will heal you because you are part of me.

Caren: He was so worried. He says his heart hurts when I bleed. Does he ever look at you like that, Lana?

I looked at the silver scalpel on the floor.

No. He had never looked at me like that. He had only looked at me with a blade pressed to his own heart, threatening to die if he had to stay with me.