When His Luna Tried Poisoning Our Daughter

I ran through the corridors with Lily convulsing in my arms, her small body arching against my chest, foam gathering at the corners of her mouth. The healer's ward was on the second floor. I took the stairs three at a time, my breath tearing out of me in ragged gasps, my vision narrowing to a single point: get her there, get her there, get her there.

The healer looked up when I burst through the door. Her eyes went wide.

"Wolfsbane," I said. My voice came out raw, stripped of every layer I had built over eight years. "Concentrated. She's been poisoned."

The healer moved fast. She cleared the examination table with one sweep of her arm and gestured for me to lay Lily down. I set her on the table as gently as I could, but Lily's back arched again, her spine bending at an angle that made my stomach drop.

"How much?" the healer asked. She was already reaching for the tincture cabinet, her hands moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done this before.

"I don't know." My hands were shaking now. I pressed them against the table's edge to steady them. "She ate the stew. The Omega meal service. Someone put it in the stew."

The healer's jaw tightened. She pulled out a small vial of clear liquid and uncorked it with her teeth. "Hold her down."

I pressed my hands against Lily's shoulders. Her eyes were rolled back, showing only white. Her small fists clenched and unclenched against the table.

The healer poured three drops of the tincture into Lily's mouth. Then she stepped back and waited.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Lily's convulsions slowed. Her breathing evened out. Her eyes fluttered closed.

I let out a breath I had not realized I was holding.

"She'll need to stay here overnight," the healer said quietly. "The tincture will counteract the wolfsbane, but I need to monitor her vitals. If there's any—" She stopped mid-sentence. Her head turned sharply toward Lily, her nostrils flaring.

I knew what she was scenting before she said it.

The wolfsbane suppression had been destabilized. The concentrated dose had burned through the careful chemical balance I had maintained for seven years, and now Lily's true scent was rising through the compromise like smoke through cracked stone.

Alpha blood. Strong. Unmistakable.

The healer's eyes went wide. She looked at me, then back at Lily, then at me again.

"That's—" She did not finish the sentence. She did not need to.

I said nothing. There was nothing to say. The secret I had been suppressing with poison for seven years was now visible to anyone with functional scent receptors. Within two hours, every wolf in Duskhollow would know that the Omega's daughter carried bloodline that had no business in Omega quarters.

The healer cleared her throat. "I'll... I'll keep her here. For observation."

"Thank you," I said quietly.

I sat down in the chair beside Lily's bed and took her small hand in mine. Her breathing was steady now. Her face had lost the terrible pallor it had carried during the seizure. She looked like she was sleeping.

I did not leave the ward for three hours.

*

Angel arrived just after sunset.

I heard his footsteps in the corridor before I saw him — the particular cadence of an Alpha who does not ask permission before entering a room. The healer stood quickly, her posture straightening, her head tilting in the instinctive deference that Alphas command without trying.

"Alpha Dunn," she said. "I wasn't expecting—"

"I was informed of the poisoning." His voice was flat, controlled, the tone of a man who had been holding himself together through sheer force of will. "I need to see the child."

The healer glanced at me. I did not move. I kept my hand on Lily's and my eyes on her sleeping face.

"Of course," the healer said. She stepped aside.

Angel crossed the room in four strides and stopped at the foot of Lily's bed.

Then he inhaled.

I watched it happen. I watched his entire body go rigid, his shoulders locking, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His eyes widened. His mouth opened slightly, as though he wanted to speak but had forgotten how.

He scented her.

Ironveil Alpha blood. His blood. Overlaid with jasmine.

The recognition was immediate and total.

For thirty seconds, his wolf went completely silent. I could see it in the way his aura collapsed inward, the way his breathing stopped, the way every muscle in his body froze as though his mind had simply shut down and left his body standing there alone.

Then the keening started.

It was not a sound I had heard from him before. Not in six months of loving him, not in the eight years since. It was raw, animal, a grief so deep it bypassed language entirely. His wolf was howling inside his chest, and the sound was tearing him apart from the inside out.

The healer left the room.

Angel dropped to his knees beside Lily's bed.

He did not speak. He did not reach for her. He simply knelt there with his hands pressed flat against the floor, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking.

I watched him.

I had imagined this moment for six years. I had planned for it, prepared for it, rehearsed my response in the dark until I could deliver it without hesitation. But now that it was here, now that he was on his knees beside our daughter with his composure destroyed, I felt nothing.

No satisfaction. No vindication. No echo of the love I had once carried for him.

Just the cold, empty space where those things used to be.

An hour passed. Lily slept. Angel did not move.

Finally, I spoke.

"Leave the ward."

My voice was quiet. Even. The same voice I had used to serve wine, to scrub floors, to answer questions I had no obligation to answer.

Angel lifted his head. His face was destroyed — eyes red, mouth trembling, the Alpha mask stripped away entirely. He looked at me as though I were the only thing in the room that could tell him what to do.

"Everly—"

"Leave the ward," I said again.

He stood slowly, his movements unsteady, his hands still shaking. He looked at Lily one more time. Then he turned and walked toward the door.

He stopped in the doorway without turning back.

"I didn't know," he said. His voice cracked on the last word.

I looked down at Lily's hand in mine.

"I know," I said.

He left.

I sat in the chair beside my daughter's bed and listened to the sound of his footsteps fade down the corridor. The healer returned a few minutes later, her expression carefully neutral, and checked Lily's vitals without speaking.

Lily's breathing was steady. Her color had returned. The Alpha-blood scent hung in the air like smoke, undeniable, exposing everything I had spent seven years hiding.

I did not let go of her hand.

Outside the ward, in the corridor, I heard voices rising. Whispers. Questions. The specific cadence of pack gossip moving through a house that had just learned something it was not supposed to know.

The stage was no longer mine to control.

It had been set.