When My Mate Rejected Me for His Luna

The SUV stopped. I didn't lift my head. My back was a ruin of silver-brand wounds, each one weeping and raw, refusing to heal the way normal injuries did. My wolf was so silent I couldn't feel it at all—not asleep, not resting, just gone, like it had retreated so deep inside me it might never surface again.

The door opened. Cool night air rushed in. I braced for rough hands, for being dragged out the way I'd been thrown in.

Instead, a woman's voice spoke—low, calm, carrying the kind of authority that didn't need volume. "Carefully. Her back is compromised."

Two sets of hands lifted me, supporting my weight without gripping. They moved me out of the vehicle and onto my feet. My legs shook. I locked my knees, forced myself upright.

I looked up.

The Blackmoor estate rose before me—stone and iron, massive arched windows glowing with warm light, nothing about it suggesting decay or desperation. The grounds were immaculate. Guards stood at attention along the drive, their postures sharp, their uniforms pristine. This was not the household of a dying prince.

The woman who'd spoken stepped into view. Mid-forties, silver threading through her dark hair, wearing a healer's insignia at her collar. Her gaze swept over me—assessing, not pitying.

"I'm Sera Voss," she said. "Court Healer. You'll come with me."

She turned and walked toward the estate's side entrance. I followed because I didn't know what else to do. The two staff members who'd lifted me from the SUV stayed close but didn't touch me again.

Inside, the corridors were wide and clean, lit by sconces that cast steady light across polished floors. No clutter. No signs of neglect. I passed servants moving with quiet efficiency—carrying linens, adjusting flowers in alcoves, nodding respectfully as Sera passed.

She led me up a staircase to the second floor, then down a hall to a set of double doors. She pushed them open.

The quarters inside were larger than any room I'd ever occupied. A four-poster bed with heavy curtains. A sitting area with a fireplace already lit. Windows overlooking the estate grounds. Everything was prepared—fresh linens, a pitcher of water on the nightstand, a robe laid across the foot of the bed.

I stopped in the doorway. "This is—"

"Your quarters," Sera said. She gestured toward the bed. "Sit. I need to assess the damage."

I didn't move. "Where's Prince Rafael?"

"Resting. The curse has weakened him significantly. He'll receive you when he's able." Her tone was matter-of-fact, no hesitation. "Now sit."

I crossed to the bed and lowered myself onto the edge, moving slowly because every shift of my shoulders sent fresh pain radiating through my back. Sera moved behind me. I heard the rustle of fabric, then her quiet exhale.

"Silver-branding," she said. "Deliberate. Precise." She paused. "Who did this?"

I pressed my thumb against the inside of my wrist. "Does it matter?"

"It will." She opened a case on the side table, pulling out jars and cloth wraps. "This will take time to treat. Silver resists normal regeneration. But I have compounds that will help."

She worked in silence, applying cool salves that eased the burning just enough for me to breathe without shaking. When she finished, she wrapped my torso in soft bandages and handed me a small jar.

"Apply this twice daily," she said. "I'll return tomorrow to check your progress."

She left without waiting for a response.

I sat alone in the quiet room, staring at the jar in my hands. Black coffee—hot, not cold—sat on the nightstand beside a plate of bread and cheese. I hadn't asked for any of it.

I drank the coffee. It was exactly how I took it. Black. No sugar.

That first night, I couldn't sleep. My back throbbed. My wolf was still silent. The emptiness where the proto-bond used to be felt like a hollow space in my chest that nothing could fill.

I got up. Walked the corridors. Mapped the layout in my head—staff quarters to the east, kitchens below, the great hall at the center. I noted the shift schedules, the gaps in coverage, the places where efficiency could be improved. It was the only thing I knew how to do. The only language of worth I had.

When I finally returned to my quarters, exhaustion dragged me under.

I woke in the dark to the sensation of careful hands working across my back—not rough, not demanding, just present. Applying the salve with a precision that suggested whoever it was had studied exactly where each burn sat. I tried to surface from sleep, tried to turn my head, but the fog was too thick. I heard no voice. Just the quiet sound of breathing that wasn't mine.

In the morning, the scars felt marginally less raw. A fresh jar of salve sat on the nightstand beside another cup of black coffee—hot, steam rising from the surface.

I stared at it for a long time before I drank it.

Three days passed like that. Sera came each morning to check my wounds. The staff brought meals I didn't ask for. No one demanded anything. No one asked me to manage schedules or negotiate alliances or prove my usefulness.

It was the most unsettling silence I'd ever experienced.

On the third day, word reached me through one of the household staff—a young woman who brought fresh linens and spoke carefully, like she wasn't sure how much I was allowed to know.

"There's been a death," she said quietly. "The former Lycan King. Prince Rafael's grandfather. The memorial gathering is this evening."

I set down the coffee cup. "A memorial?"

She nodded. "Alphas from allied territories. Lycan Council representatives. It's... significant."

She left before I could ask anything else.

I stood at the window, looking out over the estate grounds. Guards moved in formation along the drive. Vehicles began arriving—sleek black cars, wolves in formal dress stepping out and moving toward the great hall.

This wasn't the household of a dying prince.

This was a Court in full operation.

I pressed my thumb against the inside of my wrist and tried to make sense of what I was seeing.

Then I heard it—a voice drifting up from the courtyard below. Familiar. Confident. The kind of voice that had spent three years giving orders I'd turned into strategy.

Cameron Davis had arrived at Blackmoor.

And he had no idea what he was walking into.