When My Mate Rejected Me, the Lycan Prince Claimed Me

The wolfsbane had thinned my blood until I could feel it moving sluggish through my veins, thick as cold honey. My hands shook when I tried to hold anything heavier than a cup. The medic—a rogue named Garrett with breath that always smelled like cheap whiskey—had noticed the tremor and laughed, told Viktor I'd be worthless for sale within the month if they kept dosing me this heavy.

Viktor had shrugged. "Then we'll use what's left before it spoils."

I filed that too.

Three weeks in the cage taught me things medical school never covered. How to feign unconsciousness so convincingly that guards would drag me by the ankles without checking my pulse first. How to vomit on command by pressing my tongue against the back of my throat just right. How to let my eyes roll back until only the whites showed, a trick that made even the cruelest rogues hesitate before touching me, like I might be contagious.

I mapped their routines with the same precision I used to map veins for IV placement. The night guard, Marco, always dozed off between two and three AM, chin dropping to his chest, rifle slack across his knees. The day shift overlapped for exactly seven minutes at dawn, both guards distracted by the shift-change conversation. And Garrett—Garrett drank heaviest on Tuesday nights, after Viktor distributed the week's liquor rations, and he always left the infirmary padlock hanging open when he stumbled back to check supplies.

Tuesday came.

I waited until the evening labor shift—hauling water from the pump to the kitchen bunker, a task they gave to the weakest captives because it didn't matter if we collapsed halfway. I made it three trips. On the fourth I let the bucket slip from my shaking hands, let my knees buckle, and went down hard on the frozen ground.

Two guards dragged me upright. I made my body dead weight, head lolling, breath shallow and fast. One of them swore and shook me. My eyes stayed rolled back.

"Get Garrett," the other one said. "She's overdosing."

They dropped me in the dirt outside the infirmary tent. Through my lashes I watched boots walk away. Heard the distant shout for the medic. Counted my own heartbeat. Sixty seconds. Ninety.

Garrett stumbled out of the tent alone, no backup, whiskey-clumsy and annoyed. He crouched over me, fingers fumbling for my wrist to check my pulse, and I moved.

The silver scalpel was in my hand before he registered I was conscious. I pressed the flat of the blade against his throat hard enough to dimple skin, and his whole body went rigid.

"Keys," I whispered. My voice was steady. My hands were not. "Eastern perimeter. Now."

He tried to pull back. I let the blade bite just enough to draw a thin red line, and he froze again, breath coming fast and panicked through his nose.

"I will cut your carotid before you finish screaming," I said quietly. "I know exactly where it is. I'm a healer."

He believed me.

We walked. I kept the scalpel pressed to the soft place under his jaw, one hand fisted in the back of his collar, and we moved through the camp like we belonged there—a medic helping a sick captive to the eastern infirmary for treatment. No one looked twice. The perimeter fence loomed ahead, chain-link topped with razor wire, and Garrett's hands shook so hard he dropped the key ring twice before he got the padlock open.

I shoved him back through the gate the moment it swung wide. Grabbed the surgical shears from the infirmary supply pouch I'd tied into my gown. Cut through the chain-link in three places, fast, the metal screaming as it parted.

Behind me, Garrett was shouting now. Alarm rising. Boots pounding.

I ran.

The forest swallowed me whole. Frozen ground tore my bare feet open within the first hundred yards, blood painting my trail in the snow, but I didn't stop. Couldn't. The wolfsbane made every step feel like drowning, my lungs burning, vision doubling at the edges. Somewhere behind me wolves were howling—rogue trackers, already on my scent.

I ran anyway.

My wolf slammed against the inside of my ribs so hard I stumbled. She was closer now than she'd ever been, hot and furious and enormous, clawing at the chemical leash with everything she had. I felt her rage bleed into mine, felt her strength trying to pour into limbs that couldn't hold it yet.

*Not yet,* I gasped inside my own chest. *Wait—*

But she was done waiting.

The ravine appeared suddenly, rock walls rising on three sides, no exit forward. I skidded to a halt, chest heaving, and spun back the way I'd come.

Three wolves stepped into the ravine mouth.

They were bigger than normal pack wolves, scarred and lean, eyes flat with the kind of certainty predators get when they've cornered prey. They spread out slowly, blocking any escape, teeth bared in silence. One of them—gray, with a torn ear—took a step forward. Then another.

I pressed my back against the frozen stone. My hands were shaking so hard I couldn't make fists. The wolfsbane fog was so thick I could barely see straight.

And then something inside me detonated.

It wasn't gradual. It wasn't a shift. It was an explosion—bones splintering and reforming in the space between one heartbeat and the next, my spine arching so violently I heard vertebrae crack, silver-white fur erupting across my skin in a blinding cascade that lit up the ravine like a flare. My human scream twisted into a roar that shook snow from the pines above.

When I opened my eyes again the world had changed.

I was massive. Twice the size of the rogue wolves, maybe more, silver-white fur blazing luminous in the moonlight. My paws—huge, clawed—left prints in the snow deep as craters. The three rogues had frozen mid-stride, ears flattening, tails tucking involuntarily, and I could smell their fear now, sharp and acrid.

Something vast and clean and ancient moved through me. Not rage. Recognition.

*This,* my wolf said inside our shared skull, her voice low and certain. *This is what we are.*

The gray wolf lunged first.

I tore his throat out before he finished the leap. The second came at my flank—I spun, faster than anything that size should move, and my jaws closed around his spine with a wet crack. The third tried to run. I caught him at the ravine mouth and dragged him back into the snow, and when it was over the ravine ran red and steaming.

I stood panting in the center of it all, silver fur matted with blood, and felt—beneath the violence, beneath the exhaustion—something I had not felt in five years.

Whole.

For the first time in my life, I was whole.