The morning sun filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the Alpha’s suite, but it brought no warmth to my shivering body. I woke with the familiar, acrid taste of bile in my throat, a sensation that had become my constant companion over the last six months. My limbs felt like lead, my head swimming in a fog that refused to lift.

"Awake already, my love?"

Jameson’s voice was smooth, a deep baritone that used to make my inner wolf purr. Now, my wolf was silent, curled into a dormant ball deep within my subconscious, too weak to even acknowledge her mate. Jameson stood by the bedside table, his tall frame blocking the light. He looked every inch the Alpha of the Dark River Pack—imposing, handsome, and utterly composed.

He held out a glass filled with a murky, greenish liquid. The scent was overpowering, masking something metallic and sharp underneath the smell of kale and apples.

"Drink," he said gently, though the command in his eyes left no room for argument. "Dr. Helena prepared it fresh. You know we need to keep your strength up if we’re going to try again next month."

I pushed myself up against the headboard, my hands trembling as I took the glass. "It burns, Jameson. Every time I drink it, I feel like I’m on fire from the inside out."

Jameson sat on the edge of the bed, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from my sweaty forehead. His touch was cool, almost clinical. "That means it’s working, Juliet. It’s stimulating your system. You want to give me an heir, don’t you? You want to be a real Luna?"

The question stung more than the physical pain. Six years. For six years, I had failed him. My womb remained empty, my wolf grew weaker, and the whispers of the pack grew louder. I was the barren Luna. The broken vessel.

"I do," I whispered, shame coloring my cheeks. "More than anything."

"Then drink."

I squeezed my eyes shut and downed the mixture in one go. It slid down my throat like liquid lava, settling in my stomach with a heavy, churning weight. I suppressed a gag, forcing a weak smile for my mate.

"Good girl," he murmured, taking the empty glass. He stood up abruptly, checking his watch. "I have urgent pack business to attend to. Rest, Juliet. Don’t strain yourself."

He kissed my forehead—a quick, dry press of lips—and strode out of the room without looking back.

Hours later, the burning hadn't subsided. It had morphed into a sharp, twisting cramp that doubled me over. I reached for the mate bond, desperate for Jameson’s comforting presence, needing to feel his calm wash over my panic.

*Jameson?* I called out internally.

Nothing.

It wasn't just silence; it was a wall. He had blocked me. Jameson never blocked me, not even during the most heated council meetings. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog of my illness. Something was wrong.

Ignoring the trembling in my legs, I dressed quickly and stumbled out of the Pack House. The fresh air did little to clear my head. My destination was the pack hospital, a sleek building on the edge of the estate. If Jameson wasn't answering, maybe he was hurt. Maybe that was the "urgent business."

The hospital corridors were strangely quiet. My enhanced hearing, usually sharp enough to hear a pin drop three rooms away, was muffled, like I was listening through water. But I saw him.

Marcus, the pack Beta, was standing guard outside a private VIP ward at the end of the hall. His posture was rigid, his hand hovering near his waistband. This wing was reserved for high-ranking injuries or critical emergencies, yet there had been no rogue attacks, no alarms.

Why was the Beta guarding an empty room?

Instinct, primal and urgent, flared within me. I didn't approach him. Instead, I slipped into the adjacent supply closet. My heart hammered against my ribs as I located the ventilation grate near the floor. It shared a wall with the VIP ward. I knelt on the cold tiles, pressing my face to the metal slats, praying my dull senses wouldn't fail me now.

The room beyond was sterile and white, but the scent wafting through the vent made my blood turn to ice.

Jameson was there. He stood with his back to me, hunched over a steel table. In his hand was a small vial of purple liquid. I watched, breath hitched, as he uncorked it and carefully dripped the contents into a row of bottles labeled *'Luna’s Prenatal Supplements'*.

Wolfsbane.

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. The metallic taste. The burning. The fading of my wolf. He wasn't giving me vitamins. He was poisoning me.

"Is it done, Alpha?"

The voice was feminine, sultry, and terrifyingly familiar. I shifted my gaze.

Giana Hunter sat on the examination bed, her legs dangling casually. She wore a silk robe that fell open, revealing the distinct, swollen curve of a baby bump. She looked glowing, vibrant—everything I was not.

Jameson capped the bottle and turned to her, his face softening in a way I hadn't seen in years. He walked over and placed a large hand possessively over her stomach.

"It’s done," Jameson said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "She took the dose this morning. The wolfsbane is suppressing her beast entirely. As long as she keeps drinking it, her body will remain too toxic to conceive."

"And you're sure she won't suspect?" Giana asked, covering his hand with hers, rubbing her cheek against his arm.

"Juliet?" Jameson scoffed, a cold, cruel sound that shattered whatever pieces of my heart remained. "She is desperate to please me. She’d drink poison willingly if I told her it would give us a pup. She is weak, Giana. A figurehead. She was never meant to be the mother of my legacy."

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Giana’s exposed neck, right over the pulsing vein. "You are carrying the future Alpha. That is all that matters."

I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle the scream building in my throat. Tears streamed down my face, hot and fast, but I didn't make a sound. The man I had loved, the mate I had worshipped, was systematically killing my wolf and my dreams, all while building a new life with the woman smiling up at him.

My infertility was a lie. My illness was a murder plot. And my marriage was a graveyard.

I managed to walk back to the Pack House without collapsing, though my legs felt like they were made of water. Every step sent a jolt of nausea through me, not from illness, but from the horrific image burned into my mind: Jameson’s hand on Giana’s stomach. My mate, poisoning me.

When I entered our suite, Jameson was already there, pouring the green sludge from a carafe into my crystal goblet. The smell hit me instantly—kale, apples, and death.

"You're late for your dose, Juliet," he said, his voice laced with that fake concern that used to make me feel cherished. Now, it just made my skin crawl.

"I... I was feeling faint," I lied, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "I went for fresh air."

He walked over, the glass extended. "Then you need this more than ever. Drink up. For our future."

I took the glass. My hands trembled, and he mistook it for weakness. His phone buzzed on the nightstand—a sharp, demanding sound. As he turned to check it, probably a message from her, I tipped the contents of the glass into the dense fern potted by the window. The soil drank the poison greedily.

"All gone," I whispered as he turned back.

"Good girl." He took the empty glass, satisfied.

That night, hell found me.

Without the fresh dose of wolfsbane to suppress my system, my body went into violent withdrawal. I lay curled in the guest room—I couldn't bear to sleep in his bed—shaking so hard my teeth chattered. It felt like my blood was boiling, like my bones were trying to rearrange themselves. Sweat soaked the sheets, cold and sticky.

But beneath the agony, something stirred.

For months, my inner space had been a silent void. Now, through the haze of pain, I felt a flicker. A growl. It was weak, distant, like a radio signal cutting through static, but it was there. My wolf was fighting back. She wasn't dead; she was angry.

By morning, the fever broke, leaving me exhausted but mentally sharper than I had been in years. I needed to know the extent of his betrayal.

I waited until Jameson left the estate in his black SUV. Usually, the Luna stays to tend the pack, but today, I grabbed the keys to my old sedan and followed him. I kept my distance, masking my scent as best I could, trailing him into the human city.

He stopped at a high-end jeweler, the kind with armed guards and velvet ropes. I parked across the street, pulling my hood up. Through the large glass display window, I watched him.

Jameson leaned over the counter, inspecting something with a smile I hadn't seen directed at me in a long time. The sales clerk handed him a small object. Even from this distance, my enhanced wolf vision—slowly returning—caught the glint of silver.

It was a charm. A tiny, delicate silver wolf pup, curled up in sleep.

My breath hitched in my throat. A pup charm. In our tradition, a male gave this to his mate when they were expecting, a promise of protection for the unborn.

A treacherous, foolish hope bloomed in my chest. Had he stopped the poison? Was he planning to confess? Maybe he had realized what he was losing. Maybe, just maybe, he had bought it for me, a symbol that we would try again, for real this time.

I drove back to the territory with my heart in my throat, that silver charm dangling in my mind like a lifeline.

The monthly Pack Gathering was held that evening in the Great Hall. Long wooden tables were laden with roasted meats and wine. The air was thick with laughter and the scent of shifting bodies. As Luna, I sat at the head table beside Jameson. He played the part of the benevolent Alpha perfectly, gripping my hand on top of the table for everyone to see.

"Tonight, we celebrate the strength of the Dark River!" Jameson bellowed, raising his goblet. The pack cheered, banging their fists on the tables. "Our future is bright. Our legacy is secure!"

His other hand, the one hidden beneath the tablecloth, moved.

I felt the shift in his posture. I glanced down, just a fraction. His hand was passing a small velvet box to someone passing by the head table.

Giana.

She paused, ostensibly to pick up a dropped napkin. Her fingers brushed his, snatching the box with practiced ease. She didn't look at him. She looked at me.

I froze, my blood turning to ice.

Giana walked back to her seat at a lower-ranked table, surrounded by her giggling friends. With slow, deliberate movements, she opened the box. She pulled out the silver charm—the sleeping pup I had seen in the city.

She clipped it onto her charm bracelet, the silver glinting under the chandelier lights. Then, she raised her eyes to meet mine across the crowded hall.

She didn't say a word. She didn't have to. She stroked the charm, then rested her hand on her stomach, a smirk curling her red lips.

The noise of the hall faded into a dull roar. The hope I had nursed in the car shattered, the shards piercing my lungs. The charm wasn't a promise of a new beginning for us. It was a trophy for her.

Jameson squeezed my hand on the table, smiling at his pack, oblivious to the fact that he had just severed the last thread holding me to him.

"Smile, Juliet," he murmured out of the side of his mouth, his tone commanding. "The pack is watching."

I looked at him, then at Giana, who was now laughing, flaunting the symbol of my stolen future.

"Yes," I whispered, my voice hollow. "They are watching."

The female changing rooms were thick with the scent of excitement and synthetic spandex. The pack was preparing for the ceremonial full moon run, a tradition that used to be the highlight of my month. Now, it felt like a funeral procession. I moved mechanically, opening my locker to retrieve my running gear, trying to make myself as small as possible.

"You're not actually running, are you?"

The voice was like syrup laced with arsenic. I didn't need to turn around to know it was Giana. The chatter in the room didn't die down—no one paid attention to the barren Luna anymore—but the air around us grew heavy.

I turned slowly. Giana stood just inches from me. She wasn't wearing her running gear yet. She wore a loose oversized shirt, and her eyes danced with a malicious secret.

"I am the Luna," I said, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. "I run with my pack."

Giana let out a soft, pitying laugh. She stepped closer, invading my personal space, forcing me to smell the cloying mixture of vanilla and... Jameson. His scent was all over her. It was stronger than it had ever been on me.

"You really don't get it, do you?" she whispered. With a slow, deliberate movement, she gripped the hem of her shirt and pulled it down over one shoulder.

I gasped, the sound sucked out of the room by the sheer horror of what I saw. There, marring the smooth skin of her neck, was a bite mark. It was angry, red, and swollen. It wasn't just a love bite; it was a Claiming Mark.

Jameson’s mark.

My knees buckled, and I grabbed the locker door to stay upright. He hadn't just bred with her. He had claimed her. He had bonded with her while I slept in the guest room, shaking from his poison.

"He says you're too fragile to break," Giana hissed, leaning in until her lips brushed my ear. "But I'm strong enough to breed. You're just a pretty doll he keeps on a shelf, Juliet. A decoration. I am the reality."

She pulled her shirt back up, patting her slight baby bump with a smirk, and sauntered away. I stood frozen, the metal of the locker biting into my palms. I wasn't a wife. I wasn't a mate. I was a pet he was slowly euthanizing.

If I stayed, I would die. It was that simple. Once her pup was born, Jameson would have no use for his 'pretty doll.'

I didn't run that night. I feigned a migraine—a lie Jameson accepted with a dismissive wave of his hand—and retreated to the Pack House.

The weather forecast promised a torrential downpour by midnight. It was my only chance. The rain would wash away my scent, and the thunder would hide the sound of my escape. I moved with a frantic energy, ignoring the lingering aches in my joints.

I grabbed a nondescript backpack, stuffing it with cash I had squirreled away from the household budget, a first aid kit, and every pouch of scent-masking herbs I could find in the pantry. I didn't pack clothes. I didn't pack photos. I took nothing that belonged to the life of Luna Juliet.

My gaze fell on the ceremonial Luna robes hanging in the closet—heavy velvet embroidered with the Dark River crest. I had worn them on my mating day. I had worn them to every ceremony, standing proudly beside the man who was killing me.

I ripped them off the hanger. They felt heavy, like chains.

The fire in the hearth was dying, but I stoked it until the flames roared. With a sob that tore through my chest, I threw the robes into the fire. The velvet caught instantly. I watched the silver thread of the crest turn black and crumble into ash. The symbol of my enslavement, burning away. I wasn't Luna anymore. I was just Juliet.

Midnight came with a crack of thunder that shook the house. The rain hammered against the roof, a deafening drumbeat of freedom.

I walked into Jameson’s bedroom one last time. He was still out on the run, hunting with his mistress. The room smelled of him—cedar and rain—a scent I used to crave.

On his nightstand sat a vintage wooden box. It was where he used to keep the love letters I wrote him during our courtship. I opened it. The letters were gone, replaced by pack reports and receipts.

I pulled the folded document from my pocket. It wasn't a letter. It was a formal rejection paper, signed in my own blood, a ritualistic severance of ties. I placed it inside the box and snapped the lid shut.

*Goodbye, Jameson.*

I slipped out through the servant’s entrance at the back of the kitchen. The storm hit me like a physical blow. The wind howled, and the rain was freezing, soaking me to the bone in seconds. The mud in the garden was ankle-deep, sucking at my boots with every step.

I dropped to my knees near the garden’s edge, scooping up handfuls of the wet, dark earth. I smeared it over my arms, my neck, and my face, mixing it with the scent-masking herbs. It was cold and gritty, but it was necessary. I had to become part of the earth. I had to disappear.

My body screamed in protest. The withdrawal from the wolfsbane had left me weak, and my legs burned with exertion. But the image of Giana’s marked neck flashed in my mind, fueling a fire in my belly that the rain couldn't extinguish.

I forced myself up and ran. I ran into the dark, churning mouth of the storm, leaving the ashes of my past behind me.