Abandoned by My Alpha Mate

The silver-laced restraints bit deeper into my wrists as I thrashed against them, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through my raw skin. The cold metal table beneath me seemed to leach away what little strength I had left.

"Please, Camille," I whispered, my voice hoarse from screaming during the last session. "My wolf... she's barely there anymore."

Camille's perfectly manicured hands hovered over me, selecting a gleaming instrument from her tray. Her smile never reached her eyes as she leaned closer, the antiseptic scent of her lab coat mingling with something metallic—blood. My blood.

"Don't be dramatic, Helena," she said, her voice sweet as poison. "This is all for science. For the advancement of our pack's healing knowledge."

I watched in horror as she picked up what looked like a small drill. "What is that?"

"Just a little device to measure nerve response," she replied casually, as if she were discussing the weather. "It should only hurt... moderately."

The lie was evident in her eyes. This was no medical experiment—this was torture, plain and simple.

As the drill whirred to life, I caught sight of a leather-bound journal on the counter beside her. It was open to a page covered in meticulous notes and diagrams—diagrams of me. Of my wolf.

"You're... documenting this?" I gasped, fighting against the Alpha command that kept me immobilized.

"Of course," Camille said, sliding the drill closer to my arm. "Detailed records are essential for proper research. Your suffering is providing invaluable data, Helena. You should be proud."

The drill bit into my flesh, and I screamed until my throat was raw. Through tear-blurred eyes, I watched Camille make another notation in her journal, her pen strokes precise and clinical.

"Interesting," she murmured. "The subject's pain threshold seems to be decreasing with each session."

---

Days blurred together as Camille's treatments grew increasingly brutal. Each time I was strapped to her table, my wolf retreated further inside me, her presence fading like a candle in a storm.

"She's making progress," I overheard Christopher telling his Beta in the hallway outside Camille's lab. "The other healers are impressed with her findings."

"What about Helena?" the Beta asked, his voice low. "She looks... unwell."

There was a pause, and I strained to hear Christopher's response.

"Helena is fulfilling her duty to the pack," he said finally. "Her discomfort is temporary. Camille's research could benefit generations of werewolves."

I closed my eyes, fighting back tears. The man who had once saved me from rogue attacks, who had promised to protect me forever, now viewed my suffering as merely "temporary discomfort."

Later that evening, Christopher entered our quarters as I sat on the edge of our bed, trying to summon enough strength to shift into my wolf form. My limbs trembled with the effort.

"The pack meeting is tomorrow night," he announced, not meeting my eyes. "You'll be there."

"I can barely stand," I whispered.

"You'll find the strength," he replied coldly. "Or have you forgotten your mother's condition?"

The threat hung in the air between us, unspoken but unmistakable.

---

The pack meeting hall buzzed with conversation as I leaned against the wall, trying to appear stronger than I felt. My legs threatened to give way beneath me, and my wolf—once strong and vibrant—felt like a flickering ember inside me.

Across the room, Christopher stood tall and proud, publicly praising Camille's dedication to advancing pack medicine.

"My stepsister has made remarkable breakthroughs," he announced to the gathered pack members. "Her research will ensure Silver Ridge remains the strongest pack in the region."

Applause erupted around us. I watched as Camille basked in the attention, her smile triumphant as she glanced in my direction.

"She doesn't even look like an Alpha's mate anymore," a female voice whispered nearby.

I turned slightly, pretending not to listen as two she-wolves huddled together, their eyes darting toward me.

"Have you seen how weak she's become?" one murmured. "She can barely hold her head up."

"Camille says her wolf is fading," the other replied. "Maybe it's for the best. An Alpha needs a strong Luna."

"But Christopher chose her," the first one said, disbelief evident in her tone.

"Choices can be... reconsidered," came the reply.

Their words cut deeper than any of Camille's scalpels. I felt the weight of dozens of eyes on me, judging, evaluating, finding me wanting.

As Christopher continued his praise of Camille's work, I realized with growing horror that her plan was succeeding. She hadn't just been torturing me physically—she'd been systematically destroying my position in the pack.

And Christopher, my mate and my Alpha, was helping her do it.