After My Mate Chose a Fake Lycan Princess

The smell of antiseptic and crushed dried herbs stung my nostrils as I drifted back to consciousness. Every breath pulled like broken glass against my chest.

Through the heavy fog in my head, I heard voices near the foot of the bed.

"Three broken ribs, a severe concussion, and deep lacerations across her shoulders," Sienna Cross was saying softly. Her voice was steady, but strained. "The physical wounds will mend. But the mate bond... Monica, it’s deteriorating. It’s fracturing at the spiritual level."

I kept my eyes shut, listening to the hum of the medical monitors.

"What does that mean?" Monica asked, her tone low and dangerously calm.

"A bond rotting in slow motion produces far worse agony than a clean severance," the healer murmured. "It poisons the wolf from the inside out."

Lying beneath the stiff hospital sheet, I pressed my thumbnail hard into the soft flesh of my inner wrist. The sharp pinch grounded me against the dizzying panic. I stared up at the speckled ceiling tiles, blinking back the blur in my eyes.

A heavy, warm weight shifted against my shins.

I looked down. Barnaby was curled across my legs, his golden fur pressed tight against my blankets. He didn't jump or wag his tail; he just rested his chin on my feet, refusing to leave. On the bedside table sat his favorite red rubber chew toy.

I looked over at Monica. She had sat in the stiff armchair beside me all night. She knew me so well that she had gone straight to the pack house for my dog, knowing I would worry about Barnaby before I ever worried about myself.

Monica caught my gaze. Her dark eyes were completely clear, carrying no judgment, only quiet steel.

Hours passed in silence as the black night outside slowly bled into the pale grey of pre-dawn. The phantom ache in my chest flared with every minute, a sickening throb where Carter’s frost mint scent had once lived. Now, it just smelled like smoke and rot.

"Monica," I croaked. My throat felt like sandpaper.

She leaned in, taking my bruised fingers in hers. "I'm right here, Nat."

"I’m going to reject him."

I didn’t ask for her permission. I didn’t ask if it was the right move. The words were flat, stripped of tears and doubt.

Monica didn't flinch. She didn't try to soften the blow or tell me to wait until my ribs healed. She just tightened her grip on my hand, her thumb rubbing over my knuckles. She understood. Carter hadn’t just betrayed our future in that dark tunnel; he had tried to bury me alive. The decision hadn't started in this hospital bed—it had been sealed the moment he ordered the pack to trample me.

"Okay," Monica whispered softly. "I'm with you."

For the next hour, I lay in the dark, mentally rehearsing the ancient phrasing. Every time the bond flared with a desperate, ghostly pull, I dug my nail deeper into my wrist until the skin nearly broke. I wasn't his Luna. I wasn't his stepping stone.

When the first orange sliver of dawn cut through the window blinds, Sienna returned with fresh bandages.

"Sienna," I called out, pushing myself up onto my elbows despite the burning flare in my side. "I need you to stay. Both of you. I need two witnesses."

Sienna paused, looking from my bruised face to the quiet intensity in Monica’s posture. As the pack healer, she knew the protocol. She closed the door and stood beside Monica at the foot of the bed.

I took a slow, deep breath, ignoring the stabbing ache in my lungs. My voice did not shake.

"I, Natalie Hart, reject you, Carter Montgomery, as my fated mate."

The air in the room instantly cracked like thunder.

A searing, silver-hot fire detonated inside my ribcage. The pain was catastrophic. It ripped through every vein, tearing out every trace of wild lavender and frost mint that had anchored my soul for three years.

My back arched off the mattress. My hands clamped onto the bedsheets, my knuckles turning white as my body convulsed. Deep within my consciousness, my wolf threw her head back and unleashed a raw, deafening howl—a sound of agonizing liberation.

The heat burned white, consuming the rot, scorching the phantom tether until it snapped completely.

Then came the silence.

I collapsed back onto the pillows, gasping for air. The fire was gone. For the first time in three years, the heavy, suffocating fog inside my chest cleared completely. I was bruised and battered, but my wolf was quiet, standing tall in the open light of my mind. I had survived it. I had chosen myself.

And in that very instant, through the dying, severed shockwave of the bond, I felt the reverberation hit its target.

Miles away across the pack territory, Carter staggered mid-stride on the pack house lawn, dropping to his knees and clutching his chest in sheer, paralyzed shock.

He had thought I was too weak.

He had been certain I would never dare.