After My Mate Chose a Fake Lycan Princess

The severing of a fated mate bond doesn't stay quiet. It rippled through the Silverfang territory like a physical tremor, rattling the pack from the top down.

By noon, the rumors had already caught fire.

Monica walked back into the clinic room, setting a cup of black coffee on my bedside table. Her jaw was set tight. Barnaby lifted his head from my feet, giving a low, questioning thump of his tail before resting his chin back on my blanket.

"They’re already spinning the story," Monica said, pulling the stiff chair up close. "Mark and Tyler are telling anyone who will listen that you lost your mind in the cave. They're claiming your panic attack endangered the whole unit. And that Lacey had a genuine, life-threatening reaction to your scent."

I didn’t flinch. I reached for my battered field notebook on the nightstand, clicked my pen, and wrote down their names.

*Mark. Tyler. Brett.*

For three years, I had taken notes on pack logistics, alliance treaties, and tribunal precedents. Carter used to laugh and call it my "Luna homework." Now, I was using that same clean handwriting to build an execution list.

"Let them talk," I said quietly. My voice was rough, but steady. "Lies don't hold up in court."

Sienna Cross entered a moment later, carrying a thick manila folder and a digital camera.

"I need everything on record, Sienna," I said, meeting the healer's dark eyes. "Every fracture. Every bruise. I want high-resolution photos of the boot treads on my skin."

Sienna nodded grimly. She helped me ease my hospital gown off my shoulders. The air hit the purple-and-black contusions across my torso, sharp and cold. I pressed my thumbnail into the flesh of my inner wrist, grounding myself as the camera flash went off again and again.

Three cracked ribs. A concussion. Severe soft-tissue trauma. And at the bottom of the clinical chart, Sienna wrote the most damning line in black ink: *Fated mate bond—catastrophically severed under extreme duress.*

"This will survive any formal tribunal," Sienna said, handing me the signed copies. "Even the Lycan Court couldn't throw this out."

"Good," I replied, sliding the papers into my notebook. "Now I need the eyes."

I picked up my smartphone and dialed Rhys Caldwell. Rhys was the pack’s tech specialist—a quiet, brilliant wolf who owed no favors to Carter’s circle.

"Natalie?" Rhys’s voice came through the speaker, hesitant. "I heard you were in the clinic. Are you okay?"

"I need the mountain pass trail camera footage from this morning, Rhys," I said without preamble. "Transit corridor seven."

There was a long pause on the other end. "Someone accessed the main server three hours ago, Nat. They wiped the morning logs."

My chest tightened, but my voice remained flat. "Can you recover them?"

"They used a basic pack override," Rhys scoffed softly, his warrior pride nicked. "They didn't purge the deep cache. Give me an hour."

He didn't need an hour. Forty minutes later, Rhys walked into my room, his face pale. He didn't speak. He simply handed me a silver flash drive.

Monica plugged it into her tablet, resting the screen against my knees.

The high-definition footage was merciless.

The first clip showed the cliffside before the collapse. Carter had Lacey pinned against the granite, his face buried deep in her throat, inhaling her scent while the rest of the pack ran ahead.

The second clip was from inside the transit tunnel. It caught the collapse, the rising dust, and my wolf locking up in sheer claustrophobic terror. Then came Carter's voice, amplified by the camera's directional mic, barking his Alpha tone to protect the "Lycan King's daughter."

Then, the camera caught the shove. Carter’s hands hitting my shoulders. My body flying backward, slamming into the jagged rock face. And finally, the boots of Mark and Tyler trampling over my ribs while Carter cradled Lacey like a piece of glass.

Monica stared at the screen, her eyes flashing a dangerous, golden amber. "They didn't even hesitate."

"No," I whispered, watching my own blood smear across the stone on screen. "They didn't."

I ejected the drive, slipped it into the inside sleeve of my notebook, and closed the cover with a dull snap.

Across the pack grounds, the fallout had already moved past the infirmary.

Alpha Montgomery—Carter’s father—didn’t care about broken hearts. He cared about power. And the mountain collapse had created a political disaster. By midday, word reached his office that the Ironveil Pack had abruptly suspended all negotiations for our mutual defense alliance. Ironveil's Alpha cited "severe internal instability" within Silverfang leadership.

Ten years of diplomatic work, halted in a single afternoon because of Carter's reckless stunt.

Head Beta Derek Hale came by my room later that evening to deliver the official report. His face was carved from stone, but his eyes carried a flicker of vindication.

"The Alpha called Carter into the study twenty minutes ago," Derek told me quietly, standing by the closed door.

"What happened?" Monica asked.

"The Alpha didn't yell," Derek said. "He didn't ask Carter for his side of the story. He just told him the Ironveil treaty was frozen because of his negligence."

Derek paused, looking directly at me.

"Alpha Montgomery stripped Carter’s Beta credentials on the spot. He took the leather ceremony wallet off Carter's belt and put it in his desk drawer. Effective immediately, Carter is removed from pack leadership and placed under formal house arrest pending a tribunal investigation."

I leaned back against the pillows, my hand resting gently on Barnaby's warm back.

Carter wasn't the future Alpha right now. He wasn't the untouchable heir.

He was just a pack member facing trial. And he had no idea what was coming next.