After My Mate Helped His Mistress Hunt Me

The common room was full when Maximus found me.

I was sitting in the corner where my flower stall used to be, staring at the empty space. I hadn't slept. Hadn't eaten. The photograph of Kamden was in my pocket, pressed against my ribs like a second heartbeat.

I heard him before I saw him. The air changed. Thickened. Every wolf in the room went still.

His aura hit like a wave.

It wasn't the usual commanding presence of an Alpha. This was something else. Something raw and furious and suffocating. Around me, wolves dropped their heads. Necks bent in submission. A she-wolf near the coffee station actually whimpered.

I looked up.

Maximus stood in the doorway. His eyes locked on mine. For a moment, I thought I saw something flicker there—grief, maybe, or doubt. But it was gone before I could name it.

He crossed the room. Every step deliberate. The crowd parted without him asking.

He stopped in front of me.

"You killed him," he said.

The words were quiet. Calm. Worse than shouting.

"I didn't—" My voice cracked. I stood, my legs shaking. "Maximus, please. The footage is wrong. Someone altered it. I was in the kitchen. I can prove—"

"Enough."

The Alpha tone slammed into me. My mouth closed. My body locked.

But I fought it. For the first time in five years, I fought it.

"Please," I whispered. "Just listen. Please."

I reached for him. My hand stretched toward his arm, desperate, trembling.

He moved faster than I could track.

His hands closed around my shoulders. He lifted me—actually lifted me off the ground—and threw me backward.

I hit the glass display case with my full weight.

The sound was enormous. A crack, then a crash, then the high tinkling of glass raining onto tile.

I didn't feel it at first. Just the impact. The shock of my back hitting the wooden frame, the shelves collapsing, the world tilting sideways.

Then the pain came.

Sharp. Everywhere. Glass embedded in my back, my arms, my scalp. I tried to push myself up and my palm slid on something wet. Blood. Mine.

I looked up.

Maximus stood over me. His expression was empty. Not angry. Not sad. Just—empty.

Around us, the pack stood frozen. Fifty wolves, maybe more, and not one of them moved. His aura held them like invisible chains.

I opened my mouth. No sound came out.

Maximus stepped over me. His shoe came down inches from my hand. He walked toward the door without looking back.

The aura lifted.

The room exhaled. Wolves shifted. Whispered. A few looked at me. Most looked away.

I tried to stand. My legs wouldn't hold. I slumped back down, glass crunching under me.

Someone approached. The pack healer. I recognized her scent—lavender and something medicinal.

She knelt beside me. Her hands hovered over my shoulders, hesitating.

Then her phone buzzed.

She pulled it out. Read the screen. Her face went pale.

She stood up.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I can't."

She left.

I sat there in the glass and the blood and understood.

Alpha command. Do not treat her.

No one else came.

I don't know how long I sat there. Long enough for the blood to stop flowing freely. Long enough for the crowd to disperse. Long enough for the common room to empty until it was just me and the shattered case and the silence.

Finally, I stood.

My back screamed. My arms burned. Every movement sent glass grinding deeper.

I walked slowly. One foot. Then the other. Down the corridor. Up the stairs. To my room at the pack house's edge.

I locked the door.

In the bathroom, I stripped off my shirt. It stuck to the wounds. I peeled it away slowly, biting down on my lip until I tasted copper.

The mirror showed me what I already knew. Glass everywhere. Small pieces, some as long as my thumb, embedded in my skin.

I pulled out the first piece. It came free with a wet sound. Blood welled up immediately.

I kept going.

One piece. Then another. Then another. I worked methodically. No crying. No shaking. Just pulling glass and packing wounds with strips torn from my bedsheets.

My wolf stirred weakly. Then retreated.

She hadn't spoken in eleven days.

When I was done, I sat on the bathroom floor with my back against the tub. The tile was cold. The air smelled like iron.

I pulled the photograph from my pocket. Kamden at the construction site fence, grinning at something off-camera. His eyes bright. His smile easy.

I held it carefully, my bloody fingers at the edges.

I didn't move for a long time.

The sun set. The room went dark. I sat there and held the photograph and felt nothing at all.

Nothing but the mark on my neck, burning like it always did.

Burning like a brand.

Burning like a lie.