After My Mate Humiliated Me, the Lycan Chose Me

The training yard incident happened on day seven.

I wasn't even supposed to be there. I had gone to the pack house to collect the last of my files from the Luna's office—the ones Travis hadn't already redistributed—and I heard the commotion from the west lawn. Voices. The sharp bark of commands. I should have kept walking.

I didn't.

The warrior cohort was running drills when I reached the fence line. Boone had them in formation, moving through defensive patterns, and Nicole was standing at the edge of the field with a water bottle in her hand. Watching. She had taken to attending training sessions lately, always positioned where Beckham could see her, always wearing something soft and pale that made her look fragile.

I stayed back. I was not part of this anymore.

And then Nicole gasped.

It was a small sound, breathy and sharp, but it carried. The warriors nearest her stopped mid-step. She swayed, one hand flying to her belly, the other reaching out like she might fall. The water bottle hit the grass.

"The pup—" Her voice broke. "I can't—Beckham—"

He was across the field in seconds.

I watched him catch her before her knees buckled, watched him lower her carefully to the ground, his hand cradling the back of her head. The entire cohort had gone still. Boone was already on his radio, calling for the healer. Nicole's eyes fluttered closed. Her breathing came in soft, hitching gasps.

"It's the stress," she whispered. Loud enough for everyone to hear. "I'm sorry. I just—I can't stop thinking about—"

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to.

Beckham's jaw was tight. His hand moved to her belly, protective and possessive, and something in his face went hard. He looked up. His eyes swept the field. They found me at the fence line.

I turned and walked away before he could say anything.

---

He found me that evening in the corridor outside the archives.

I had my arms full of binders—old territory maps I was boxing up to take to my apartment—and I didn't hear him until he was already blocking the hallway. His scent hit me first. Cedar and smoke. And underneath it, faint but unmistakable, Nicole's perfume again.

Wren stirred weakly in my chest. *Run,* she whispered. But there was nowhere to run that he couldn't follow.

"Everleigh."

I stopped. I did not look up.

"You need to stop this," he said. His voice was low. Controlled. The Alpha tone just beneath the surface. "Nicole is carrying my pup. The healer says stress can cause complications. You showing up at training, at council meetings, in places where she has to see you—"

"I was collecting my files," I said. Flat. "From the office that was mine."

"You're making this harder than it has to be."

I looked up then. He was standing with his arms crossed, his expression carved from stone, and I realized with a strange, cold clarity that he actually believed what he was saying. That my existence—my presence in the pack house, my refusal to disappear quietly—was an act of deliberate cruelty toward Nicole.

"I am not the one making this hard," I said.

His eyes narrowed. "She almost collapsed today. In front of the entire warrior cohort. Do you understand what that—"

"I understand," I said, "that she is very good at performing."

His aura flared. Just for a second. Just enough to make the air in the corridor go heavy and tight.

"Watch yourself," he said quietly.

I held his gaze. I did not drop my eyes. I did not flinch.

"Twenty-three days," I said. "And then you will never have to see me again."

I stepped around him. He did not stop me.

Wren whimpered softly in my chest, a sound like something breaking, but she did not have the strength to snarl.

---

Travis came to my apartment two days later.

I opened the door and found him standing in the hallway with his hands in his pockets, his expression pleasant and unreadable. He was wearing a suit. He looked like he was on his way to a business lunch.

"Luna," he said. Smooth as glass. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

I didn't correct the title. It would be gone soon enough.

"What do you want, Travis."

He smiled. It was the kind of smile that never reached the eyes.

"The ranked circle is hosting a Pack Banquet," he said. "Ten days from now. A formal dinner to honor the transitions happening within Shadowridge. We thought it would be appropriate to include a farewell tribute—a chance for the pack to thank you for your years of service as Luna."

I stared at him.

"A farewell dinner," I repeated.

"In your honor," he said. "It seemed the civilized thing to do. You've given five years to this pack. You deserve a proper send-off."

Every word was perfectly chosen. Every syllable landed exactly where he wanted it. And I understood, with absolute certainty, that this was a trap.

They were going to humiliate me. Publicly. One last time. In front of the entire ranked circle, in front of witnesses, in a setting where I could not simply walk away without confirming every whisper that I was too weak, too low-born, too broken to hold the title I had been given.

Travis was still smiling.

"Of course," he said, "if you'd prefer not to attend, we understand. It's entirely your choice."

I looked at him for a long moment.

"I'll be there," I said.

His smile widened just a fraction.

"Wonderful," he said. "We'll send the formal invitation. Seven o'clock. Formal dress."

He turned and walked back down the hallway, his footsteps quiet and even on the worn carpet.

I closed the door. I leaned my forehead against the wood.

Wren stirred faintly in my chest. *Ever,* she whispered. *Don't go.*

But I was going.

Because if I didn't, they would say I hid. They would say I ran. They would say I was ashamed.

And I had twenty-one days left to prove that I was not.

---

The night of the banquet, I put on a simple dress—charcoal gray, long sleeves, nothing that could be called provocative or attention-seeking. I pinned my hair back. I did not wear jewelry. I looked in the mirror and saw a woman who was very tired and very thin and who was not going to break in front of an audience.

I drove to the pack house at six-fifty.

The banquet hall was lit and full when I walked in. Long tables draped in white linen. Candles everywhere. The ranked families were already seated, dressed in their formal best, and the low hum of conversation filled the room like static.

I moved toward the head table.

It was instinct. Five years of sitting in that seat. Five years of presiding over dinners just like this one.

A young pack attendant stepped into my path. She was holding a clipboard. Her eyes did not quite meet mine.

"Luna," she said quietly. "Your seat has been reassigned. This way, please."

I stopped.

She gestured toward a side table near the door. A small table. The kind reserved for the lowest-ranked families. The kind where guests sat when they were present but not important.

I looked past her.

Nicole was already seated at the head table. In my chair. Her hand rested on Beckham's arm. Her dress was cream silk. Her hair was perfect. She looked serene. She looked like she belonged.

Beckham was looking at his plate.

The room had gone very quiet.

I turned back to the attendant. She was still holding the clipboard. Her hands were shaking slightly.

I smiled at her. Small. Polite.

"Of course," I said. "Thank you."

I walked to the side table. I sat down beside a family I did not know. They nodded at me, awkward and uncertain, and then looked away quickly.

I folded my hands in my lap.

And I waited.