After My Mate Stole My Wolfsbane Formula

By mid-morning, Lakelyn returned to my room. She didn’t bring files this time. Instead, she set a small black comm device on the nightstand and tapped the glass screen.

"Listen to this," she said quietly. "Intercepted from Ironmaw’s command room an hour ago."

Static hissed, followed by the sound of a heavy fist slamming onto wood.

Then came Ryder Holt’s voice. It wasn't panicked like before. It was dangerously flat.

"Marcus is dead, Alpha."

A sharp beat of silence cut through the speaker. Marcus had been one of Ironmaw's senior border warriors.

"Rogue skirmish near the creek," Ryder continued, his words like cold stones hitting the floor. "He took a graze from a wolfsbane bolt. The poison spread straight to his heart. It took three hours."

"That’s impossible," Matthew’s voice broke in, strained and thin. "Wolfsbane takes a full day to kill a Delta warrior."

"It takes three hours when there’s no neutralizing salve to draw out the venom," Ryder shot back. His tone was closer to an open accusation than a military report. "Do you want to know the last time we lost a warrior to a border arrow, Matthew? Twenty-six months ago. Exactly when Rayna perfected the third-generation barrier salve."

I sat frozen on the edge of the mattress. My fingers curled into the silk bedsheet.

"Ryder laid the numbers out," Lakelyn whispered, watching my face.

On the recording, paper rustled.

"Every single successful skirmish under your command correlates to her batch logs," Ryder said, his voice hard. "Every fallen rogue, every survived ambush. We didn't win because of your tactics. We won because an Omega was brewing miracles in a damp cellar while we laughed at her. Now she’s gone, and our men are dying in the dirt."

"Enough!" Matthew roared. The sound of his Alpha tone vibrated through the speaker, ragged and desperate. "The pack's weakness is a discipline problem, not a supply problem! If the warriors can't survive a minor skirmish without relying on some kitchen grease, they need harder training! We are Ironmaw! We do not depend on an Omega!"

Ryder didn’t shout back. He didn’t argue.

He simply said, "Yes, Alpha."

The silence that followed through the line spoke louder than any shout. It was the sound of a Beta realizing his leader was completely blind.

Lakelyn switched off the device. "The cracks are spreading. Ironmaw won't survive the month."

I didn't answer. A strange, cold weight settled in my gut. For years, Matthew had taken my jars of salve, tossed them into his supply crates, and accepted the pack's cheers as his own glory. He had really convinced himself he was untouchable.

An hour later, needing air, I stepped out into the stone corridor.

The compound was quiet. Tall arched windows looked out over vast evergreen forests that stretched toward the northern mountains. As I walked, an older man in dark gray formal livery approached me from the far end of the hall.

He didn't treat me like an Omega. He stopped three paces back and lowered his head in a deep, respectful bow.

"Princess Rayna," he said softly. "A personal dispatch from King Alistair."

He held out a thick, ivory envelope sealed with heavy red wax. The Lycan royal crest—a howling silver wolf encircled by twin swords—was stamped cleanly into the center.

My throat tightened. I took the envelope. "Thank you."

The aide bowed once more and walked away, giving me space.

My thumb hesitated over the seal before breaking it. Inside was a single piece of heavy parchment, covered in bold, elegant script.

*Rayna,* it read.

*Your return is not a discovery. It is a restoration. For twenty-two years, our family has carried your absence like an open wound that refused to heal. I will not force you into a room before you are whole. I will not ask you to perform for a court that should have been guarding you from the start. I will see you when you are ready, my daughter. And not a single breath before.*

*— Alistair*

I read it once. Then I read it again.

There were no royal decrees. No demands for obedience. Just the words of a father holding back twenty years of grief behind ink and paper.

I pressed two fingers against my inner wrist, feeling the calm, steady rhythm of my pulse. I didn't cry. But deep inside my chest, Luna went entirely still. She didn't growl or push; she just rested there, warm and vast, holding the weight of those words with me.

By late afternoon, the compound grew quiet as the guards rotated shifts. I sat near the window of my recovery room, watching the sun dip behind the pines.

The soft click of the door lock made me turn.

A man in a white medical coat stepped inside, pushing a rolling metal tray. He wore a surgical mask, and a sterile blue cap was pulled low over his forehead.

He moved awkwardly, his broad shoulders hunched as if trying to shrink his size. It was a terrible disguise. A man who had spent his entire life commanding rooms had no idea how to look invisible.

He locked the heavy deadbolt behind him.

Then he reached up and pulled off the mask.

"Rayna," Matthew whispered.

His gray eyes were bloodshot. The sharp jawline he had always been so proud of was purple and swollen where Lakelyn had struck him. His dark hair was messy, and the faint stench of stress sweat and scorched wolfsbane clung to his clothes.

Before I could speak, Matthew fell straight to his knees beside my bed.

"Rayna, please," he rushed out, his voice swinging erratically between frantic begging and his usual sharp authority. "You have to listen to me. I had to bribe a compound cleaner five thousand dollars just to get the floor schedule."

I stayed completely still, staring down at him.

"The pack borders are falling apart," Matthew pressed, reaching out to grab the edge of my blanket. His hands were shaking. "The tribunal summons arrived this morning. They want to strip my title, Rayna! Over a misunderstanding! You know how Peyton is—she manipulated me. She got into my head about pack hierarchy, about appearances. It was a mistake. Severing the bond was a mistake."

He didn't say he was sorry.

He didn't ask how my cracked ribs were, or how much blood I had coughed up after inhaling root smoke for him.

"I need you to come back with me," Matthew said, his tone turning into an urgent, demanding plea. "You bring the formula back, tell the Lycan King this was all a private domestic dispute, and they'll drop the charges. We can fix this, Rayna. I need you back."