After My Mate Tried to Drown My Daughter

The scent of cedar smoke and roasting venison filled the crisp evening air.

Dozens of torches burned along the perimeter of the open pavilion. The harvest gathering had brought together nearly every small pack in the valley. Long wooden tables groaned under platters of roasted meats, winter squash, and fresh loaves of rye bread. Pack children darted between the tables, their laughter ringing against the cold stone walls.

I kept my left hand firmly around Sutton’s small, mitten-covered fingers as we walked through the crowd.

My eyes swept the room, looking for Alder. The Bitter Creek Alpha stood near the far corner, talking quietly with two elders from White Pine. He caught my eye and gave a small, nervous nod. The alliance papers were tucked safely inside my wool coat. All I needed was his signature before the feast ended, and the southern trade corridor would officially fall under Crownfang protection.

"Mommy, look at the pies," Sutton whispered, tugging gently at my sleeve. "Can I have one with apples?"

I smiled down at her pink cheeks. "After we check the food, sweetheart."

It was a reflex I had never shaken. My mother had run the regional herb stores for thirty years, and I had spent my entire childhood memorizing the smell of every leaf, root, and tincture known to wolves. My nose worked constantly in the background, breaking down the scents around me: melted butter, roasted garlic, cracked pepper, wild thyme.

We stopped near the long central buffet. The dishes were steaming under the torchlight.

I paused.

A faint, jarring note caught the back of my throat. It was hidden deep beneath a heavy reduction of juniper berries, sage, and roasted pork. To any ordinary wolf, it smelled like rich seasoning.

To me, it smelled like burnt honey and cold copper.

My breath caught. My mother’s apothecary journals flashed across my mind. *Aconitum lycoctonum.* Northern wolfsbane. The deadliest, slowest-acting strain in the northern territories.

I stepped toward the platter to get a closer scent.

A heavy body stepped directly into my path, blocking my view.

"Looking for scraps, Fallon?" Brantley’s voice boomed over the chatter, thick with arrogant satisfaction.

He stood right in front of me, a carved silver cup in his hand, a smug grin plastered across his face. He made sure half the room was watching. Several elders turned their heads, including Alder.

"I told you yesterday," Brantley said, leaning in so his voice carried across the surrounding tables. "This valley doesn't answer to rogue runaways. You want to push papers with my neighbors? You come to the Ashwood Alpha first. You learn your place."

"Move, Brantley," I said, my voice dropping low and flat.

"Still playing the cold queen?" He chuckled, taking another deliberate step forward to crowd my space. "You always were too proud for your own good. But look around. These are my lands. These packs look to me. You’re just a wolfless girl with a pretty coat and bad memories."

I tried to step around his left, but he shifted his broad shoulders, blocking the aisle.

The exchange took thirty seconds. Half a minute of petty posturing.

It was thirty seconds too long.

Behind me, an older pack woman had leaned down to Sutton with a warm, maternal smile. "Here you go, little one. A sweet glazed roll for the harvest."

By the time I shoved Brantley's arm aside and spun around, Sutton had already taken two large bites.

"Sutton, drop that!" I snapped, my voice sharp as broken glass.

Sutton blinked at me in surprise, the half-eaten pastry slipping from her fingers and tumbling into the sawdust.

"Mommy?" she whispered.

Then her face flushed a violent, dark crimson.

My blood turned to ice.

A violent shudder racked her small shoulders. Her little fingers curled into tight, locked fists, her knuckles turning stark white. The plate she had been holding shattered on the stone floor.

Beneath the scent of pastry and smoke, Sutton's natural scent suddenly spiked—that pure, sacred Crownfang bloodline scent, ancient and golden. But in the next second, it violently distorted, turning sour, metallic, and hot.

The poison had hit her nervous system.

"Mommy..." Sutton gasped, her eyes rolling upward as her legs gave out completely.

The entire room seemed to blur into white noise. Five years of composure, five years of quiet royal dignity, shattered in a single fraction of a second.

"Sutton!"

I dropped to my knees, catching her before her head hit the flagstones. Her tiny body was already arching, stiffening into violent, uncontrollable convulsions. White foam bubbled at the corners of her mouth, and her breathing came in ragged, terrifying gasps.

The wolves around us backed away in shock, gasping and murmuring in panic.

"Get back!" I roared, scooping Sutton tight against my chest. My voice cracked like thunder through the timber rafters, carrying an edge of sheer, lethal authority that made three nearby warriors freeze in their tracks.

I looked up, locking eyes with the nearest pack elder.

"Concentrated northern wolfsbane!" I barked, my words fast, precise, and razor-sharp. "Crushed silver-root extract and charcoal water! Five grains, now! Where is your pack healer?!"