Betrayed by Fated Mate

Dawn broke over the horizon as I stood outside the pawnshop, clutching my velvet jewelry pouch with trembling fingers. The shop wasn't open yet, but I couldn't afford to wait. Michael needed medicine, and Alexander needed his ransom money. Every dollar counted now.

I pressed my forehead against the cold glass, exhaustion pulling at my bones. Since returning from the hospital with Michael three weeks ago, I'd barely slept more than two hours at a stretch. Between his constant medical needs and my desperate scramble for money, rest had become a luxury I couldn't afford.

"You're here early, Luna," said Mr. Patterson, the elderly shop owner, unlocking the door with a sympathetic smile. He was one of the few who still called me by my title, though whispers had already begun spreading through the pack about Alexander's disappearance.

I laid out my treasures on the counter—my grandmother's pearl necklace, the diamond earrings Alexander had given me on our first anniversary, my mother's gold bracelet. Each piece carried memories, stories, pieces of my heart. Mr. Patterson examined them carefully, his expression softening.

"These are beautiful pieces, Luna. Family heirlooms?"

"Yes," I whispered, my throat tight. "But my family needs the money more than the memories now."

He offered me a fair price—more than fair, really—but it was still only a fraction of what I needed. I accepted gratefully, tucking the cash into my worn purse before hurrying to my first job of the day.

By noon, I was delivering messages across pack territories as the official messenger, my feet blistered in worn shoes. By evening, I was sorting herbs in the healer's hut, fingers stained and cracked. And by midnight, I donned scrubs at the human hospital two towns over, working as a night nurse until the early hours.

Three jobs, barely six hours of sleep between them, and a sick baby waiting at home with a rotating cast of reluctant pack members watching him. This was my life now—a desperate race against time.

*How much have you gathered?* Alexander's voice would sometimes whisper through our mate bond, weak and strained. Each time, I felt the same stab of failure when I had to admit it wasn't enough.

*I'm trying,* I would respond, pouring my love and determination through our connection. *I won't let you down.*

The worst was when his pain would bleed through our bond, sharp and visceral. On those nights, I would curl around Michael's tiny form and weep silently, my body shaking with Alexander's phantom agony.

When I saw the flyer for the paid blood donation trials, I didn't hesitate. The pharmaceutical company was offering substantial compensation for werewolves willing to participate in their research. The catch? Multiple donations over several months, more blood than was strictly safe to give.

"Your vitals are concerning," the nurse said during my third month in the program, frowning at her clipboard. "Your iron levels are dangerously low. We should stop the trial for you."

"Please," I begged, desperation making my voice crack. "I need the money. My son—he's sick. I can take iron supplements."

She hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. As the needle slid into my vein, my wolf whimpered, instinctively recoiling from the invasion. I closed my eyes, picturing Alexander's face, imagining him enduring far worse at the hands of the Rogue King. My discomfort was nothing compared to his suffering.

Six months into our nightmare, Alexander's voice crashed into my mind while I was changing Michael's bandages from his latest medical procedure.

*Victoria! I'm critically wounded. I need blood—blood from my lineage.*

My heart stuttered. *What do you mean?*

*Our son,* he replied, his mental voice ragged. *He carries my bloodline. The rogues have a healer who can perform a transfusion, but I need Michael's blood. It's the only way I'll survive.*

I stared down at my baby boy, now nearly seven months old but still so fragile. His skin was pale, his tiny body already weakened by countless tests and treatments for his premature condition.

*There must be another way,* I pleaded.

*There isn't,* Alexander's voice was firm despite its weakness. *If you love me, you'll do this.*

Two hours later, I carried Michael into the pack's infirmary, my steps leaden. The pack healer, Dr. Winters, looked at me with concern when I explained what was needed.

"Luna, he's very small for a blood donation," she warned. "It could compromise his already fragile health."

"My mate will die without it," I whispered, tears streaming down my face. "Please."

Michael's screams tore through me as the needle pierced his tiny arm. I held him, singing our lullaby through my sobs, feeling like my heart was being ripped from my chest with each drop of blood that filled the collection bag.

"Shh, baby," I murmured against his downy hair. "This is for Daddy. You're saving Daddy."

But as Michael's cries weakened, his little body going limp in my arms, a terrible thought slithered into my mind: What kind of father would demand blood from his infant son? What kind of mate would I be, to give it?

Yet I had given it. And as the healer rushed to stabilize my now-unconscious child, I realized with dawning horror that this might not be the last time Alexander would ask.