From Rejected Mate To Lycan Queen: His Downfall

The King’s health has been fragile, and producing an heir has proven difficult. So, my childhood friend, Rome Mason, was adopted as the Lycan Prince.

Before I entered the King’s den, Rome stood before me, his aura sharp and commanding, his gaze arrogant and dismissive. “Things are different now,” he said, his voice laced with condescension, the Alpha tone cutting through the air. “With your family’s standing, you’ll only ever be a chosen mate at best.”

I placed a hand on my still-flat stomach, my eyes lowered, saying nothing. A month ago, at a pack gathering, I had mistakenly drunk a cup of spiked wine and found myself in the arms of the Lycan King. His scent—deep and primal, like pine and storm—had enveloped me, and now, I was carrying his child. Soon, I would be entering the King’s den as his mate.

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After Rome was named the Lycan Prince, the Mason household, once quiet and unassuming, was now flooded with visitors offering congratulations. When I went to pay my respects, I didn’t even make it past the gate before being turned away by Grace Gutierrez, a senior Omega in the Blue Pack.

She stood there, her hair perfectly styled, her scent faintly floral but laced with disdain. “The Prince is occupied with important matters and has no time for outsiders,” she said, her tone sharp, her aura prickling with superiority.

Outsiders.

The word lingered in my mind as I lowered my gaze. I had known Rome for ten years, grown up with him, shared countless memories. And now, I was an outsider.

Everyone knew how far he had risen. Packs that once scorned him for his rogue lineage were now rushing to form alliances with him. And he, it seemed, had outgrown me too.

But I was used to it. I had learned to hold back my tears, to maintain my composure. From my pocket, I pulled out a small, intricately carved box and handed it to her, my voice calm and polite. “Grace, I’ve come to offer my congratulations. Please give this to the Prince.”

She took it carelessly, her scent flickering with irritation. “I’ll pass it along, but whether he accepts it or not is up to him.”

I nodded, turned, and walked away. Inside the box was a pendant—a gift from Rome’s mother before she passed. She and my mother had been close, and they had often joked about Rome and I one day becoming mates. But now, the pendant had been returned. And with it, any lingering ties between us were severed.