After His Luna Poisoned My Wolf, I Became the Lycan Prince’s Mate

The mate bond snapped into place at exactly 9:47 PM, three minutes before Conor's Alpha Ascension Ceremony reached its peak.

I was standing near the back of the ceremonial clearing, half-hidden behind the flower arrangements I'd spent all day perfecting. Pine and woodsmoke detonated through my senses with a force that knocked the air from my lungs. My knees buckled. I grabbed the edge of a wooden chair to stay upright.

*Mate.*

The word wasn't mine. It came from somewhere deeper — the faint, fragile presence I'd carried inside me for twenty-three years without ever hearing it speak. My wolf. She stirred for the first time in my life, a flicker of warmth spreading through my chest like a match struck in a dark room.

I looked up. Conor was already looking at me.

Not with surprise. Not with the joy I'd imagined in a thousand different versions of this moment. His face was composed, rigid, like a man executing a decision he'd made long before tonight. His jaw was set. His shoulders were square. And his eyes — those eyes I'd loved since I was fifteen — held nothing I recognized.

The clearing was packed with three hundred wolves. The ceremonial fire crackled in the center. The Silverfang elders stood in a semicircle around the dais, their faces solemn and expectant. Zoe Ashford stood to Conor's left, her posture perfect, her expression serene.

My wolf pushed against my ribs. *Go to him.*

I took one step forward. Then stopped.

Conor stepped onto the dais.

The clearing went silent.

He didn't look at me again. He looked at the assembled pack, his voice carrying across the clearing with the easy authority of a man who had never had to fight for a room's attention.

"Tonight," he said, "I accept the title of Alpha of Silverfang Pack, as my father did before me, and his father before him."

Applause rippled through the crowd. I stayed frozen near the back, my hands still gripping the chair.

"And tonight," Conor continued, his voice dropping into a lower register, "I also address a matter of the mate bond."

My heart stopped.

He turned. His eyes found mine across fifty yards of packed dirt and firelight. And then he spoke the words I would hear in my sleep for the rest of my life.

"I, Conor Hale, Alpha of Silverfang Pack, reject you, Layla Maren, as my mate and Luna."

The half-formed mark on my neck — the one I hadn't even realized was there until that moment — burned ice-cold. It felt like someone pressed a frozen coin against my throat and held it there until the skin went numb.

My wolf, which had stirred for the first time in years, didn't fade. She vanished. Like a door slamming shut inside me. The warmth in my chest went out all at once, replaced by a hollow silence so complete I couldn't feel my own heartbeat.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

Conor turned away. He extended his hand to Zoe Ashford. She took it with a small, graceful smile, and he pulled her forward to stand beside him on the dais.

"I present Zoe Ashford," he said, his voice steady and clear, "as my chosen Luna."

The pack erupted in formal applause. Wolves rose to their feet. Someone howled. The sound echoed through the clearing, joyful and celebratory, and I felt it like a physical blow.

No one looked at me.

I was still standing near the back, my hands white-knuckled on the chair, the cold mark pulsing against my neck like a brand. My vision blurred at the edges. My knees gave out. I caught myself on the chair before I hit the ground.

*Get up.*

The thought wasn't kind. It was survival.

I let go of the chair. I straightened. And I walked.

Not toward the dais. Not toward Conor. Toward the tree line at the edge of the clearing, where the ceremonial lights didn't reach and the pines stood dark and silent.

I didn't run. I didn't weep. I walked, one foot in front of the other, my hands tucked into my sleeves to stop them from shaking. Behind me, the applause continued. Ahead of me, the forest opened like a mouth.

I reached the pack house and took the back entrance. The stairwell was concrete and cold, lit by a single flickering bulb. I sat down on the bottom step and pressed my forehead to my knees.

The silence inside me was total. I reached for my wolf — the presence I'd felt for three minutes, the warmth I'd barely begun to recognize — and found nothing. She was gone. I was alone inside my own body, and the emptiness was so vast I couldn't locate the edges of it.

I don't know how long I sat there. Long enough for the applause to fade. Long enough for the ceremonial fire to burn lower. Long enough for the cold to seep through my dress and into my bones.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway. I didn't look up.

The footsteps stopped.

"Layla."

The voice was quiet. Steady. I knew it without looking.

Elio.

I lifted my head. He was standing at the top of the stairwell, his jacket already off, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He didn't ask what happened. He didn't ask if I was okay. He just walked down the steps, draped his jacket around my shoulders, and held out his hand.

I took it.

He pulled me to my feet and led me out through the back trail, into the dark pines beyond the pack house. We didn't speak. The only sound was our footsteps on the dirt path and the faint rustle of wind through the trees.

At the tree line, I caught something I'd never noticed before. A scent beneath his control — wild jasmine and rain — that was somehow mine, reflected back.

I was too broken to understand what it meant.

Elio kept walking. I followed.