My Alpha Poisoned Me for His Mistress’s Child

The morning sun filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the Alpha’s suite, but it brought no warmth to my shivering body. I woke with the familiar, acrid taste of bile in my throat, a sensation that had become my constant companion over the last six months. My limbs felt like lead, my head swimming in a fog that refused to lift.

"Awake already, my love?"

Jameson’s voice was smooth, a deep baritone that used to make my inner wolf purr. Now, my wolf was silent, curled into a dormant ball deep within my subconscious, too weak to even acknowledge her mate. Jameson stood by the bedside table, his tall frame blocking the light. He looked every inch the Alpha of the Dark River Pack—imposing, handsome, and utterly composed.

He held out a glass filled with a murky, greenish liquid. The scent was overpowering, masking something metallic and sharp underneath the smell of kale and apples.

"Drink," he said gently, though the command in his eyes left no room for argument. "Dr. Helena prepared it fresh. You know we need to keep your strength up if we’re going to try again next month."

I pushed myself up against the headboard, my hands trembling as I took the glass. "It burns, Jameson. Every time I drink it, I feel like I’m on fire from the inside out."

Jameson sat on the edge of the bed, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from my sweaty forehead. His touch was cool, almost clinical. "That means it’s working, Juliet. It’s stimulating your system. You want to give me an heir, don’t you? You want to be a real Luna?"

The question stung more than the physical pain. Six years. For six years, I had failed him. My womb remained empty, my wolf grew weaker, and the whispers of the pack grew louder. I was the barren Luna. The broken vessel.

"I do," I whispered, shame coloring my cheeks. "More than anything."

"Then drink."

I squeezed my eyes shut and downed the mixture in one go. It slid down my throat like liquid lava, settling in my stomach with a heavy, churning weight. I suppressed a gag, forcing a weak smile for my mate.

"Good girl," he murmured, taking the empty glass. He stood up abruptly, checking his watch. "I have urgent pack business to attend to. Rest, Juliet. Don’t strain yourself."

He kissed my forehead—a quick, dry press of lips—and strode out of the room without looking back.

Hours later, the burning hadn't subsided. It had morphed into a sharp, twisting cramp that doubled me over. I reached for the mate bond, desperate for Jameson’s comforting presence, needing to feel his calm wash over my panic.

*Jameson?* I called out internally.

Nothing.

It wasn't just silence; it was a wall. He had blocked me. Jameson never blocked me, not even during the most heated council meetings. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog of my illness. Something was wrong.

Ignoring the trembling in my legs, I dressed quickly and stumbled out of the Pack House. The fresh air did little to clear my head. My destination was the pack hospital, a sleek building on the edge of the estate. If Jameson wasn't answering, maybe he was hurt. Maybe that was the "urgent business."

The hospital corridors were strangely quiet. My enhanced hearing, usually sharp enough to hear a pin drop three rooms away, was muffled, like I was listening through water. But I saw him.

Marcus, the pack Beta, was standing guard outside a private VIP ward at the end of the hall. His posture was rigid, his hand hovering near his waistband. This wing was reserved for high-ranking injuries or critical emergencies, yet there had been no rogue attacks, no alarms.

Why was the Beta guarding an empty room?

Instinct, primal and urgent, flared within me. I didn't approach him. Instead, I slipped into the adjacent supply closet. My heart hammered against my ribs as I located the ventilation grate near the floor. It shared a wall with the VIP ward. I knelt on the cold tiles, pressing my face to the metal slats, praying my dull senses wouldn't fail me now.

The room beyond was sterile and white, but the scent wafting through the vent made my blood turn to ice.

Jameson was there. He stood with his back to me, hunched over a steel table. In his hand was a small vial of purple liquid. I watched, breath hitched, as he uncorked it and carefully dripped the contents into a row of bottles labeled *'Luna’s Prenatal Supplements'*.

Wolfsbane.

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. The metallic taste. The burning. The fading of my wolf. He wasn't giving me vitamins. He was poisoning me.

"Is it done, Alpha?"

The voice was feminine, sultry, and terrifyingly familiar. I shifted my gaze.

Giana Hunter sat on the examination bed, her legs dangling casually. She wore a silk robe that fell open, revealing the distinct, swollen curve of a baby bump. She looked glowing, vibrant—everything I was not.

Jameson capped the bottle and turned to her, his face softening in a way I hadn't seen in years. He walked over and placed a large hand possessively over her stomach.

"It’s done," Jameson said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "She took the dose this morning. The wolfsbane is suppressing her beast entirely. As long as she keeps drinking it, her body will remain too toxic to conceive."

"And you're sure she won't suspect?" Giana asked, covering his hand with hers, rubbing her cheek against his arm.

"Juliet?" Jameson scoffed, a cold, cruel sound that shattered whatever pieces of my heart remained. "She is desperate to please me. She’d drink poison willingly if I told her it would give us a pup. She is weak, Giana. A figurehead. She was never meant to be the mother of my legacy."

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Giana’s exposed neck, right over the pulsing vein. "You are carrying the future Alpha. That is all that matters."

I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle the scream building in my throat. Tears streamed down my face, hot and fast, but I didn't make a sound. The man I had loved, the mate I had worshipped, was systematically killing my wolf and my dreams, all while building a new life with the woman smiling up at him.

My infertility was a lie. My illness was a murder plot. And my marriage was a graveyard.