My Alpha Used Wolfsbane to Steal My Wolf

The summons came at four in the afternoon.

Victor Crane stood in my doorway holding a folded piece of paper, his Beta authority keeping his posture formal even as his jaw worked like he was chewing words he couldn't spit out. Two enforcers flanked him—young wolves I recognized from border patrol, their faces blank in that way that meant they'd been told not to ask questions.

"The Alpha requests your presence on the rooftop terrace at nightfall," Victor said. His voice was steady. Professional. But his eyes flicked once to the silver chain still burning faintly against my collarbone, and something in his expression cracked before he locked it down again.

I took the paper. Read it twice. The phrasing was courteous—*requests your presence*—but the enforcers at Victor's shoulders made it clear what kind of request this was.

"Thank you, Beta," I said quietly.

Victor hesitated. Just for a second. Then he turned and left, the enforcers following.

I closed the door and stood there holding the summons, my thumb already pressed against my wrist. My wolf surged forward—not panicked, but focused. Coiling inward with the kind of stillness that came right before an explosion.

*They will try to break us tonight,* she whispered.

I pressed harder against my wrist. "I know."

*Let them try.*

I changed into my warmest dress—dark grey wool that covered my arms and fell to my ankles. I braided my hair back so it wouldn't whip across my face in the wind. I looked at myself in the mirror one last time and saw a woman who had spent three years learning how to be invisible.

Tonight, I would let them see exactly what they wanted to see.

Then I would destroy them for it.

The rooftop terrace was empty when I arrived—just frozen stone and iron railings and the kind of wind that cut straight through fabric. The sun had set an hour ago. The moon was rising, pale and cold, casting everything in silver light.

I stood at the terrace entrance and waited.

Footsteps behind me. Multiple sets. I didn't turn.

Remington's voice came first, warm and pleased, like we were gathering for a celebration. "Adeline. Thank you for joining us."

I turned slowly.

He stood in the center of the terrace with the collar in both hands—heavy, silver-lined, the engraving catching moonlight. *Palmer's Bitch.* Victor Crane stood three feet to his left, his face carefully blank. Dorian Walsh stood to the right, arms crossed, watching me with that same unreadable expression I'd seen in the main hall. Three enforcers lined the far wall.

Hallie stood at Remington's side wearing the moonstone pendant openly now, no pretense left. She smiled at me—sweet, delighted, the look of a woman watching something she'd orchestrated finally come together.

Remington stepped forward. His scent wrapped around me—cedar and smoke, the bond I'd spent three years trying to honor pulling at something deep in my chest even now. It made me sick.

"Tomorrow," he said conversationally, "you will stand beside me at the ceremony. You will wear the gown. You will smile for the delegates." He lifted the collar slightly, turning it so the engraving faced me. "And beneath the gown, against your throat, you will wear this. So you remember what you are."

I said nothing. My thumb pressed harder against my wrist.

Remington closed the distance between us in two strides. His hands came up, the collar open, and he fastened it around my neck with the practiced efficiency of a man who had thought about this moment for a long time.

The wolfsbane-silver interior touched my skin.

The burn was immediate and catastrophic.

It wasn't like the chain—that low, constant sting I'd learned to breathe through. This was searing, the wolfsbane reacting with something in my blood, in my wolf, in the part of me that had been waking up for days. My skin blistered black beneath the metal. The smell of burning flesh rose into the frozen air.

I gasped—couldn't help it—and my knees buckled.

Remington caught me by the collar itself, his fingers hooked through the band, hauling me upright. His face was very close to mine. His voice dropped to a murmur meant only for me.

"You will kneel," he said. "And you will eat."

He shoved me down.

I hit the stone hard, my hands catching myself, the collar burning so hot I thought my throat might split open. A metal bowl sat on the terrace stones in front of me—dented, scratched, the kind used for pack dogs.

Remington's Alpha tone crashed through me like a physical blow.

"Eat."

My body moved without my permission. My hands reached for the bowl. My head lowered. The command was biological, irresistible, the weight of an Alpha's authority on a wolf who had no wolf to push back.

But I had a wolf now.

She was just waiting.

I forced my hands to still. Forced my head to lift. The collar burned. The Alpha tone pressed down like a weight on my spine. But I looked up at Remington through the pain and the command and the three years of poison, and I smiled.

It wasn't the smile I'd perfected for him. It wasn't gratitude or submission or the performance of a broken woman.

It was something else entirely.

Remington's expression flickered—just for a second—with something that looked almost like uncertainty.

Behind him, Victor Crane turned his face away. But Dorian Walsh did not look away. He stood there watching with his arms still crossed, his jaw set, and I saw the exact moment he made his choice.

The wind cut across the terrace. The moonlight turned everything silver. And inside my chest, behind the cage of wolfsbane and three years of suppression, my wolf pressed forward with a single word that felt like a promise.

*Soon.*