My Mate Accused Me of Poisoning His Heir

The dining hall is too bright tonight. Someone—probably Gia—insisted on lighting every chandelier, and the result is a glare that makes my headache worse. I position my wheelchair at the far end of the table, the spot that used to be reserved for visiting Betas. Martha sets a plate in front of me without meeting my eyes.

Jaxson sits at the head, Gia to his right in the seat that was mine. She's glowing in that way pregnant women are supposed to glow, her hand resting on the small swell of her belly like it's a crown jewel. The pack members fill in around us—Beta Kane, Gamma Torres, a handful of ranked wolves whose names I've stopped bothering to remember.

'This is nice,' Gia says, her voice carrying that particular sweetness she uses when she wants an audience. 'Having everyone together like this. It feels like... family.'

I focus on cutting my food into smaller pieces than necessary. The silver fork is cold against my palm.

'We should do this more often,' Jaxson agrees. His tone is lighter than I've heard it in months. 'Pack unity matters.'

I wonder if he hears the irony. I wonder if he cares.

Gia launches into a story about the nursery renovations—the Luna Suite's adjoining room, the one I'd once imagined painting soft yellow. She's chosen cream and gold instead. Very regal, she says. Very fitting for an Alpha's heir.

The conversation shifts to baby names. Of course it does. Gia has opinions about everything, and she delivers them with the confidence of someone who's never been told no.

'For a boy, I'm thinking something strong,' she says. 'Marcus, maybe. Or Kane, after the Beta.'

Beta Kane looks uncomfortable. Good. At least someone in this room still has a conscience.

'And for a girl?' someone asks.

Gia tilts her head, pretending to consider. But I see the way her eyes flick to Jaxson, the way her smile sharpens at the edges. This is rehearsed.

'I'm not sure yet,' she says. 'What do you think, Jax?'

Jaxson sets down his wine glass. He looks directly at me for the first time since the meal began.

'Selene,' he says.

The fork slips from my hand. It hits the plate with a sound that echoes too loud in the sudden quiet. Every head turns toward me, and I feel the weight of their stares like physical pressure.

Selene. The name I told him when we were twelve, sitting at the border woods with our feet in the creek. The name I'd whispered to him one night after the bond snapped into place, when I still believed he might love me back. The name I wrote in my journal in the Old Tongue, over and over, like a prayer to a future that would never come.

He gave it to her.

'That's beautiful,' Gia breathes. 'Selene. After the Moon Goddess herself.' She reaches across the table and squeezes Jaxson's hand. 'It's perfect.'

I press my thumb against the inside of my wrist. Count to eight. The pain behind my eye is a white spike now, drilling straight through to the base of my skull. I taste copper at the back of my throat.

'Excuse me,' I manage. My voice sounds far away, like it's coming from someone else's body.

I don't wait for permission. I turn my chair and wheel myself out of the dining hall, and if anyone says anything behind me, I don't hear it over the rushing in my ears.

Martha finds me in my room twenty minutes later. She doesn't ask what happened. She just helps me into bed and brings me the herbal paste and a glass of water that I can't drink because my hands won't stop shaking.

'Miss Lily,' she says quietly.

I shake my head. I can't talk about it. If I talk about it, something inside me will break that I won't be able to put back together.

She stays until I fall asleep. Or pretend to.

---

The next morning, I go to the garden. It's the one place in this Pack House that still feels like mine—a small plot behind the medical wing where I grow Moon Lilies and medicinal herbs. The flowers are blooming despite the cold, their white petals luminous in the early light.

I'm checking the soil moisture when I hear footsteps behind me.

'You really do love those death flowers, don't you?'

Gia's voice. I don't turn around.

'They're funeral flowers,' I say. 'There's a difference.'

'Is there?' She moves into my peripheral vision, her hand resting on her belly in that proprietary way she has. 'They still smell like endings.'

I continue working, my fingers pressing into the cool earth. I will not give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

'You know,' she says, her tone shifting into something sharper, 'I've been meaning to talk to you. About that... smell you've been covering up.'

My hands still.

'Don't worry,' she continues, leaning closer. 'I won't tell anyone you've been having hygiene issues. It must be hard, you know, with the...' She gestures vaguely at my legs. 'Limited mobility.'

She thinks it's poor hygiene. She has no idea she's smelling death.

'But I thought you should know,' Gia says, her voice dropping to a whisper, 'Jaxson notices too. He told me you remind him of a broken doll. Pretty to look at, maybe, but... not functional. Not where it counts.'

The words land like a physical blow. Not functional. Not where it counts.

She's telling me he's been with her. Intimately. Comparing us.

The last thread snaps.

'Thank you for your concern,' I say. My voice is steady. Distant. 'Was there anything else?'

Gia straightens, and I can hear the disappointment in her silence. She wanted me to break. To cry. To beg.

I won't.

'No,' she says finally. 'I think that covers it.'

She walks away, and I sit there in the garden with my hands in the dirt and the Moon Lilies blooming around me like small white ghosts.

I know what I have to do.

---

The storm hits just after midnight. I hear it coming—the wind picking up, the first drops of rain against the window. By the time I've packed my small bag, the downpour is torrential.

I don't leave a note. There's no one left who would read it.

The ground floor exit leads directly to the service path, and from there, it's a straight route to the territory border. I've mapped it in my head a hundred times. I know exactly where the patrol gaps are, exactly when the guards rotate.

What I didn't account for is the mud.

The rain has turned the path into a slick, churning mess. My wheels sink immediately, and I have to use all my upper body strength just to keep moving forward. The bag on my lap is already soaked. My hair is plastered to my face. The cold is so sharp it feels like it's cutting through my skin.

I'm fifty yards from the border when the wheels lock completely.

I push. Nothing. I try to rock the chair back and forth, but it only sinks deeper. The mud is up to the axles now, thick and black and impossible.

I try again. And again. My arms are shaking. My breath comes in ragged gasps.

I can't move.

The rain pounds down, and I sit there in the dark with my useless legs dragging in the dirt, and for the first time in years, I let myself cry.