My Mate Humiliated Me Until the Lycan King Claimed Me

I started noticing the wolfsbane on the third day.

Bryce called a gathering to address the elders about border patrol rotations. Standard pack business. He sat at the head of the table with his hands folded, looking appropriately grave, and halfway through the Beta's report he went very still.

His fingers trembled. Just his fingers. The rest of him stayed perfectly composed.

"Alpha?" Old Marla leaned forward. "Are you—"

"I'm fine." His voice came out tight. "Just a moment. It passes."

The tremor spread to his wrist. He gripped the edge of the table. Everyone watched. I watched too, standing by the sideboard with the tea service, and I caught it — a faint bitter edge underneath his usual cedar scent. Sharp. Medicinal. Wrong.

I knew that smell. I'd studied herbs for years while the pack assumed I was just learning to make better stew.

Wolfsbane. Low-grade, carefully dosed. Enough to suppress a shift without killing the wolf outright.

I poured his tea and brought it to him. Set it down gently. "Here, love."

He looked at me. Too much eye contact again. The tremor stopped.

"Thank you," he said.

I smiled and stepped back.

That night I opened my journal and wrote down the time, the duration of the episode, and the compound I'd identified. Then I flipped back through the past three days and checked my notes. He'd had two other episodes. Both times right before or after meeting with Isadora.

I closed the journal and pressed it back under the floorboard.

***

The pack healer came twice in the next week.

Bryce summoned him after another episode during dinner — this one longer, more visible, his whole arm shaking as he tried to lift his fork. His mother made that practiced sound of distress again. The younger wolves looked genuinely worried.

The healer examined him in the study. I brought water and stayed near the door, quiet, attentive. The healer checked his pulse, his eyes, pressed fingers to the glands at his throat.

"Your vitals are stable, Alpha," the healer said slowly. "But the tremors—"

"Are getting worse." Bryce's voice cracked beautifully. "I can feel him dying. My wolf. He's… fading."

The healer frowned. "I can prepare a tonic. Strengthening herbs. But if the bond itself is—"

"Do what you can."

I watched the healer's face. He didn't believe it either. But he was a pack healer. He served the Alpha. He nodded and left.

Bryce waited until the door closed. Then he looked at me.

"You're still here."

"I told you," I said gently. "I won't leave you while you're suffering."

His jaw tightened. He turned away.

I left the water on his desk and walked out.

***

Buster started growling on the eighth day.

Bryce called another gathering — this one in the main hall, more formal, with most of the pack present. He wanted witnesses. He stood at the front and spoke about the pain, the slow deterioration, how hard he was fighting to stay strong for them.

Halfway through, he gripped the podium. The tremor came. Right on cue.

Buster, lying near my feet, lifted his head. His ears went flat. A low rumble started in his chest.

I put a hand on his neck. "Shh."

The dog ignored me. He stood, hackles rising, and the growl got louder. He was staring straight at Bryce.

People noticed. Heads turned. Marla whispered something to the wolf beside her.

Bryce's tremor stopped. He looked at the dog. Then at me.

"Aurora, control your animal."

"He's not mine," I said quietly. "He's ours."

Buster took a step forward, still growling. His nose worked the air. He could smell it. The wolfsbane. The lie.

Bryce's mother stood. "Perhaps the dog should be removed. This is hardly appropriate during—"

"He's fine." I pulled Buster back gently. "Come on, boy. Let's go."

The dog resisted. He planted his paws and kept growling, and I had to half-drag him out of the hall. The pack watched us go. I heard the murmurs starting before the door even closed.

***

Bryce came to my room that night. Didn't knock. Just walked in.

"The dog goes to the Omega kennels."

I was sitting on the floor with my journal. I looked up.

"What?"

"You heard me." He stood in the doorway, backlit, his shadow long across the floor. "He's undermining the pack's confidence. Every time I have an episode, he reacts like I'm a threat. It's confusing people."

"He's a dog, Bryce. He doesn't understand—"

"I don't care what he understands. He goes tomorrow."

I stood slowly. "He chose me. You know that. From the first week."

"Then you should have trained him better."

He turned and left.

I stood there with my journal in my hands and listened to his footsteps fade down the hall. The mark on my neck was still cold. It had been cold for eight days. I'd stopped checking.

I opened the journal and wrote down what he'd said. Word for word. Then I closed it and slid it back under the floorboard.

***

They came for Buster in the morning.

Two Deltas. They had a lead and a directive from the Alpha. Buster saw them coming and pressed against my legs, whining.

I knelt down. Put my hands on either side of his face.

"It's okay," I whispered. "It's okay, boy."

It wasn't okay.

They clipped the lead to his collar and pulled. He dug in, claws scraping stone, straining back toward me. The sound echoed through the hall. People stopped to watch. Again.

I pressed two fingers to the mark on my neck. The cold, dead thing under the scar tissue. I'd done it without thinking. Old habit. Old reassurance that didn't work anymore.

I lowered my hand.

Buster was still fighting the lead, still whining, and one of the Deltas yanked hard enough that the dog yelped. My chest went tight. Not grief this time. Something else. Something that had been pressing at a locked door for eight days.

I watched them drag him around the corner. Watched until I couldn't see him anymore. Listened until the claws stopped scraping.

Then I turned and walked back to my room.

I didn't cry. I didn't shake. I opened the journal, wrote down the time and the witnesses, and then I sat on the floor and let the thing beneath my ribs press a little harder.

Whatever mercy I'd been holding in reserve — whatever small, stupid part of me that had still been mourning the bond — went out like a candle.

Bryce wanted a performance. Fine. I'd give him one he'd remember.