My Mate Ordered Me to Poison Our Unborn Pup

The frost crunched beneath my boots as I reached the edge of the Ironvale territory.

A black SUV sat idling by the tree line, its tinted windows dark and impenetrable. The exhaust plumed into the freezing night air. I didn't know who owned it, and I didn't care. Anything was better than the room where Dillon had locked me away.

I took one final step and crossed the border line.

A sharp, violent crack tore through the center of my skull. It felt like an iron cable snapping under too much tension. The pack mind-link severed instantly, peeling away from my mind with surgical finality.

In that dying split second of the connection, Dillon’s voice echoed in my head, panicked and frantic:

*“Everly? Where the hell are you? The mantle—what did you—”*

Silence.

The link went dead. The mental noise vanished into pure, hollow quiet.

I walked to the SUV. The rear door clicked unlocked before my hand even touched the handle. I climbed into the leather interior, pulled the door shut with a heavy thud, and leaned back against the headrest. The engine hummed low as the vehicle smoothly accelerated north.

I placed one hand flat over my lower stomach in the dark. I didn't turn around. I didn't look back once.

***

We drove through the night, climbing high into the jagged mountain ridges where the air grew thin and cold. Just before dawn, the SUV pulled through towering wrought-iron gates and stopped in the courtyard of a massive granite stronghold.

The door opened. Standing on the stone steps was Desmond, the Lycan King.

He was Dillon’s estranged older brother, but they looked nothing alike. Desmond was taller, broader, with an aura so thick and ancient it made the hairs on my arms stand up. Yet, as I stepped out into the biting wind, he didn't unleash that power. There was no Alpha tone. No dominating pressure. He didn't even reach out to touch me.

His dark eyes swept over me in one swift, total assessment.

He looked at my pale face, the empty void in my chest where my wolf had gone silent, and the slight, protective curve of my arms over my belly. He knew. In less than three seconds, he understood everything.

"You are safe here," Desmond said, his voice deep and quiet, like rolling thunder kept on a tight leash. "Rowan will see to you."

That was it. Barely eight words.

He turned his head slightly toward a tall woman with sharp eyes and short, practical hair standing by the heavy oak doors. "Lena. Settle her in the east wing. Make sure she has everything she needs without having to ask."

Lena gave a sharp nod. "Right away, King Desmond."

They led me to a warm, fire-lit suite overlooking the pine-covered cliffs. I washed the dust from my face, lay down on the down mattress, and stared at the timbered ceiling.

Late that night, unable to sleep, I stood near the cracked window to let the cold mountain breeze clear my head. Through the heavy wood of my door, I caught a sudden scent drifting down the stone corridor.

Black pine and winter rain.

It was clean, cold, and utterly intoxicating. It settled in the back of my throat, making my pulse jump against my ribs.

I stepped softly to the door and peered through the iron viewing slit. Desmond was standing down the hall, shadowed by the dim sconce light. He had positioned himself slightly downwind, his hands resting loose at his sides. I could see the subtle strain in his broad shoulders, the way his jaw was set tight against the dark.

His inner wolf had surfaced, drawn by my presence. Yet he didn't approach. He didn't knock. He simply stood vigil, keeping watch over a broken woman carrying another wolf's pup.

***

The next morning, the door opened to reveal Rowan, the royal healer.

He was a calm, gray-eyed wolf who moved with quiet precision. He didn't waste time on pleasantries. He placed two fingers against my inner wrist, then pressed his palms to my abdomen, humming softly as his magic swept through my core.

"The heartbeat is faint, but the little one is strong," Rowan said, stepping back to write notes on a ledger. "However, there is lingering toxicity in your blood. You've been exposed to wolfsbane."

"I masked it with herbs," I said, my throat tight. "I refused to swallow it."

"Good. But even the vapors can cross the barrier," Rowan replied, looking at me with gentle, steady eyes. "We begin the weaning process today. I will purge the residue from your tissues in measured stages so we don't shock the pup's sac."

For three days, Rowan administered bitter tinctures of silver-moss and boiled pine bark. With each passing day, the dull, chemical weight began to lift from my veins.

And as the suppressants washed out of my system, my natural mate scent finally broke free.

It bloomed through the stone corridors like fresh spring—pure, wild white jasmine. It was potent, sweet, and unmistakable.

On the fourth morning, I opened my door to place an empty tea tray on the side table.

Down the hallway, Desmond was walking toward the council chamber. The moment my scent hit the air, he froze mid-stride.

His broad back went rigid. His hands curled into tight, white-knuckled fists at his sides. Even from thirty feet away, I could feel the sheer, trembling force of his restraint. Deep inside his chest, I heard a low, agonized rumble—his wolf howling in silent, starving recognition.

He didn't turn around. He didn't look at me. He forced his feet to move, walking all the way to the tall arched window at the far end of the hall. He stood there, staring out into the snow until his breathing steadied.

Nearby, leaning against the archway, Lena watched the entire exchange in quiet stillness. She looked at her King, then glanced back at me, her sharp eyes narrowing with quiet calculation.

Without a word, Lena turned on her heel and slipped into the lower offices, ready to track down the moonstone pendant Dillon had dared to steal.