My Mate Tried to Kill Me for His Luna

The training wing smelled like sweat and leather and the particular staleness of a space no one had cleaned properly in weeks.

I was on my knees scrubbing boot-prints off the sparring mats when Layla's bunk came into view. She had left in a hurry that morning—called to some urgent patrol Brody had invented to keep her visible, keep her relevant. The kind of patrol I used to assign based on actual border intelligence rather than theatrical necessity.

I wrung out the rag. I moved to the next section of mat.

Her training-wrap was half-visible beneath the bunk frame. Standard issue, black nylon, the kind every Gamma carries. Except this one had a seam that didn't quite lie flat.

I set the rag down.

I pulled the wrap toward me. The hollow compartment opened under my fingers with the ease of something accessed frequently. Inside: six glass vials, each no larger than my thumb, filled with a liquid that caught the light wrong. Too viscous. Too amber. Beside them, a small plastic bottle with no label and twenty-three capsules inside.

I knew what they were before I touched them.

My hands started shaking. Not the wolfsbane tremor—this was different. This was the tremor of a hypothesis confirmed. I pulled my phone from my pocket. I photographed the vials from three angles. I photographed the capsule bottle. I photographed the hollow compartment and the bunk frame for spatial context.

Then I opened my folio.

The symptom record I had been keeping for six months was in the back section, dated and cross-referenced against every meal, every interaction, every cup of tea Layla had brought to my door. I compared the wolfsbane capsule dosage—stamped faintly on the bottle cap in a code I recognized from restricted healer inventory—against the severity curve in my notes.

Perfect match.

The scent-mimicry serum I had only read about in black-market intelligence reports Brody never bothered to review. Manufactured chemistry designed to produce the electric recognition, the instinctive pull, the bond-markers that a wolf's nose reads as fate. Highly illegal. Highly effective. Duration: approximately eighteen months before the body's natural scent begins to break through.

Eighteen months ago, Layla's scent had sharpened.

I closed my eyes. I let myself feel it—not grief, not betrayal. Relief. The kind that comes when the world stops gaslighting you and the evidence finally speaks.

I replaced the vials exactly as I had found them. I repositioned the capsule bottle at the same angle. I slid the training-wrap back beneath the bunk frame, seam-side in, until it looked untouched.

Then I stood up, folio in hand, and walked directly to Brody's office.

---

He was at his desk reviewing patrol logs—my patrol logs, the ones I had designed, now being executed poorly under Layla's command.

I knocked. He didn't look up.

"Kehlani." His voice was flat. "If this is about reassignment—"

"It's about evidence."

That got his attention. He set the logs down. His eyes moved to my folio, then to my face.

I opened the folio. I pulled the photographs. I set them on his desk in sequence: vials, capsules, compartment, spatial context.

"Scent-mimicry serum," I said. "Black-market. Restricted wolfsbane capsules signed out under Layla's credentials. Cross-referenced against my symptom record for the past six months. The bond you felt was chemically manufactured. My dormancy was chemically maintained."

I watched his face.

He looked at the photographs. He looked at me. And then his jaw tightened in the way it does when he has already decided what reality will be.

"You're accusing my Luna of—"

"I'm presenting evidence."

"You're bitter." He stood. "You're bond-dead, and you can't accept that I found what you could never give me."

I opened my mouth.

His eyes flashed gold.

The Alpha tone hit me through the ghost-thread of the rejected bond before I could speak. Not a suggestion. A command, weighted with authority that should no longer apply but somehow still locked in the residual channel we had never fully severed.

*"You will not speak of Layla. You will not approach Layla. You will accept what you are."*

The compulsion sealed in my throat like a physical gag. I felt my vocal cords freeze. My jaw locked. The words I had prepared—eighteen months of evidence, cross-referenced and dated—stopped behind my teeth.

Brody turned back to his desk.

"You're dismissed."

I stood there. Evidence in my hands. Mouth sealed by a dead bond my former mate was still weaponizing. He didn't even watch me leave. He picked up the patrol logs again as though I had already gone.

I walked out.

In the corridor, I opened my folio. My hand was shaking—not wolfsbane, not fear. Rage. Controlled, catalogued, and absolutely clear.

I wrote beneath the evidence list: *Alpha tone used to suppress testimony. Date and time noted. Witness required.*

Then I closed the folio and walked to my quarters.

---

The formal alliance review calendar was in my head. I had designed it. Quarterly rotations, hosted by allied packs in sequence, with attendance required by ranked leadership. Blackmoor Pack was scheduled to host in two weeks.

I sat at the small desk in my reduced quarters and drafted correspondence. Not mind-link—Brody monitored those. Written, on formal alliance stationery I had kept in my personal files.

*Alpha Dorian Blackmoor,*

*Per the established alliance review protocol, I am writing to confirm Silverfang's attendance at the upcoming Blackmoor banquet. Recent leadership transitions within Silverfang have raised questions regarding operational continuity that may benefit from direct discussion. I remain available to provide historical context on alliance terms as needed.*

*Respectfully,*

*Kehlani Sinclair*

I sealed it. I sent it through the pack's external courier—the one Layla didn't monitor because she didn't know it existed.

Dorian's response arrived the next morning. Handwritten. Brief.

*Kehlani,*

*Your presence is specifically requested. The questions I have are not for Silverfang's current leadership—they are for the woman who built the agreements they are now managing. I will ensure appropriate protocol.*

*Dorian Blackmoor*

I read it twice.

Then I filed it in my folio, directly beside the evidence photographs.

Neutral ground. Allied Alpha witness. A venue where Brody's Alpha tone held no jurisdiction.

I had just secured my tribunal.