My Mate Tried to Steal My Blood for His Throne

I gasped awake with a jolt, my body convulsing as phantom pain tore through me. My lungs burned as if I'd been drowning, and my skin felt raw—like I'd been flayed open and left to freeze in the void.

"It's not real," I whispered to myself, pressing my palms against my temples. "It's just a memory."

But the agony felt so real. A thousand years of torture in the Abyssal Void wasn't something you simply forgot.

My gaze darted around the room—the familiar pale blue walls, the four-poster bed with silk sheets, the vanity with its ornate mirror. My old bedroom in the Royal Pack House. NYC. The morning of the Mate Selection Ceremony.

I was back.

With trembling fingers, I reached for the calendar on my nightstand. The date stared back at me in bold black numbers: June 15th.

"The day of my doom," I murmured, a bitter laugh escaping my lips.

But not this time.

I rose from the bed, my movements deliberate and controlled—no trace of the naive, hopeful girl who had once occupied this room. That Sierra Adams was gone, replaced by someone harder. Someone who had survived.

As I walked to the closet, memories flooded back—Weston's gentle smile as he promised to cherish me forever; the way his eyes had glowed when he spoke of our future together; how quickly that warmth had turned to ice when he decided I wasn't good enough.

"Never again," I vowed, pulling out a midnight blue gown instead of the white dress he had once loved.

I slipped the dress over my head, its silky fabric cool against my skin. The color was deliberate—not the innocent white of a bride-to-be, but the deep, unforgiving blue of the night sky just before dawn breaks.

As I fastened the silver clasps at my shoulders, my fingers brushed against the small dagger hidden in my garter—a habit born from the nightmares of my imprisonment.

"Ready?" I asked my reflection, meeting my own gaze in the mirror.

The woman who stared back at me was beautiful but dangerous—eyes that had seen too much, lips curved in a knowing smile. No longer a tool. No longer a victim.

---

The Grand Ballroom glittered with chandeliers and the polished smiles of the supernatural elite. I entered alone, feeling the weight of curious stares.

"Sierra Adams," someone whispered behind me. "They say she's just a spirit in a vessel—not even real flesh and blood."

"Weston would never choose someone like that," another replied. "Not when he has Estella Greene to consider."

I kept my spine straight, my head high. Let them whisper. Let them underestimate me.

Across the room, I saw him—Weston Shaw, the eighteenth prince of the Wolf Clans. My former mate. My betrayer.

Our eyes locked, and something flickered across his face—recognition, followed by cold calculation.

He remembered too.

Before the High Priest could begin the ceremony, Weston strode to the dais, his movements confident and commanding.

"I have an announcement," he declared, his voice carrying across the hushed room.

The High Priest faltered, clearly surprised, but Weston continued.

"I will not be participating in today's ceremony." His gaze found mine again, filled with cruel satisfaction. "At least, not with Sierra Adams."

Gasps rippled through the crowd as Weston extended his hand. Estella Greene stepped forward, her phoenix pendant gleaming at her throat.

"My True Luna," Weston announced, pulling Estella close. "A woman of pure Phoenix bloodline—worthy of standing beside the future Alpha King."

He turned to face me directly, his voice hardening. "Unlike some soulless tools created for service, Estella's lineage makes her fit for royalty."

I stood perfectly still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crumble. My lack of reaction seemed to unsettle him; his eyes narrowed slightly.

---

"The council has reached a decision," the Head Elder announced, his voice echoing through the ballroom.

I watched as Weston whispered something to the elder, whose eyes flickered with understanding.

"Since Prince Weston has rejected Sierra Adams," the elder continued, "she must serve the pack in another capacity."

A commotion at the entrance drew everyone's attention. The crowd parted as a figure was led in—chains binding his wrists and ankles, a muzzle covering his face.

Greyson Morgan. The disgraced War General.

His eyes blazed with a feral light, body trembling with barely contained rage. Toxic energy radiated from him in waves, making nearby guests step back in fear.

"The cursed," someone whispered. "They're pairing her with the madman."

Weston's lips curved into a smirk as he mouthed two words in my direction: "Die quickly."

The council elder cleared his throat. "Sierra Adams will bond with War General Greyson Morgan, to contain his... condition."

As the crowd murmured in shock, I felt something unexpected stir within me—not fear, but recognition.

I walked toward Greyson, whose growls vibrated against his muzzle. As our eyes met, something passed between us—a shared understanding of pain that needed no words.

"This one," I thought to myself, "knows what it means to be broken."