My Mate Used Wolfsbane to Fake Our Bond

I told Liv we were going on another adventure.

She looked up from the floor where she'd been drawing wolves again — always wolves, always too big for the trees — and her face did that thing it had been doing lately. Not excited. Not scared. Just careful.

"Can Barnaby come?"

Barnaby was the stray I'd been feeding behind the motel for the past three days. Lean, scruffy, with one ear that folded wrong and eyes that tracked me like I was the only fixed point in his universe. He wasn't glamorous. He wasn't even technically mine. But he'd started sleeping under the Corolla at night, and when I'd come out that morning he'd looked at me with such uncomplicated loyalty that I'd felt something crack open in my chest.

I looked at the dog. I looked at my daughter.

"Yes," I said. "He can come."

Liv's face didn't change, but her shoulders dropped half an inch.

I packed the phone with the photograph. Sylvia's notebooks. The acceptance document with my signature on the bottom line. I wrapped them in a plastic bag and shoved them under the passenger seat. Then I loaded Liv into the back with her drawing pad and Barnaby into the footwell, and I drove.

The Lycan King's regional seat was in the mountains. Four hours north, Roman had said. The road climbed through coastal farms, then forest, then higher forest where the trees got older and the air got thinner. Liv fell asleep against the window. Barnaby put his chin on my knee and stayed there.

My hand did not go to my throat.

Not once.

I kept both hands on the wheel and watched the road eat itself under the tires, and I felt the wolf inside me stretch again. Testing. She was waking up in increments, the way you wake up from anesthesia — confused, then angry, then focused. The wolfsbane fog was still there, thick and chemical, but she was pushing against it now. Deliberately. She wanted out.

I pressed my palm flat against my sternum.

*Not yet,* I told her. *Wait.*

She didn't argue. But she didn't fold either. She stayed at attention, ears forward, waiting for the moment I gave her permission to move.

---

The hall was stone. Old stone. The kind of stone that had been standing when my grandmother's grandmother was young, if I'd had a grandmother, if I'd had anything that reached backward into a history I was allowed to claim.

I parked in the gravel lot and sat for a moment with the engine ticking down.

Liv woke up and blinked at the building. "Is this the adventure place?"

"Yes."

"Okay." She unbuckled herself and climbed out, dragging her pad with her.

Barnaby followed.

I picked Liv up and settled her on my hip. She was getting too big for this, but I needed the weight of her. I needed to feel her breathing against my collarbone. Barnaby heeled at my side without being told, and the three of us walked up the stone steps and through the carved double doors.

The great hall opened up like a throat.

Cedar beams overhead. Torches in iron brackets that I knew, distantly, were not for atmosphere but because this place had been built before electricity and the pack who built it had never bothered to update. Dozens of faces turned toward me. Council Alphas. Regional pack leaders. Wolves in formal clothes who radiated the kind of authority I had spent seven years learning to make myself small around.

I did not make myself small.

I walked forward with Liv on my hip and Barnaby at my heel, and I met exactly zero eyes, because I was not here to perform deference. I was here because a dying woman had spent the last of her strength making sure I arrived.

The Lycan King sat at the far end on a throne that looked like it had been carved from a single piece of granite. He was older than I'd expected. Silver at his temples. Lines around his eyes that suggested he smiled more than he frowned, though he was not smiling now.

To his right stood a young man I had never seen.

Broad-shouldered. Dark hair. He wore plain clothes — no ceremony, no decoration — but the aura rolling off him made the air feel heavier, the way air feels before a storm. He was looking at me. Not at Liv. Not at Barnaby. At me.

And something in his face — something I could not name — went very, very still.

He shifted his weight. A small movement. Angling himself so he was not directly in front of me but slightly to the side, the way you stand when you don't want to block someone's exit. It was tactical. Deliberate. And it happened faster than thought.

I felt my wolf notice.

Roman appeared at my elbow. "Ms. Ashford. This way."

He guided me to the center of the hall, where a low stone platform waited. The Lycan King's Healer stood beside it — an older woman with gray braids and hands that looked like they had set a thousand bones.

She held the vial.

I recognized it. The glass. The faint discoloration at the bottom where my blood had settled years ago when Sylvia's pack healer had drawn it under some pretense I had not questioned because I had trusted her. Because I had trusted everyone.

The Healer looked at the Lycan King. He nodded once.

She uncorked the vial.

The sound was small. A soft pop. Nothing.

And then the scent rose.

I didn't smell it. I felt it. A cold, bright shock that went through my sternum like a bell strike. High-alpine frost. Crystalline. Something I had never consciously known but my body recognized the way you recognize your own name shouted across a distance.

The room went silent.

Several Council Alphas stepped back. One of them audibly inhaled. Another's hand went to his chest, fingers splayed, like he was trying to hold something in place.

The young man to the right of the throne went rigid.

His hands clenched at his sides. The muscles in his neck corded. He was staring at me — no, not at me, at the space around me, at the air itself — and his jaw was locked so tight I could see the tendon jump beneath his skin. His wolf was doing something. I could feel it from across the hall. A surge. A violence. The kind of thing that should have forced a shift but didn't, because he was holding it with a control that looked like it was costing him everything he had.

The Lycan King rose from his throne.

He descended the three steps slowly. His eyes were on me. Not on the vial. On me.

He stopped two paces away.

He inhaled once. Deep. Deliberate.

And his face — the face every Alpha in this room deferred to, the face that had ruled the werewolf world for thirty years — broke.

Not into anger. Into something I did not have a word for.

"You are blood of my blood," he said. His voice was low. Rough. "You are my son's daughter."

The hall held its breath.

I looked at him. At the silver in his hair. At the lines around his eyes. At the way his hands were shaking.

And inside my chest, the wolf — my wolf, the one who had been buried under wolfsbane and lies for seven years — stretched.

And woke up.