Rejected by the Mate Who Knew the Truth

When my mother’s letter arrived, I was still reeling from the thirty lashes Christian had ordered, lying facedown on the bed, pain blurring my vision as I struggled to read the words.

The letter was firm: if I couldn’t bring Christian back to discuss the mark ceremony within half a month, I would have to accept the mate my parents had chosen for me. My hands trembled as I tried to fold the letter, but the tent flap was abruptly pulled open.

Christian stepped in, his sharp eyes immediately catching the words “mark ceremony” on the parchment. His brows furrowed, and his voice was cold.

“Mark ceremony? I haven’t achieved anything noteworthy yet. How can I possibly consider marking you? Are you so desperate?”

---

He seemed so certain that the letter referred to him.

And why wouldn’t he? For the past three years, I had studied healing tirelessly, working as a healer in this desolate borderland just for him. My devotion to Christian was as clear as the blades of grass beneath my feet or the grains of sand in the wind. Everyone here knew it—everyone but him, it seemed.

Christian opened his mouth to say more, but he was interrupted.

“Enough. This is a training ground, not a place for personal matters,” came a voice from behind him.

Brinley stood there, her posture commanding, her expression impatient as she glanced between us.

Christian’s demeanor softened immediately, his gaze turning gentle as he looked at her.

“You were the one who said you were worried about her and insisted on coming to check on her,” he reminded her, his tone almost indulgent.

Brinley smirked. “Well, you did punish her because of me. Of course, I had to see for myself.”

She shrugged, her voice casual. “Besides, thirty lashes aren’t that bad. We’ve faced worse during pack battles.”

Christian didn’t argue, his expression making it clear he agreed. He turned back to me, his voice flat.

“Rayna, the punishment was necessary. You mishandled Brinley’s injury, and I had to make an example of you. Do you understand?”

I nodded slowly, the movement pulling at the raw wounds on my back, the pain stealing my voice.

Brinley glanced at me, her eyes lingering for a moment before she shrugged again. “She’ll be fine. Let’s go. The others are waiting for us to join them for drinks.”

Christian nodded, his gaze sweeping over me as if he didn’t see the bloody lashes or the ruined fabric of my shirt. “Rest well. There are still plenty of wounded in the pack who need your attention. Don’t let your personal issues delay their treatment.”

With that, he let Brinley pull him out of the tent, their hands brushing briefly as they left.

I opened my mouth, wanting to say that I was also injured—that I was a patient too—but the words died in my throat as I watched their retreating figures.

Yesterday, during a pack training session, Brinley had nicked her arm and called for me to treat her. I had been careful, but she still winced and claimed I had hurt her. Christian’s face had darkened immediately.

“I know you don’t like Brinley because of me, but you’re a healer. How can you let personal feelings interfere with your duty?”

His voice had been cold, unyielding.

“Rayna, I’m giving you thirty lashes. Reflect on your actions.”

And then he had personally picked up the whip, dipping it in saltwater before delivering every strike.

Thirty lashes. Not one less.

I had passed out several times, only to be jolted awake with cold water, forced to endure every blow. To make an example of me, he had ordered the entire pack to watch, stripping me of any dignity I had left.

Afterward, no one dared to help me.

Christian had ordered that I learn my lesson, and as the pack’s healer, he saw no need to waste resources on my care.

But he never considered how I was supposed to treat my own back.

When he entered the tent earlier, I had still held onto a sliver of hope—that he might comfort me as he once did.

But I had forgotten. Since Brinley arrived, I was no longer the one who stood by his side. My devotion, my sacrifices—they had become a burden to him.

I forced myself to focus, the pain in my back a constant reminder of my place. Reaching for a piece of paper and a pen, I wrote my reply to my mother.

“In half a month, I will return home. The mark ceremony will be as you arrange.”

The words felt heavy as I wrote them, but I knew there was no other choice. My future with Christian was no longer mine to claim.