After My Mate Stole My Wolfsbane Formula

The burn in my lungs started at seven in the evening, right when I pressed the last six vials of wolfsbane salve against my bruised ribs and pushed through the heavy doors of the Ironmaw banquet hall.

For four years, I had ruined my health harvesting toxic night-bloom in the border trenches. I had burned my hands to raw meat grinding the roots, keeping Ironmaw's warriors alive while Matthew took the credit. Tonight, he had promised that things would change.

The cloying scent of jasmine perfume hit me before I took three steps. It choked out Matthew’s dark pine scent, smeared thick over his neck and jaw.

Matthew stood on the raised platform beneath the chandeliers. Beside him stood Peyton Collins, wearing an emerald silk gown that left little to the imagination. Matthew’s hand rested low on her hip.

He raised a dark glass vial to the cheering crowd—my vial.

"Because of Peyton Collins," Matthew’s voice echoed across the hall, "our warriors held the northern ridge. She is the mind behind our border defenses. And tonight, I name her my chosen Luna."

Applause detonated through the room.

My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. I pushed past two guards, clutching the satchel tightly to my chest. "That's mine," I called out, my voice cutting through the noise. "Matthew, you know that’s my work."

The laughter died. Matthew’s jaw tightened, his gray eyes flashing with annoyance.

Peyton didn't flinch. She stepped down from the platform, her heels clicking against the cold stone. When she reached me, she snatched the satchel from my arms with a cruel, satisfied smirk.

"You're confused, Omega," Peyton purred.

She turned the satchel upside down. One by one, the five remaining vials dropped to the flagstones.

*Crack. Crack. Shatter.*

The dark, bitter liquid splattered over our shoes, soaking into the grout. Months of agonizing labor pooled around my boots like dirty water.

"Get this stray out of my sight," Peyton barked to the guards.

"Wait," Matthew commanded, stepping to the edge of the stage. He looked down at me, his face devoid of warmth. There was no hesitation in his eyes, only cold calculation.

"I, Matthew Morgan, Alpha of the Ironmaw Pack, reject you, Rayna, as my mate."

The bond snapped.

My neck went arctic cold. A brutal shockwave ripped through my chest, like thick glass splintering inside my heart. It felt as if half my soul had been ripped out through my skin, leaving raw, freezing emptiness behind. My knees slammed against the stone floor.

I didn't beg. I didn't shed a single tear. I forced my chin up and stared straight into his face.

"Strip her," Matthew ordered, his Alpha tone slamming into my shoulders like lead weights. "Expose the mark. Let every warrior see what happens to an Omega who forgets her place."

Two warriors lunged forward, grabbing my arms and ripping the front of my tunic down. The fading, blackened mate mark on my collarbone lay bare under the bright lights, branding me disgraced for the entire pack.

*Enough,* an ancient, deafening voice roared inside my head.

It wasn't my voice. It was furious, wild, and massive.

My spine arched. Bones cracked, lengthening and re-forming in a split second. A white-hot wave of heat blasted through my veins, incinerating Matthew's Alpha command. Pure silver fur tore through my skin.

A collective gasp echoed across the room as my wolf, Luna, broke through four years of silence.

I didn't stay on the floor. I rose.

Luna stood over two meters tall at the shoulder. Her thick silver coat glowed with an eerie, luminous sheen that cast moonlight across the torches. She was gigantic—dwarfing Matthew’s gray wolf form by half.

The sheer pressure of my aura exploded across the hall. Goblets shattered on tables. Warriors dropped to their knees, clutching their heads. Matthew stumbled backward against the banquet table, his eyes wide with primal, animal terror. Every single wolf in the room dropped their gaze to the floor, compelled by an apex bloodline they couldn't fight.

Before the silence could break, the outer gates blew inward with a metallic roar.

Three armored black SUVs slid into the courtyard, tires smoking on the gravel. Royal Lycan guards spilled out, their heavy boots hitting the pavement in synchronized precision.

Princess Lakelyn stepped from the lead vehicle. Her sharp gaze swept across the hall, catching the scent of my blood and fur. Her eyes flashed molten gold.

She walked straight through the shattered glass, ignoring the whimpering pack warriors. She didn't pause until she stood directly in front of Matthew.

Without a word, Lakelyn lashed out, backhanding Matthew across the jaw.

The force sent the Alpha flying, smashing through a mahogany banquet table and landing in a heap of splintered wood and spilled wine.

"You blind, arrogant cur," Lakelyn said, her voice freezing the entire hall into absolute stone. "You just rejected the lost second daughter of the Lycan King."

The hall went dead quiet.

I shifted back, breathing steadily. A royal guard stepped forward, draping a heavy velvet cloak over my bare shoulders.

Matthew dragged himself up from the wreckage, spitting blood, his hands shaking violently as he looked at me. "Rayna... wait... the border salve—"

"The salve is gone, Matthew," I said, my voice steady and cold. "And you will never see another drop."

Lakelyn gripped my arm, leading me toward the idling SUV.

Behind us, Matthew dropped frantically to his hands and knees, clawing blindly through the shards of broken glass to scoop the spilled black salve back into his bleeding hands.