When I Rejected My Mate at His Wedding

The fluorescent lights in the vault room buzzed like angry wasps. I stood at the counter, my fingers gripping the withdrawal slip so hard the paper crumpled at the edges. Jaliyah needed her medication—the expensive kind that kept her episodes from spiraling into full breakdowns—and we were down to the last two pills.

"I'm sorry, Miss White." Gerald, the vault keeper, wouldn't meet my eyes. His gaze darted everywhere but my face, settling finally on the stack of forms between us. "Your access has been... revoked."

The word hit like a slap. "Revoked? That's impossible. I'm Marcelo's mate. I've been using this account for years."

"Only primary account holders can make withdrawals now." He pushed his glasses up his nose, a nervous habit I'd seen a hundred times before. But this time, something felt different. Wrong. "New policy. Came down last week."

"Last week." My voice came out flat. Marcelo had been gone for ten days. Ten days of vague excuses about pack business and territory negotiations. Ten days of me stretching every dollar while Jaliyah's condition worsened. "Where's Marcelo? I need to speak with him."

Gerald's throat bobbed. "He's on diplomatic leave. Silver Lake Pack territory."

Silver Lake. The wealthiest pack in the region, known for their pristine estates and pure bloodlines. What business did Marcelo have there?

I left the vault with empty hands and a chest full of ice. The morning air bit at my skin as I crossed the pack grounds, but I barely felt it. My wolf stirred inside me—a rare occurrence these days. She'd been so quiet for so long, I'd almost forgotten what her presence felt like. Now she pushed at my consciousness, urgent and insistent.

Follow him.

Marcelo's scent lingered on the path leading into the forest. Pine and leather, once comforting, now made my stomach turn. I'd tracked this scent a thousand times, always finding him exactly where he said he'd be. But today, the trail led away from pack territory, winding through the dense woods toward the border.

Branches caught at my jacket. Mud sucked at my boots. I pushed forward, my wolf driving me on even as my rational mind screamed that I was being paranoid, that there had to be an explanation.

The border came into view through the trees—a natural clearing marked by ancient stones. Two guards stood at their post, Silver Lake warriors in their crisp uniforms. I ducked behind an oak, my heart hammering.

"Can't believe the Alpha's throwing such a huge ceremony," one guard said, his voice carrying across the clearing. "Must be nice, marrying into money like that King fellow."

The other guard laughed. "Wedding preparations have been insane. The Luna-to-be wants everything perfect for when she mates with him next week."

Mates with him.

Next week.

The words didn't make sense. They couldn't. I pressed my hand against the rough bark, needing something solid to anchor me as the world tilted sideways.

"Thompson's daughter is getting a good deal," the first guard continued. "King's got that old bloodline, even if his family fell on hard times. Plus, he's easy on the eyes."

"Yeah, but did you see the size of that dowry? Alpha Thompson's not taking chances. Wants to make sure his Blair gets a proper mate."

Blair Thompson. Alpha's daughter. Mate.

I stumbled backward, my boots crunching on dead leaves. The guards' heads snapped toward the sound, but I was already running, crashing through the underbrush like a wounded animal.

The pack house basement smelled like mildew and forgotten things. I yanked the chain on the single bulb, flooding the archives room with weak yellow light. Dust motes danced in the air as I tore through filing cabinets, my hands shaking so badly I could barely grip the folders.

Mating records. There had to be records. Eight years ago, Marcelo and I had stood in the moonlit clearing, speaking our vows. He'd held my hands and promised forever. The memory felt sacred, untouchable.

But the files told a different story.

I found records for every mating in the past decade. Certificates stamped with the Moon Goddess's seal, witnessed by Elders, filed properly with the Council. Page after page of couples who'd done it right.

My name appeared nowhere.

I searched again, frantic now, pulling out drawers and scattering papers across the concrete floor. Nothing. Not a single document bearing my name next to Marcelo's. No witness seal. No Elder signatures. No proof that our ceremony had ever happened at all.

The folder slipped from my numb fingers. In the silence of that basement, surrounded by the evidence of my own stupidity, one truth crystallized with brutal clarity:

I had never been his mate at all.