After My Mate Let My Pack Burn

My thumb pressed into the warm skin of Rhett’s throat at precisely six in the evening. I had spent four months distilling rare silver-root oil to soothe the agony he claimed my touch caused his dormant wolf. But as the herbal oil cut through the thick, waxy salve on his neck, my fingertips caught on a raised ridge of scar tissue—the unmistakable, jagged puncture pattern of a healed marking bite. Beneath the chemical mask, another scent hit my nose like a blow to the teeth: rich damask roses and suffocating black amber.

Regina Bishop.

Rhett, Alpha of the Ironveil Pack and my fated mate of eight years, shoved my wrist back. "Don't hover, Natalie. You know how it feels when you crowd me."

His wolf had never been dormant. He had been marked for years.

The air rushed out of my lungs, cold and thin. A strange hollow numbness cracked open beneath my ribs, but I didn't cry. I set the crystal bottle on his mahogany desk with steady hands. "Of course," I said quietly. "Rest, then."

I walked out to my bedroom in the west wing, three hallways away from his bed. I laid flat in the dark, watching the shadows crawl across the ceiling. Every border patrol I ran, every alliance I drafted, every cold night spent alone while he claimed his wolf was suffering—all of it was a lie built to shelter another woman's mark.

Before dawn broke, I followed the scent.

I knew the Ironveil timberland better than anyone, having mapped every inch while Rhett stayed inside playing the wounded leader. The thread of roses and amber led me deep into the western pines to a cabin hidden behind thick hemlock.

I kept downwind, slipping through the snow-dusted needles until I reached the uncurtained side window.

Inside, firelight danced over polished pine. In the center of the rug stood an enormous, dark grey wolf. His thick shoulders were fluid with raw strength, his coat gleaming with perfect vitality. Rhett's wolf. Not crippled. Not dying.

Regina sat on the floor, leaning back against a sofa. Rhett lowered his heavy snout, nuzzling deeply into the hollow of her collarbone, dragging his teeth across her pulse in a low, possessive purr.

"Be patient," Regina murmured, threading her fingers through his dark fur. "Natalie thinks she’s still your Luna. Let her play manager until the Silverpine treaty closes. We will deal with her soon."

Rhett's wolf huffed, licking her neck where the bite scar shone pink against her skin.

My blood ran like ice water through my veins. I pressed two fingers firmly against my right wrist, feeling the rapid, terrified flutter of my pulse until the panic subsided. I backed away into the shadows, turned, and ran the miles back through the freezing brush without a sound.

Two nights later, the Great Hall was packed for the formal council dinner. Marcus, Rhett’s loyal Beta, sat two chairs down, passing territorial ledgers to the gammas. Regina sat at the far corner of the table, wearing a high-collared emerald dress, sipping red wine.

Rhett sat beside me at the head. He was laughing at a patrol report, his hand resting carelessly on the linen tablecloth.

I leaned over and placed my bare fingers over his knuckles.

Rhett recoiled instantly, like a man stung by a hornet. He grabbed my forearm and slammed my wrist down against the hard oak table with a sickening crack.

**"Enough!"** The Alpha tone tore from his throat, saturated with a heavy, suffocating command that dropped the temperature in the hall. "Keep your hands to yourself, Natalie. Your touch sickens my wolf. Learn your place."

The entire hall froze. Marcus immediately glued his eyes to his plate. Omegas carrying roast platters stared at the floor tiles. Regina smiled into her wine glass.

For eight years, that Alpha tone would have brought me to my knees. But this time, deep in the frozen center of my chest, something fractured. Not fear. A searing, ancient heat surged upward—a silent, deafening snarl from a beast inside me that was neither small nor docile. It strained against the invisible chains in my blood, pushing back against Rhett's Alpha aura until his commanding pressure slid right off me like water on stone.

I did not flinch. I pulled my wrist back into my lap, lifted my linen napkin, and patted my lips.

"Pardon me, Alpha," I said, my voice dead and clear.

Around two in the morning, while the pack house slept, I slipped back into Rhett's private study. I used a slim hairpin to pop the brass lock on the bottom right drawer—a hidden compartment I had watched him open for years.

The drawer slid out smoothly.

Inside lay three small jars of the scent-suppressant salve, an unmarked glass vial of amber liquid, and a folded topographical map. I unfolded the paper beneath the faint glow of my phone screen. Across the northern perimeter, circled in red ink with Rhett's distinct handwriting, were the words: *Silverpine Border - Strike Point Friday 0300.*

Silverpine. My parents' pack.

My fingers didn't shake. I pulled out my phone, angled the camera, and systematically photographed every jar, the map's markings, and the transfer orders bearing Rhett's private seal tucked beneath the ledger.

As I snapped the final photo, the soft vibration of a message lit my screen from a burner number I had never seen before:

*Warriors mobilized at the eastern ridge. Silverpine won't survive the dawn.*