When My Mate Let His Mistress Kill Our Pup

At 8:41 on the night of our ninth Mate Ceremony, I watched my mate fasten another woman's Luna pendant around her throat.

I was standing at the edge of the hall with three hundred wolves between me and the head table, one hand under the curve of my belly. Five months along. The pup kicked once, sharp, like she felt the room change.

Carson's fingers lingered on the clasp. He turned Jenna to face the pack, and the moon-silver caught the light.

"My true Luna," he said.

The hall roared. Glasses went up. Somebody near me whooped so loud my ear rang.

Inside me, Nessa made a sound. Not a growl. A whimper, thin and cracked, the sound of a wolf who has been rejected and reclaimed eight times and has almost nothing left to make noise with. She dragged herself up anyway. *Look at him,* she said. *Look at what he's doing.*

I looked.

The mate bond sat in my chest like a coal that had been burning for eight years. I felt it flicker. Not break—flicker, the way a candle does when a hand closes slowly around it. There was still warmth in there. That was the humiliating part. After everything, there was still warmth.

Jenna found me across the crowd and smiled with her eyes only.

Then she started walking.

The ceremonial pool sat in the center of the hall, ringed in stone, the water threaded with silver for the blessing. Wolves gave it a wide berth out of habit. Jenna came around it toward me, and four steps away her knees folded and she gasped and stumbled—

and both her hands hit my chest.

She shoved.

I went in backward.

The water closed over me and the silver went off like a struck match. It didn't burn on the skin. It burned *through* it—into my forearms, my knees, up into my blood, a screaming white line racing toward my heart. My back arched. My jaw locked. The pup inside me spasmed, one violent full-body twist of panic, and I couldn't get a hand down to hold her, I couldn't get my arms to answer at all.

Nessa was howling. I could hear her clearly for the first time in a year and she was howling and there was no sound coming out of my mouth.

Feet slapped the stone. Someone shouted, "The Luna's mate—she's in the water—"

And then Carson's voice rolled over the hall.

"ATTEND TO JENNA FIRST."

Alpha tone. It went through the room like a pressure change. I felt it lock every wolf in place, felt it lock *me*, my spine pinning flat against the pool floor, Nessa flattening under it with a snarl she couldn't finish.

The hands that had been reaching for me pulled back.

Three hundred people turned around.

Through the water I saw him kneel—not at my edge of the pool. At hers. He gathered Jenna's head into his lap and pushed her hair off her face and I heard him, clear as if he'd spoken into my ear, ask her if she was hurt.

Something in me went out.

Not dramatically. It was quiet. It was a door closing on an empty room. For eight years I had told myself that somewhere under all of it was the boy who had dragged me under a collapsed porch while rogues tore through our foster pack, who held his hand over my mouth so they wouldn't hear me crying, who was nine years old and shaking and did not let go.

He was not in there. He had never been in there. I had built him myself, out of need, and I had been feeding him for eight years.

I got my elbow under me.

The silver had eaten into my forearms and the skin came away against the stone, and I bit down and kept going. Nobody helped. Nobody looked. I climbed out of that pool alone and stood at the edge of the hall, dripping, my dress stuck to my belly, my knees on fire, while the ceremony went on around me like I was a coat rack.

Carson never turned his head.

I walked out.

I didn't say anything. That's the part that still sits strange with me. Eight years and I left the hall without a single word, because words were the only currency he'd never accepted from me, and I had something better now.

I drove myself to the human hospital forty minutes off Ironveil land. Not our Healers. Our Healers answer to him.

The nurse who took me had cold hands and no questions I couldn't lie past. Chemical burn. Industrial accident. She hooked me to a monitor, found the pup's heartbeat—fast, too fast, but there—and left the lights low.

When the door shut I pulled the folder out of my bag.

I'd been building it for six weeks. Council law, photocopied. The officiant's credential page. The registry cross-reference, stamped, dated, plain as a grocery receipt: *No Council authority on record. No sealing rights. Ceremony status: void.*

Nine ceremonies. Nine years of standing in that hall while he named me and unnamed me.

None of them had ever legally happened.

I read every page twice. The burns on my forearms wept through the gauze and I kept reading, because Lia Lane does not move on a thing until the paper is right.

Then the door opened and the nurse leaned in.

"Someone's been calling the front desk asking for you," she said. "A woman. She said to tell you not to rush back tonight." She checked her note. "She said your daughter's already asleep."