My Alpha Poisoned Me for His Mistress’s Child

I managed to walk back to the Pack House without collapsing, though my legs felt like they were made of water. Every step sent a jolt of nausea through me, not from illness, but from the horrific image burned into my mind: Jameson’s hand on Giana’s stomach. My mate, poisoning me.

When I entered our suite, Jameson was already there, pouring the green sludge from a carafe into my crystal goblet. The smell hit me instantly—kale, apples, and death.

"You're late for your dose, Juliet," he said, his voice laced with that fake concern that used to make me feel cherished. Now, it just made my skin crawl.

"I... I was feeling faint," I lied, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "I went for fresh air."

He walked over, the glass extended. "Then you need this more than ever. Drink up. For our future."

I took the glass. My hands trembled, and he mistook it for weakness. His phone buzzed on the nightstand—a sharp, demanding sound. As he turned to check it, probably a message from her, I tipped the contents of the glass into the dense fern potted by the window. The soil drank the poison greedily.

"All gone," I whispered as he turned back.

"Good girl." He took the empty glass, satisfied.

That night, hell found me.

Without the fresh dose of wolfsbane to suppress my system, my body went into violent withdrawal. I lay curled in the guest room—I couldn't bear to sleep in his bed—shaking so hard my teeth chattered. It felt like my blood was boiling, like my bones were trying to rearrange themselves. Sweat soaked the sheets, cold and sticky.

But beneath the agony, something stirred.

For months, my inner space had been a silent void. Now, through the haze of pain, I felt a flicker. A growl. It was weak, distant, like a radio signal cutting through static, but it was there. My wolf was fighting back. She wasn't dead; she was angry.

By morning, the fever broke, leaving me exhausted but mentally sharper than I had been in years. I needed to know the extent of his betrayal.

I waited until Jameson left the estate in his black SUV. Usually, the Luna stays to tend the pack, but today, I grabbed the keys to my old sedan and followed him. I kept my distance, masking my scent as best I could, trailing him into the human city.

He stopped at a high-end jeweler, the kind with armed guards and velvet ropes. I parked across the street, pulling my hood up. Through the large glass display window, I watched him.

Jameson leaned over the counter, inspecting something with a smile I hadn't seen directed at me in a long time. The sales clerk handed him a small object. Even from this distance, my enhanced wolf vision—slowly returning—caught the glint of silver.

It was a charm. A tiny, delicate silver wolf pup, curled up in sleep.

My breath hitched in my throat. A pup charm. In our tradition, a male gave this to his mate when they were expecting, a promise of protection for the unborn.

A treacherous, foolish hope bloomed in my chest. Had he stopped the poison? Was he planning to confess? Maybe he had realized what he was losing. Maybe, just maybe, he had bought it for me, a symbol that we would try again, for real this time.

I drove back to the territory with my heart in my throat, that silver charm dangling in my mind like a lifeline.

The monthly Pack Gathering was held that evening in the Great Hall. Long wooden tables were laden with roasted meats and wine. The air was thick with laughter and the scent of shifting bodies. As Luna, I sat at the head table beside Jameson. He played the part of the benevolent Alpha perfectly, gripping my hand on top of the table for everyone to see.

"Tonight, we celebrate the strength of the Dark River!" Jameson bellowed, raising his goblet. The pack cheered, banging their fists on the tables. "Our future is bright. Our legacy is secure!"

His other hand, the one hidden beneath the tablecloth, moved.

I felt the shift in his posture. I glanced down, just a fraction. His hand was passing a small velvet box to someone passing by the head table.

Giana.

She paused, ostensibly to pick up a dropped napkin. Her fingers brushed his, snatching the box with practiced ease. She didn't look at him. She looked at me.

I froze, my blood turning to ice.

Giana walked back to her seat at a lower-ranked table, surrounded by her giggling friends. With slow, deliberate movements, she opened the box. She pulled out the silver charm—the sleeping pup I had seen in the city.

She clipped it onto her charm bracelet, the silver glinting under the chandelier lights. Then, she raised her eyes to meet mine across the crowded hall.

She didn't say a word. She didn't have to. She stroked the charm, then rested her hand on her stomach, a smirk curling her red lips.

The noise of the hall faded into a dull roar. The hope I had nursed in the car shattered, the shards piercing my lungs. The charm wasn't a promise of a new beginning for us. It was a trophy for her.

Jameson squeezed my hand on the table, smiling at his pack, oblivious to the fact that he had just severed the last thread holding me to him.

"Smile, Juliet," he murmured out of the side of his mouth, his tone commanding. "The pack is watching."

I looked at him, then at Giana, who was now laughing, flaunting the symbol of my stolen future.

"Yes," I whispered, my voice hollow. "They are watching."