After My Mate Accused Me of Attacking His Luna

The damp chill of the dungeon had seeped into my bones by the time the heavy iron door groaned open. I didn't look up right away. My body was still trembling from the lethal dose of Grayson’s poison, my inner wolf curled into a silent, dying shadow in the back of my mind.

Heavy boots echoed on the stone. The scent of cedar and vanilla wrapped around me, but it offered no comfort. It only brought the agonizing reminder of the mate bond I had severed.

"Get up," Duncan’s voice cracked like a whip in the dark.

I pushed myself off the floor, my joints screaming in protest. When I finally met his gaze, the absolute zero of his stare made my breath hitch. There was no trace of the man who used to hold me.

"Anais requires her meals," he stated, his tone devoid of any emotion. "And as her servant, you will prepare them."

I swallowed the thick, metallic taste still lingering in my mouth. "I am a healer, Duncan. Not a cook."

He stepped closer, his Alpha aura pressing down on my bruised shoulders until my knees threatened to buckle. "You lost the right to call yourself a healer when you took a silver blade to my Luna. From now on, you will cook for her. And you will lace her daily meals with trace amounts of wolfsbane to build her immunity."

My head snapped up. "Wolfsbane?" I whispered, my voice trembling. "Duncan, you know I can't. I have a deathly allergy. Just touching it..."

"I know exactly what it does to you," he interrupted, his jaw tight, his eyes flashing with a cruel, vindictive light. "Consider it penance. If you want to stay in my pack, you will do exactly as I command. Or I will throw you to the rogues today."

He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving me to suffocate on the injustice of it all. He thought he was punishing a jealous traitor. He didn't know he was handing me a death sentence.

Ten minutes later, I stood in the pack kitchen. The head chef had been cleared out, leaving me alone with a silver tray, a steaming bowl of soup, and a small wooden box containing dried wolfsbane petals.

Just opening the lid sent a wave of dizziness crashing over me. The acrid, peppery scent of the purple flower seized my lungs. I gasped, my chest tightening instantly as respiratory agony set in. Every breath felt like inhaling crushed glass.

With trembling fingers, I reached into the box. The moment the dried petals brushed my skin, a violent hiss filled the quiet kitchen.

My healer instincts flared to life. A warm, golden glow erupted from my palms as my magic desperately tried to fight off the toxin. But the wolfsbane was relentless, and my wolf was already too weak. The golden light flickered and died, replaced by angry, red blisters that bubbled across my palms and up my fingers. Tears streamed down my face, dropping onto the marble counter.

I gritted my teeth, stifling a scream, and crushed the petals into the food.

*Endure it,* I told myself. *Just endure it.*

Because Duncan didn’t know the real reason I accepted this torture without a fight. He didn't know that this daily punishment was the perfect cover.

While I ground the wolfsbane for Anais, I pulled a small, hidden vial from the deep pocket of my apron. It contained the black sludge Grayson had forced down my throat—the experimental poison that was currently rotting my inner wolf. As a healer, I had spent the last twenty-four hours agonizingly analyzing the toxin in my own blood. I realized that if I altered its compound with the pure wolfsbane Duncan was forcing me to handle, I could invert the poison.

I could synthesize a cure for Duncan’s cursed, weakened wolf.

I couldn't save my own family from his father's slaughter. I couldn't save my own life from Grayson's blackmail. But I could save Duncan. Even if he hated me. Even if he broke me.

My hands shook violently as I carefully extracted a single drop of the inverted serum, letting it fall into a hidden glass tube. Another blister popped on my thumb, raw flesh exposed to the toxic air. I choked on a sob, my lungs burning so fiercely I had to lean against the counter to keep from collapsing. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision.

"Is it done?"

Duncan’s voice from the doorway made me jump. I quickly shoved my hidden vial back into my apron, wiping my tear-streaked face with the back of my wrist.

He stood there, his arms crossed, his eyes dropping to my hands. For a fraction of a second, I saw a flicker of something in his gaze—a ghost of the mate who used to kiss my fingertips. He saw the angry, weeping burns. He heard the wet, ragged wheezing of my ruined lungs.

But then the walls slammed back down. His expression hardened into stone.

"Take it to her," he commanded coldly.

I picked up the silver tray. The metal handles bit into my blistered flesh, sending fresh waves of agony up my arms. I walked past him, my head bowed, my breathing shallow and erratic.

He didn’t stop me. He didn't offer to carry it. He just watched me suffer.

As I carried the tray up the stairs, my silver wolf let out a faint, pathetic whimper in my mind. We were dying. Every meal I prepared, every petal I crushed, pushed us closer to the grave. But feeling the small vial of his cure resting against my hip, I knew I would do it all over again tomorrow.