My Mate Let Me Die to Mark His Mistress

Dust motes danced in the sliver of sunlight cutting through the heavy velvet curtains of the pack archives. I sneezed, the sound echoing in the silence. As the Omega of the Silver Moon Pack, this was my domain—the dusty corners, the forgotten histories, the places no one else wanted to be.

"Just another day, Zoey," I whispered to myself, reaching for a heavy, leather-bound tome on the top shelf. "Keep your head down, do your work."

But today wasn't just another day. My hand slipped. The sharp metal clasp of the book sliced across my thumb. I hissed, pulling my hand back, expecting the familiar sting and the welling of crimson red. Instead, as I pressed my thumb against the parchment of an open scroll to stop the bleeding, a strange warmth bloomed in my chest.

I pulled my hand away. The blood wasn't red. It was gold. Liquid sunlight, shimmering and viscous, soaking into the ancient paper.

The scroll beneath my hand didn't just stain; it reacted. The faded ink flared to life, the symbols rearranging themselves. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I couldn't read the ancient tongue, but my wolf—usually so quiet, so beaten down—stirred. She howled, a sound of pure, unadulterated power that only I could hear.

*Golden Wolf,* she whispered. *Royal.*

I stared at my thumb. The cut was already healing, leaving not a scar, but a faint, glittering line. The legends were true. The Golden Wolf bloodline wasn't extinct. It was me. I wasn't just a weak Omega. I was… valuable. Powerful. Maybe even worthy.

For the first time in twelve years, a spark of hope ignited in my chest. Maybe Evan would finally see me. Maybe Milo would look at me with pride instead of that teenage sneer he learned from his father.

"Zoey Hawkins!"

The sharp voice of the Head Healer made me jump. I quickly shoved the scroll back into the pile, hiding my glowing thumb in my apron pocket.

"Here," I squeaked, my voice betraying my nerves.

Healer Thomas stood in the doorway, his face grim. He held a clipboard against his chest like a shield. "The results from the mandatory pack-wide health screening are in. Come with me."

The walk to the infirmary was a blur. My mind was still racing with images of gold blood and royal scrolls. But when I sat on the cold examination table, the look on Thomas's face extinguished my excitement like a bucket of ice water.

"I'm sorry, Zoey," he said, his voice devoid of its usual professional detachment. "The tests show high levels of spiritual decay. It’s Wolfsbane Blight."

The room spun. Wolfsbane Blight. It was a death sentence. A rotting of the soul that consumed the wolf first, then the human. It was painful, slow, and incurable without expensive elixirs that the pack reserved for high-ranking warriors.

"Are… are you sure?" I whispered.

"The markers are clear," he said, handing me the paper. "Your wolf is dying."