Rejected and Claimed by the Rogue

I stood on the raised dais, the white silk of my ceremonial mating gown fluttering in the night breeze. Below, the members of the Blood River Pack watched in hushed silence, their eyes reflecting the torchlight. This was supposed to be the greatest honor of my life. I was Sloan Morgan, a simple Healer, chosen by the Lycan King himself to mate with Alpha Pierce. It was a union meant to unite strength and healing, a reward for saving the King’s life during the rogue wars.

But as Pierce ascended the stairs, I felt no warmth from the bond. Usually, when a wolf meets their mate, the air crackles with electricity, and scents bloom like spring flowers. But Pierce’s aura was a wall of ice. His dark eyes didn't hold love or even lust; they held a burning resentment. He stopped inches from me, his towering frame casting a shadow over my face, blocking out the moonlight.

"Alpha," I whispered, bowing my head in submission. My inner wolf, usually calm, paced anxiously in the back of my mind. Something was wrong.

Pierce didn't lean in to inhale my scent. He didn't bare his teeth to mark the claiming spot on my neck. Instead, his hand shot out, fingers clamping around my upper arm like a steel vice. The crowd gasped as he yanked me forward, not in passion, but in violence.

"You think you can just walk into my pack because a senile King decreed it?" Pierce hissed, his voice low enough that only I could hear the venom. "You are nothing but a tool of control, Sloan. And I do not like being controlled."

Before I could stammer a reply, he dragged me off the dais. My feet stumbled over the hem of my dress as he hauled me toward the side entrance of the Pack House. The whispers of the pack rose to a roar behind us, confusion rippling through the crowd, but Pierce ignored them. He kicked open the door to a private preparation chamber and threw me inside.

I caught my balance against a heavy oak table, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Pierce, please. The King—"

"The King isn't here," Pierce snarled, pulling a silver case from his jacket pocket. He withdrew a syringe filled with a swirling, violet liquid. "Only I am here. And I decide who my Luna is."

Fear spiked through me. As a Healer, I knew what that color meant. I had mixed similar tinctures for wolves who had trouble conceiving, but never in such a concentrated dose. "Wolfsbane," I gasped, backing away until my spine hit the cold wall. "And... synthetic heat inducers?"

"A cocktail of my own design," he corrected coldly. He lunged, faster than I could dodge. He gripped my jaw, forcing my head to the side, and jammed the needle into the soft flesh of my neck.

I screamed as fire flooded my veins. It wasn't the slow, natural burn of a mating heat. This was chemical