My Alpha Poisoned Me for His Mistress’s Child

The morning sun filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the Alpha’s suite, but it brought no warmth to my shivering body. I woke with the familiar, acrid taste of bile in my throat, a sensation that had become my constant companion over the last six months. My limbs felt like lead, my head swimming in a fog that refused to lift.

"Awake already, my love?"

Jameson’s voice was smooth, a deep baritone that used to make my inner wolf purr. Now, my wolf was silent, curled into a dormant ball deep within my subconscious, too weak to even acknowledge her mate. Jameson stood by the bedside table, his tall frame blocking the light. He looked every inch the Alpha of the Dark River Pack—imposing, handsome, and utterly composed.

He held out a glass filled with a murky, greenish liquid. The scent was overpowering, masking something metallic and sharp underneath the smell of kale and apples.

"Drink," he said gently, though the command in his eyes left no room for argument. "Dr. Helena prepared it fresh. You know we need to keep your strength up if we’re going to try again next month."

I pushed myself up against the headboard, my hands trembling as I took the glass. "It burns, Jameson. Every time I drink it, I feel like I’m on fire from the inside out."

Jameson sat on the edge of the bed, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from my sweaty forehead. His touch was cool, almost clinical. "That means it’s working, Juliet. It’s stimulating your system. You want to give me an heir, don’t you? You want to be a real Luna?"

The question stung more than the physical pain. Six years. For six years, I had failed him. My womb remained empty, my wolf grew weaker, and the whispers of the pack grew louder. I was the barren Luna. The broken vessel.

"I do," I whispered, shame coloring my cheeks. "More than anything."

"Then drink."

I squeezed my eyes shut and downed the mixture in one go. It slid down my throat like liquid lava, settling in my stomach with a heavy, churning weight. I suppressed a gag, forcing a weak smile for my mate.

"Good girl," he murmured, taking the empty glass. He stood up abruptly, checking his watch. "I have urgent pack business to attend to. Rest, Juliet. Don’t strain yourself."

He kissed my forehead—a quick, dry press of lips—and strode out of the room without looking back.

Hours later, the burning hadn't subsided. It had morphed into a sharp, twisting cramp that doubled me over. I reached for the mate bond, desperate for Jameson’s comforting presence, needing to feel his calm wash over my panic.

*Jameson?* I called out internally.

Nothing.

It wasn't just silence; it was a wall. He had blocked me. Jameson never blocked me, not even during the most heated council meetings. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog of my illness. Something was wrong.

Ignoring the