Rejected Mate's Justice

The archives had become my prison, but perhaps they would also become my salvation.

Three days had passed since I'd been relegated to this dusty corner of the pack house, sorting through decades of yellowed documents and binding records that no one else cared to touch. Tomas George, the pack archivist, had made his feelings about my presence abundantly clear with his constant sighs and pointed glances at the clock.

"Just keep the files in chronological order," he'd grumbled on my first day, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles. "And try not to disturb anything important."

Important. As if anything about my existence mattered anymore.

Lyra had been silent since that night in the storage room, her silver presence withdrawn so deeply I sometimes wondered if she'd abandoned me entirely. The mate bond hung between Carson and me like a severed nerve, sending phantom pains through my chest with every breath.

I pulled another box from the shelf, this one labeled "Healing Records - 2019-2021." The cardboard was slightly water-damaged, the edges soft and discolored. As I lifted the lid, the musty smell of old paper filled my nostrils, mixed with something else—the faint scent of lavender that Bridget always wore.

My hands stilled.

The first file I pulled bore Bridget's signature, her looping handwriting unmistakable. But the date made my blood run cold: March 15th, 2020. I knew that date. It was two months before Carson had even appointed her as an assistant healer, three months before she'd gained any official authority to sign medical documents.

With trembling fingers, I opened the file. Johnathan Dixon. Pack warrior, Delta rank. The report detailed severe internal injuries sustained during a border skirmish with rogues. My healer's training kicked in automatically as I scanned the treatment protocol, and immediately, inconsistencies jumped out at me like red flags.

The dosage of wolfsbane antidote was wrong—dangerously wrong. Any qualified healer would have known that the amount prescribed would cause organ failure, not healing. The timing of treatments didn't align with standard emergency protocols. And most damning of all, the final notation claimed Johnathan had died from "unavoidable complications due to the severity of his injuries."

But I remembered Johnathan's injuries. I'd been the one to initially assess him when he'd been brought in, bloody and unconscious but stable. His wounds had been serious, yes, but entirely treatable. I'd prepared the healing chamber, gathered the necessary herbs, and then Carson had pulled me aside for an "urgent pack matter" that had kept me away for hours.

When I'd returned, Bridget had been in charge of his care, and by morning, Johnathan was dead.

My hands shook as I read through the file again, my healer's knowledge painting a horrifying picture. This wasn't medical malpractice—this was murder. Whether through incompetence or malice, Bridget had killed him, and Carson had helped cover it up.

"Moon Goddess," I whispered, my voice barely audible in the silent archives.

I thought of Sarah Dixon, Johnathan's mate, and how she'd withdrawn from pack life after his death. How she'd stopped bringing her pups to pack gatherings. How Carson had personally delivered a "compensation package" for her loss—blood money to buy her silence.

The file slipped from my numb fingers, papers scattering across the floor. I scrambled to collect them, my vision blurring with tears of rage and grief. Not just for Johnathan, but for the systematic destruction of everything I'd believed in.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, accompanied by familiar laughter. Bridget's voice carried through the door, sweet and musical as she spoke to someone about "poor, broken Elena" and how "some wolves just can't handle rejection."

"She's pathetic, really," Bridget continued, her voice growing louder as they passed. "Wolfless reject, hiding away in the archives like some kind of ghost. Carson was right to choose strength over weakness."

The other voice—I recognized it as Maya, one of the younger pack members—murmured something in response, but I couldn't make out the words over the roaring in my ears.

"At least now she knows her place," Bridget's voice faded as they moved away, but her words lingered in the air like poison.

I sat there on the dusty floor, surrounded by scattered papers and the weight of terrible truth, feeling something crack inside my chest. But this time, it wasn't breaking—it was opening. Like a door that had been locked for too long finally giving way.

Deep in my mind, where Lyra had been silent and still, I felt a stirring. A whisper, soft but unmistakable:

*We are not broken, Elena. We are not weak. We are meant to rule, not be ruled.*

My wolf's voice, speaking for the first time since the betrayal, sent silver fire racing through my veins. And for the first time in days, I smiled.