His Unwanted Mate, Her Forbidden Magic

For five years, I was the Alpha's mate, but my husband, Mark, saved all his affection for another woman.

At a grand pack gala, our fragile charade came crashing down when a massive crystal chandelier tore from the ceiling, plummeting towards the three of us.

In that horrifying second, Mark made his choice.

He violently shoved me aside-not to safety, but directly into the path of splintering debris. He used his own body as a shield, but only for Isabella, his mistress.

I woke up in the infirmary, my body shattered and my connection to my wolf spirit crippled for life. When he finally visited, it wasn't with remorse. He stood over my bed and performed the ultimate betrayal: the rite of severance, brutally tearing our sacred bond in two.

The spiritual agony was so profound it stopped my heart.

As the monitor flatlined, the pack doctor burst in, his eyes wide with horror as he looked from my lifeless body to Mark's cold face.

"What did you do?" he screamed. "By the Moon Goddess, she's carrying your heir."

Chapter 1

The scent of rosemary and slow-roasted lamb should have filled our small home with warmth, a fragrant testament to five years of a bond I once believed was sacred. Instead, the air was thin and cold, each aroma swallowed by the silence of waiting. I smoothed down the front of my simple linen dress for the tenth time, the fabric soft but familiar against my skin, a stark contrast to the nervous energy thrumming just beneath the surface. My fingers trembled as I adjusted the single white rose in the slender vase at the center of the table. A perfect, solitary bloom. Just like me.

*He'll see this,* I told myself, a desperate, familiar prayer. *He'll see the effort, the love, and he'll remember.*

But the part of me that had grown weary and wise over the last year knew better. It was a foolish hope, a ghost I kept trying to embrace.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed nine, then ten. The lamb grew cold. The gravy congealed. The flame of the single candle I'd lit flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that felt like specters of my own loneliness. My wolf, usually a comforting presence curled in the back of my mind, was restless and whining, sensing my distress. She felt the ache of our mate's absence as keenly as I did.

When the front door finally opened at half-past eleven, the sound was jarring, a violation of the quiet vigil I'd been keeping. Mark, Alpha of the Veridia pack, my mate, stepped inside, and the fragile hope I'd clung to shattered like spun glass.

He didn't look at the table. He didn't look at me. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, were distant. His powerful shoulders were tense beneath his expensive leather jacket, and his jaw was a hard, unforgiving line. But it was the scent that struck me first, a physical blow that stole the air from my lungs. It clung to him like a second skin: rain-washed earth, wild ambition, and the cloying, sweet perfume of Isabella.

My heart, a foolish, stubborn organ, clenched in my chest. *Not again. Please, not tonight.*

"You're late," I said, my voice smaller than I intended, a mere whisper against the roaring disappointment in my ears.

He finally looked at me, his gaze sweeping over the carefully set table, the uneaten meal, the single, hopeful rose. There was no warmth, no apology. Only a profound, bone-deep weariness, as if my very existence was a weight he was forced to carry.

"I was busy, Clara." His voice was rough, impatient. He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto a chair with a carelessness that spoke volumes. The scent of Isabella intensified, filling our home, tainting everything.

"I made your favorite," I tried again, gesturing to the sad, cooling dinner. "For our anniversary."

A muscle feathered in his jaw. He ran a hand through his dark hair, a gesture of pure exasperation. "Your sentimentality is a tiresome obligation, Clara. Don't expect me to perform for you."

Each word was a carefully aimed dart, and they all found their mark. *Tiresome. Obligation. Perform.* He saw my love not as a gift, but as a chore. The meal I had spent hours preparing, the memories I had been cherishing all day-they were nothing more than a demand on his time, an annoyance in the grander scheme of his life as Alpha. My inner wolf whimpered, a low, wounded sound that echoed the pain in my own soul. I pressed my lips together, refusing to let the tears fall. Crying would only irritate him further.

He walked past me into the kitchen, the floorboards groaning under his weight. I heard the refrigerator open, the clink of a bottle. He returned with a beer, twisting the cap off with a flick of his wrist. He took a long swallow, his throat working, his eyes fixed on some point over my shoulder, as if I were already fading into the wallpaper.

"The pack council meeting ran long," he said, a perfunctory, hollow excuse. I knew it was a lie. I could smell the truth all over him.

*Just ask,* a small, self-destructive part of me urged. *Force the confrontation. End this agony.* But I couldn't. I was a coward, terrified of hearing the words that would make this nightmare real. So I just stood there, a ghost at my own feast, while my mate drank his beer and smelled of another woman.

***

Two nights later, the wound was still raw, a festering thing in my chest. We were at a formal pack dinner, an event Mark insisted I attend for the sake of appearances. The grand hall of the pack house buzzed with conversation and laughter, the air thick with the smell of wine and roasted meats. Silverware scraped against porcelain, a constant, irritating chorus. I sat beside Mark at the head table, a perfect portrait of the Alpha's mate, dressed in a deep blue gown that Sophie, my best friend, had insisted I wear.

"You look beautiful," she had told me, her eyes full of a sympathy I couldn't bear. "Let him see what he's ignoring."

But Mark wasn't looking. His attention, as it so often was, was fixed down the table, on Isabella. She was holding court, her laughter a bright, tinkling sound that grated on my nerves. She was beautiful, I couldn't deny it-all sleek, dark hair and flashing eyes, her wolf a vibrant, aggressive presence that radiated confidence. Everything I wasn't.

A sharp, familiar pain lanced through my lower back, a vicious echo of an old injury from a border skirmish years ago. It was a wound that never truly healed, flaring up with stress or cold. Tonight, it was excruciating. I gasped, my hand flying to the spot, my knuckles pressing hard into the ache. I tried to breathe through it, to keep my face a placid mask, but a wave of dizziness washed over me. The glittering lights of the chandeliers overhead swam in my vision.

I leaned slightly towards Mark, my voice a strained whisper. "Mark, the pain... it's bad tonight."

He didn't turn his head. He didn't even flinch. His focus was entirely on Isabella, who had just dramatically recounted some trivial social slight, her lower lip trembling in a perfect imitation of distress.

"That woman has no right to speak to me that way," Isabella declared, her voice carrying across the table. "It's humiliating!"

Instantly, Mark's entire posture changed. He leaned forward, his expression softening with a concern I hadn't seen directed at me in years. His voice was a low, soothing rumble. "Don't let her get to you, Isa. She's irrelevant. You're above all that."

He completely and utterly ignored me. My physical agony was invisible to him, less important than Isabella's manufactured emotional drama. It was a public declaration, a clear and brutal prioritization. I was secondary. I was nothing. The pain in my back was a dull fire, but the pain in my heart was a raging inferno. I felt the eyes of the other pack members on us, the pity, the speculation. The humiliation was a physical thing, a hot flush that crawled up my neck.

I couldn't stay. I couldn't sit there and be a prop in his life for one more second. Pushing my chair back with a quiet scrape that went unnoticed by my mate, I stood on trembling legs. I walked out of the grand hall, my head held high, each step a battle against the pain in my back and the crushing weight of my own insignificance.

***

My workshop was my only sanctuary. Tucked away in a small, converted shed behind our house, it smelled of dried herbs, ozone, and old parchment. This was where I was more than just Mark's neglected mate. Here, I was myself. Jars of shimmering dusts and rare crystals lined the shelves. Bunches of herbs hung from the rafters, casting fragrant shadows in the moonlight that streamed through the single window.

My magic was a rare thing in our pack. While most of our kind relied on brute strength and pack politics, I had an affinity for the elements, a quiet, difficult magic that required patience and focus. It was my solace.

I sank onto my stool, the familiar wood a comfort. Ignoring the throbbing in my back, I held my hands over a shallow copper bowl. I closed my eyes, shutting out the image of Mark comforting Isabella. I focused on the cold, empty space inside me, the place where his affection used to be. I drew on that coldness, that ache, and channeled it.

Slowly, a frost began to form on the rim of the bowl. It spread in delicate, intricate patterns, a beautiful thing born from my pain. A single, perfect snowflake materialized in the air above my palms, spinning gently before melting into nothing. It was a small act of creation, a reminder that I could still make something beautiful, even when my world was falling apart.

A soft chime broke my concentration. It came from a small, enchanted tablet on my workbench, a device used for secure, long-distance communication. I rarely received messages. My fingers, still tingling with cold energy, tapped the screen.

The message was encrypted, bearing the sigil of the Argent Guild-a prestigious, neutral organization that oversaw all magical disciplines. My breath caught in my throat. With trembling hands, I decoded the message.

The words glowed on the screen, stark and unbelievable in the dim light of my workshop.

*Clara of the Veridia Pack,*

*Your unique elemental signature has been noted by the council. You are hereby formally invited to compete in the Celestial Conclave, to be held on the full moon one month from this day. Your presence is requested at the pre-conclave gala. Further details to follow.*

The Celestial Conclave. A once-in-a-decade tournament of magic, drawing the most powerful practitioners from every territory. It was a legend, a dream. A place where skill was the only thing that mattered, not status, not pack, not who your mate was.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, hopeful rhythm. This was more than an invitation. It was an escape. A chance. A life that was entirely my own, away from the suffocating pity and the constant, grinding pain of being unwanted.

For the first time in a very long time, a genuine, unforced smile touched my lips. It was a small, fragile thing, but it was real. It was a glimmer of hope in the suffocating darkness.