Rise Of The Weak To Immortality

For nine hundred and eighty-six nights, I was exiled to the guest room while my husband, Alpha Corbett, let his dead wife’s sister sleep in our master suite.

He claimed Ivana needed his pheromones to sleep. I was just the glorified janitor in my own pack.

But the breaking point wasn't the neglect. It was the macaron.

"Eat it," Corbett ordered, holding out the green cookie. "Show me you accept my apology."

"I'm allergic to pistachios," I whispered. "I'll die."

He didn't listen. His eyes flashed red.

"Eat it."

The Alpha Command seized my motor functions. My hand moved against my will, shoving the poison into my mouth.

As my throat instantly swelled, I tasted the metallic tang of Wolfsbane. Ivana hadn't just ignored my allergy; she had laced it.

I collapsed on the kitchen tiles, clawing at my windpipe, turning purple.

From the living room, Ivana let out a fake, high-pitched shriek. "Corbett! My anxiety! It's coming back!"

Corbett looked down at me, convulsing and suffocating on the floor. Then he looked toward the living room.

The choice took him less than a second.

He physically stepped over my dying body.

"Hold on, Ivana! I'm coming!" he cooed, leaving me to die alone on the cold grout.

I managed to jam an EpiPen into my thigh, gasping as air forced its way back into my lungs.

As I lay there shivering, I didn't feel sadness. I felt clarity.

I dragged myself to my studio, packed my research, and sent a single email.

To: The Royal Lycan King.

Subject: I accept.

By the time Corbett realized Ivana was a fraud pregnant with another man's child, I was already gone.

And when he finally came begging on his knees, he found me in the arms of a King who would burn the world before he let me bow.

Chapter 1

Jenna POV:

Nine hundred and eighty-six nights.

That was how long I’d been exiled to the guest room while my husband, Alpha Corbett, let another woman play house in our master suite.

I stood by the door, hand hovering over the cold brass. Even through the thick oak, the smell hit me—cloying and stale, like dried lavender soaked in formaldehyde. It smelled like a funeral parlor.

It was the scent of Elenor, his late wife.

But Elenor had been in the ground for five years. The person wearing her unwashed robes was Ivana, her younger sister. A Beta female with no scent of her own, stealing the olfactory ghost of the dead to keep my mate on a leash.

"It helps her anxiety, Jen," Corbett had said, his voice rough with that perpetual, misguided guilt. "Her wolf is traumatized. She needs the Alpha's pheromones to sleep. It is my duty."

Duty. The brick wall he built between us.

I turned away, fighting the urge to retch. My inner wolf, usually a source of comfort, was curled into a tight ball in the back of my mind, starving and silent.

I retreated to the bathroom—the only lock he respected—and pulled out my phone. A secure email notification blinked.

From: Royal Lycan Pack, France.

Dear Ms. Jarvis,