Rejected By My Mate, Claimed By His Uncle

Arlene POV The heavy oak doors of the ceremonial hall could not keep out the sound.

The ancient pack drums echoed through the thick wood, the mating rhythm vibrating against the stone floor beneath my feet.

I stood in front of the floortoceiling mirror in the bridal antechamber, staring at the woman reflected in the glass.

The ceremonial white gown, embroidered with silver thread and moonstones, swallowed me in layers of pristine silk. My eyes, usually soft and compliant, shifted.

The fog of confusion evaporated, replaced by a clarity so cold it made my chest ache. I dug my manicured nails into the centre of my palm. The sharp, biting pain pierced my skin.

My breath hitched. I wasn't dead. The freezing blizzard that had stopped my heart in my past life was gone. I have truly returned.

I am back in the present—back to the beginning of every tragedy, back to the day Adrien abandoned me at the altar for his mistress, Seraphina, and back to the moment when redemption was still within reach.

The antechamber door burst open, slamming against the wall with a violent crack. Adrien Branch, my fiancé, rushed in.

His phone was gripped tightly in his hand, his face pale and frantic. He didn't even look at me. “I have to go,” he blurted out, his voice tight. “Seraphina was on patrol.

A rogue wolf attacked. She broke her leg. They just rushed her to the pack healer.” In my past life, I had begged him not to go to his mistress Seraphina's side.

I had cried until my throat bled, clinging to his ceremonial robes. Now, I just looked at him. My face was a mask of ice.

I watched him panic like a pathetic pup performing a cheap trick. Adrien paused. My silence felt wrong.

He frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing his eyes, but his panic quickly buried it. “You need to go out there,” he ordered, pointing toward the door. “Handle the elders from the surrounding packs.

Keep my grandfather Theodore calm. Make up an excuse. I'll make it up to you later.” He threw the empty promise over his shoulder, already turning away.

He sprinted towards the hall's rear exit without a single ounce of hesitation. Gasps erupted from the hallway. The groomsmen shouted his name.

Adrien's escape was already causing a scene. I walked slowly to the window and looked down at the courtyard below.

His silver motorcycle tore out of the pack grounds, leaving a trail of exhaust. A cold, mocking smirk pulled at the corner of my lips.

The sharp click of heels echoed from the open doorway. My adopted sister, Kendall Wooten, walked in.

She wore an ivory bridesmaid dress, but the custom tailoring and the excessive spray of diamond accents along the bodice made it far more luxurious than a standard attendant's gown – subtly designed to outshine me without crossing the line into obvious sabotage.

Her face was twisted into a mask of deep concern, but the malicious gleam in her eyes gave her away. “Oh, Arlene,” she sighed loudly, making sure the bridesmaids in the hall could hear. “Adrien is just too loyal to his friends.

You can't blame him for leaving.” I turned around, dragging my heavy skirt across the carpet. My eyes locked onto her, sharp as broken glass.

She took a step back – a sudden, unexplainable chill crawling up her spine. She forced a smile and reached out, trying to grab my arm. “Come on.

Let's go out there and bow to the guests. You need to apologise.” I didn't hesitate. I swung my hand and slapped her wrist away. The smack was loud and crisp.

Kendall gasped, cradling her hand against her chest. The skin on the back of her hand turned bright red. Tears instantly pooled in her eyes.

At the moment，My foster mother, Eleanor Wooten, pushed through the crowd at the door.

She saw Kendall crying and rushed forward. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she screamed, pulling Kendall behind her.

She pointed a shaking finger at my face. “The Wooten family's standing in the pack cannot crash just because you are too pathetic to keep a man in your bed! Fix your makeup.

Go out to the main hall. Announce that the mating ceremony is postponed. Tell them it's your fault.” The suffocating weight of my past life pressed down on my chest.

But the reborn me only felt a deep, hollow sense of absurdity. “The ceremony is not being postponed,” I said, my voice flat, cutting through her rant. Eleanor and Kendall froze.

They stared at me, convinced the humiliation had finally snapped my mind. I didn't explain.

I grabbed handfuls of my heavy silk skirt, lifted it, and walked straight past the two women. “Where are you going?” Kendall yelled from behind. “The entire elite of the werewolf world is out there waiting to laugh at you!” I didn't look back. “I'm going to get a new groom.”

Arlene POV I stood in front of the carved wooden doors of the Branch family's VIP suite. My heart hammered against my ribs, but my hands were steady.

Two massive wolves in their shifted forms blocked the door. “Alpha Theodore Branch is in a closeddoor meeting with Mr.

Blake Wiggins,” the guard snarled. “No interruptions.” I looked him dead in the eye and recited a specific subclause number – this is a highly classified emergency loophole in the Blanche family's inheritance laws—something I once overheard Adrian drunkenly boasting about.

The guard's jaw tightened. He shifted back, pressed two fingers to his earpiece, and whispered into his hidden microphone. Three seconds passed.

A heavy mechanical click echoed from inside the wood. The door unlocked. The guards stepped aside. I walked into the dimly lit room.

The air was thick with the sharp scent of aged whiskey and expensive cigar smoke.

Blake Wiggins, Adrien's uncle by pack law, sat in a single leather armchair, his long legs crossed, casually flipping through a thick stack of territory merger documents.

Theodore Branch sat opposite him, his face purple with rage – he already knew about his grandson's disgraceful exit. Blake looked up.

His deep, steelgrey eyes locked onto me through the dim lamplight. His gaze was an abyss, giving absolutely nothing away.

Theodore gripped his ceremonial cane. “Are you here to cancel the ceremony, Arlene?

I am deeply sorry for what Adrien did.” I straightened my spine and looked at the two most powerful men in the werewolf world. “The ceremony proceeds as planned,” I said clearly. “But the groom's name changes.” Theodore gasped, his knuckles turning white around his cane. “Are you insane?

Do you want to drag a random groomsman to the altar?” I shifted my gaze directly to the silent man in the armchair. “I am mating Blake Wiggins.” The room fell into a dead, suffocating silence.

Theodore sucked in a sharp breath – the kind of silence that only lands when the unthinkable becomes real. Blake's fingers stopped turning the page.

He slowly closed the folder and leaned forward. “Do you have any idea what you are saying right now?” “Every word of it,” I said. “Adrien walked out on me at the altar.

His uncle can walk me down it instead.” The bluntness hung in the air like a detonation. Theodore made a strangled sound. Blake's expression didn't shift by a single degree.

I took a step closer. “The mutual benefit agreement we briefly discussed at the gala last year.

You need a mate to pacify the Council and handle the pack's pressure regarding your succession. I need a fortress to survive the fallout of today.

Your name is the only one strong enough to shield me, and I am the only woman desperate enough to sign away my freedom without asking questions.

It's a winwin.” A dark, imperceptible ripple crossed Blake's eyes. He stood up, his massive frame instantly swallowing the light in the room, radiating pure dominance.

He walked until he was inches from my face, looking down, his voice a low rumble. “If you sign this blood contract, Arlene, there is no backing out. Ever.” I didn't flinch.

I tilted my chin up. “I have nothing left to lose. I am not afraid of the dark.” Theodore suddenly stood up, his cane trembling. “Do it, Blake! This saves the family face.

And it completely cuts that ungrateful bastard Adrien out of the succession!

If you agree, I will have the elders alter the documents and the ceremonial screens immediately.” Blake stared into my unwavering eyes.

The silence stretched for ten agonising seconds. Finally, he gave a single, slow nod. He turned to his executive assistant standing by the wall. “Initiate Plan B.

You have five minutes to replace all physical and magical materials.” A sudden commotion erupted outside the door. Kendall shoved past the guards, stumbling into the room.

She saw me standing dangerously close to Blake. “What are you doing?” she shrieked. “Are you trying to seduce your elder? You are disgusting!” I didn't say a word.

I closed the distance between us, raised my hand, and delivered a brutal backhand across her face. Crack! The sharp crack echoed off the walls.

She crashed to the floor, clutching her stinging cheek, screaming in shock. Blake didn't blink.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and handed it to me. “Don't dirty your hands,” he said softly.

Arlene POV The corridor leading to the main hall was dark and narrow. Blake bent his arm, offering it to me. I slipped my hand through the crook of his elbow.

My fingers brushed against the bespoke fabric of his suit. The sudden, intense heat of his body radiated through the material. The warmth hit me like a physical blow.

My brain misfired. A violent wave of PTSD crashed over me. Memories from the moment of death in my past life came flooding back. I remembered the agonising cold.

Kendall had framed me. The Wooten family had thrown me out without a dime. The temperature was twenty below zero. I remembered dialling Adrien's number with frostbitten fingers.

I remembered hearing Seraphina's sweet, giggling voice on the other end before the line went dead. I remembered Eleanor's voice on the voicemail: Die in the snow, Arlene.

Just don't bleed on my carpets. The phantom ice clawed at my lungs. My chest tightened. I couldn't breathe. My knees buckled, and I stumbled forward. Blake's arm shot out.

His large hand clamped around my waist, gripping me tight, pulling me flush against his solid chest, stopping my fall. “Are you afraid?” his voice rumbled right against my ear, deep and incredibly grounding.

I looked up at the sharp, perfect lines of his jaw. The memories shifted again. I remembered floating above my own dead body.

I saw Blake – the ruthless tyrant of the werewolf world – standing in a sterile morgue, taking off his own wool coat and draping it over my frozen corpse.

I saw his private armed security storming the Wooten estate, taking my ashes by force.

I saw him standing alone in a private cemetery in the Long Island territory, hosting a funeral for a woman he barely spoke to in life.

I remembered the suffocating weight of the dirt, the terrifying finality of death.

I remembered the sheer, incomprehensible shock of waking up today, breathing, my heart beating in my chest. Why was I back? How was I back?

The Moon Goddess had given me a second chance – a miraculous reversal of fate that defied all logic.

And in this new life, the only man I knew I could trust was the one who had shown me mercy when I was nothing but a memory.

He had stood in that freezing cemetery, a solitary figure of absolute power, giving me the dignity in death that my own blood had denied me.

In the present, my fingers dug into his arm. My knuckles turned stark white. I took a ragged breath and shoved the vulnerability deep into my stomach, shaking my head.

Blake looked down at me. His eyes dropped to the faint redness at the corners of my eyes. A violent, terrifying darkness flashed in his pupils.

His assistant's voice crackled over the communication crystal. “Sir. The main hall screens are rebooted.

The press is in position.” Blake lifted his hand and gently adjusted the edge of my lace veil.

The softness of his touch completely contradicted the lethal aura surrounding him. “Once we push these doors open,” he said in a low gravel, “you are the Luna of Manhattan.

No one will ever make you lower your head again.” The ceremonial drums abruptly stopped. A second later, the grand, imposing chords of a royal mating march shook the walls.

The heavy oak doors at the end of the hall were slowly pulled open by two ushers. Blinding white light from hundreds of camera flashes spilled into the dark corridor.

I straightened my spine, lifted my chin, my eyes turning into chips of ice.

I looked like a queen stepping onto a battlefield. “Pleasure doing business with you, Uncle,” I whispered. Blake heard the word. His jaw twitched.

A dark, possessive smirk touched his lips. “According to the blood contracts being drafted right now,” he corrected me, “you will call me husband.” The doors opened completely.

A thousand eyes and camera lenses snapped directly onto us.