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- Herausgeber: BookRix
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
She buried her crown.
She erased her past.
She never expected fate to bleed back onto her operating table.
Dr. Marianna Jackson is the woman monsters fear and humans trust—a world-class trauma surgeon who saves lives under surgical lights while hiding a truth older than the modern world itself. She is Lycan royalty, a princess forged in betrayal, and the last survivor of a bloodline meant to rule. She has lived centuries in silence for one reason only: to protect the child no one can ever discover.
Until the night her fated mate is rushed into her hospital—shot, bleeding, and unconscious.
Maximiliano Wolf is a tech billionaire, underground king, and Lycan prince whose control has never failed him—until his wolf wakes and recognizes the woman standing over him as his mate… the woman who disappeared years ago after a single night that shattered destiny.
She rejects him.
She rejects fate itself.
But fate doesn’t release its claws so easily.
As ancient enemies close in and the Lycan hierarchy hunts for a lost royal heir, the hospital becomes a battlefield, the past collides with the present, and a child’s hidden power threatens to rewrite the laws of their world. Desire turns dangerous. Love becomes lethal. And the bond neither of them wanted may be the only thing that can save them all.
Because Marianna isn’t just hiding a secret.
She’s hiding the future.
And when the moon turns red, blood will decide who rules… and who survives.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026
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Lycan Princess Fated Mate
A Secret Baby Rejected Mate Billionaire Werewolf Romance
LAURA DUTTON
Copyright© 2026, LAURA DUTTON
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any
electronic or mechanical means, including information
storage and retrieval systems, without
permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by: LAURA DUTTON
DISCLAIMER
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, settings, organizations, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events is entirely coincidental.
It contains themes of passion, power, supernatural conflict, and emotional intensity that may not be suitable for all readers. Reader discretion is advised.
The opinions, emotions, and actions of the characters are purely fictional and do not represent the beliefs or perspectives of the author.
TABLE OF CONTENT
PROLOGUE
Chapter 1 – The Woman Who Never Bleeds
Chapter 2 – Code Black Arrival
Chapter 3 – Under Surgical Lights
Chapter 4 – The Wolf That Wakes
Chapter 5 – Inhibitors
Chapter 6 – A Familiar Scar
Chapter 7 – The Child on the Sixth Floor
Chapter 8 – Rejected
Chapter 9 – Corporate Wolves
Chapter 10 – Blood Compatibility
Chapter 11 – No More Secrets
Chapter 12 – The Rogue Scientist
Chapter 13 – Old Enemies
Chapter 14 – Lines in the Dark
Chapter 15 – Siege Preparations
Chapter 16 – The Wolf Inside the Man
Chapter 17 – Bloodline Awakening
Chapter 18 – The Crown Revealed
Chapter 19 – Operating Room Massacre
Chapter 20 – The Choice
Chapter 21 – A New Alpha
Chapter 22 – Aftermath
Chapter 23 – The Decision
Chapter 24 – The World Remade
Chapter 25 – Not Fate, But Choice
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
She runs before the scream reaches her throat.
Stone bites into Marianna’s bare feet as she clears the final archway, breath tearing from her lungs in sharp, shallow pulls that refuse to deepen. The night air tastes of iron and ash. Somewhere behind her, steel meets bone. Somewhere behind her, her name is being shouted—not in loyalty, but in triumph.
The palace is dying.
She does not look back. Looking back would mean seeing the bodies. Looking back would mean understanding that the walls that raised her, trained her, crowned her in silence long before a ceremony ever could, are already lost. She clamps her jaw and drives forward, clutching the wound at her side where blood slips warm and steady between her fingers.
The moon hangs broken overhead, its light split by fast-moving clouds. It does not guide her. It watches.
Marianna stumbles through the outer gate just as it collapses inward, stone screaming as it gives way. The shockwave throws her forward. She hits the ground hard, ribs screaming, palms scraping raw as she rolls. Her vision blurs. She tastes dirt and copper and something bitter she refuses to name.
Get up.
She pushes to her knees, the command echoing from a place older than fear. She forces herself upright, swaying. The forest beyond the palace walls yawns wide and dark, branches clawing at the sky. Safety lies there. So does exile.
A howl rises behind her—too close, too sharp.
Marianna runs.
Branches tear at her skin as she plunges into the forest. Her lungs burn. Her heart hammers against her ribs, each beat a countdown. She can feel them now, feel the pull of her blood calling predators who once swore oaths at her feet. The betrayal lands heavier than the wound. Heavier than the loss.
A shadow cuts across her path. Marianna veers too late.
Pain detonates through her shoulder as she slams into something solid. Strong hands catch her before she hits the ground, fingers biting into her arms. She lashes out on instinct, a flash of teeth and fury, but the grip tightens, unyielding.
“Easy,” a voice snaps—low, human, strained. “You want to live?”
Her eyes fly open.
The man holding her is not one of them. His scent hits her first—oil and metal and sweat, sharp and unfamiliar, layered over the clean burn of adrenaline. No pack-mark. No claim. His eyes are dark, alert, reflecting moonlight without answering to it.
Human.
“How—” Her voice breaks. She swallows, forcing the word out. “How did you cross the wards?”
“I didn’t,” he says shortly. “They came down.”
As if summoned, another howl tears through the trees, closer now. The man curses under his breath and drags her with him, half-carrying as he sprints deeper into the forest. Marianna’s feet barely touch the ground. Her vision tunnels. She can feel herself slipping, feel the edge of something vast pressing against the fragile shape she wears.
Not now.
They burst through the treeline into a clearing where a machine waits—metal and glass, humming softly. A vehicle. Her mind snags on the impossibility even as the man yanks open a door and shoves her inside.
“Stay down,” he orders.
She obeys because the howl sounds again, close enough to rattle her bones.
The door slams. The engine roars to life. The vehicle lurches forward, tires screaming as it tears across uneven ground. Marianna curls in on herself, breath coming in thin, broken gasps. Her blood slicks the seat beneath her. She presses harder against the wound, fighting the weakness creeping through her limbs.
They break through the forest onto a wide stretch of stone that glows faintly beneath the moon. The palace disappears behind them, swallowed by trees and distance. Marianna’s chest tightens, grief cutting deeper than any blade.
“It’s bad,” the man mutters, glancing at her. “You’re bleeding.”
“I know,” she whispers.
He tears a strip of fabric from his sleeve and presses it to her side without asking permission. His touch is firm, practical. It should mean nothing.
It does not.
Heat flares beneath his hand, sharp and disorienting. Marianna inhales sharply, fingers curling into the seat. Something inside her shifts, wakes, stretches toward him with dangerous interest. Her heart stutters, then slams harder.
The man stills. His eyes flick to her face. For a heartbeat, neither of them moves.
“What are you?” he asks quietly.
She should lie. She has lied before, will lie again. But the words tangle on her tongue, caught on the strange pull humming between them.
“Someone who needs to keep moving,” she says instead.
The corner of his mouth tightens. He nods once and pushes the accelerator harder.
Time fractures.
The road smooths. The air changes. The forest gives way to shapes and lights that make no sense—towers of glass and steel, glowing lines cutting through darkness, the distant roar of a world that should not exist. Marianna lifts her head despite herself, pain forgotten in the face of wonder and terror.
“Where are we?” she breathes.
The man laughs once, sharp and disbelieving. “You’re not from around here.”
The vehicle slows near a stretch of light. He pulls over beneath a massive structure that hums overhead. The night here smells wrong—too clean, too loud. Marianna’s ears ring with it.
“You can’t come with me,” she says suddenly.
He turns to her, brows drawn. “You’re in no shape to—”
“I can’t,” she repeats, firmer now. The pull between them tugs again, stronger, insistent. It frightens her more than the blades did. “If I stay, they will follow.”
Silence stretches. He studies her as if committing her to memory, eyes lingering on her face, the blood on her hands, the way she holds herself despite everything.
“Then let me take you somewhere safe,” he says. “Just for the night.”
She should refuse. Every instinct screams at her to run, to vanish, to sever this thread before it binds too tight. But exhaustion weighs heavy. The wound throbs. The night presses close.
“One night,” she agrees.
The place he takes her is small, stark, filled with the hum of strange devices and the scent of soap. He cleans her wound with careful hands, jaw set, eyes averted in a way that feels deliberate. She watches him through lowered lashes, senses brushing his like sparks against dry wood.
When he finishes, he steps back as if burned.
“You should rest,” he says. “I’ll take the couch.”
Marianna shakes her head. “Stay.”
The word slips out before she can stop it.
He looks at her, something raw crossing his face. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I do.”
The night folds around them, heavy with things unsaid. When he touches her again, it is reverent, almost cautious, as if he senses the fault line beneath her skin. Their bodies fit together with startling ease, heat and breath and urgency blurring the edges of the world. For a few stolen hours, there is no throne, no coup, no future—only the steady beat of two hearts finding a rhythm that feels inevitable.
Marianna wakes before dawn.
The city beyond the window glows pale, unreal. The man sleeps beside her, features softened in rest. She memorizes the line of his mouth, the faint crease between his brows, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Leaving hurts more than staying ever could.
She dresses quietly, gathering what little remains of herself. At the door, she pauses, one hand pressed to her abdomen as a strange warmth blooms low and deep, unfamiliar and terrifying.
The moon is gone.
Understanding settles over her with awful calm.
The change has already begun.
Chapter 1 – The Woman Who Never Bleeds
She wakes before the monitors sound.
Marianna Jackson opens her eyes to the soft hum of machines and the faint vibration beneath the floor that tells her the hospital is alive and moving, even at this hour. For one suspended second, the memory of another dawn presses close—the smell of oil and soap, the warmth at her abdomen, the certainty that leaving had saved more than her own life.
She exhales slowly and lets the past retreat.
The on-call room is spare and clean, built for rest that rarely comes. Marianna swings her legs over the edge of the narrow bed and stands, spine straight, breath steady. The mirror above the sink reflects a woman carved from control: dark hair pulled back tight, pale gold eyes clear and alert, face composed to the point of severity. No trace remains of the girl who once ran barefoot through stone halls slick with blood.
She washes her hands out of habit, long and thorough, even though no patient waits yet. The ritual anchors her. Skin. Bone. Pressure. Precision. Things that obey rules.
Her phone vibrates against the counter.
Trauma One incoming. ETA six minutes.
Marianna is already reaching for her coat when the second message arrives.
Multiple gunshot wounds. Male. Thirty-eight. High-profile.
Her fingers still.
High-profile means complications. Security. Questions. Eyes that watch too closely. She welcomes none of it, but her pulse does not change. It never does. That is why they trust her with the worst of nights.
She steps into the corridor, heels striking polished floor in a measured rhythm. The hospital breathes around her—distant voices, the roll of carts, the quiet urgency of a place that never sleeps. As she rounds the corner toward the trauma bay, staff straighten without conscious thought. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Even those who outrank her by years fall into step.
Marianna does not raise her voice. She does not need to.
“Prep Bay One,” she says, already moving. “Type and cross. Call imaging and alert surgical backup.”
“Yes, Dr. Jackson,” comes the chorus.
Taylor Montgomery appears at her side, ponytail swinging, eyes sharp despite the late hour. “You were right,” she says under her breath. “It’s bad.”
“It always is,” Marianna replies.
They push through the double doors into Trauma One. The room snaps to readiness under her gaze. Gloves pulled tight. Instruments laid out. Lights angled just so. Marianna shrugs into her surgical gown, hands lifted, posture relaxed in the way that only comes from certainty.
The past stays where it belongs. Buried.
The doors burst open.
The gurney slams into the room with controlled force, flanked by paramedics speaking fast and loud. Blood stains the sheets, dark and spreading. The patient lies motionless, chest rising shallowly, jaw clenched even in unconsciousness.
“GSW to the abdomen and shoulder,” one paramedic reports. “Two rounds recovered on scene, one likely still inside. Pressure dropping en route.”
Marianna steps forward, eyes scanning automatically. Entry wound. Exit. The angle tells her more than the words do. Her hands hover just above the patient’s skin, already mapping damage beneath.
“Pressure’s falling,” Taylor says. “He’s tachy.”
“Intubate,” Marianna orders. “Now.”
She leans closer—and the world tilts.
The scent hits her first. Oil. Metal. Heat.
Her breath stutters before she can stop it.
No.
Her gaze snaps to the patient’s face, to the hard lines of his jaw, the dark stubble shadowing his cheek, the faint crease between his brows that she knows without knowing why. Time compresses, the room narrowing until all she can see is him.
It cannot be him.
“Doctor?” Taylor’s voice cuts through the ringing in her ears.
Marianna forces her focus back to the present. The monitors beep faster. Blood pools. The body on the table bleeds like any other.
Get it together.
“Name?” she asks sharply.
The paramedic hesitates. “Maximiliano Wolf.”
The name lands like a blow.
For a fraction of a second—one she will later deny existed—Marianna’s composure fractures. The walls she has built over centuries shudder, and the memory she has locked away claws at the surface with teeth and heat and promise.
A man beneath a window gone pale with dawn. A warmth blooming low and deep. A certainty she refused to name.
Her hands curl into fists inside her gloves.
“Dr. Jackson,” Taylor says again, closer now. “Do you want me to—”
“I have him,” Marianna snaps, sharper than intended.
She does not look at Taylor. She cannot risk seeing recognition there. Instead, she turns her attention fully to the patient, to Maximiliano Wolf bleeding out on her table as if the universe itself has developed a cruel sense of humor.
“Pressure’s still dropping,” someone says.
“Clamp,” Marianna replies, voice steady now. “Suction.”
She works.
The world reduces to the familiar language of crisis. Incision. Pressure. The controlled chaos of bodies moving in sync. Her hands know what to do even as her mind screams at her to stop, to run, to put distance between herself and the man fate has dragged back into her life.
His blood is darker than it should be.
The observation slides into place quietly, without alarm, without commentary. She files it away and keeps moving.
“Doctor,” the anesthesiologist says, “he’s resisting.”
Marianna glances up. The patient’s jaw tightens, muscles bunching beneath skin, heart rate spiking despite sedation.
“He’s strong,” the anesthesiologist adds, incredulous.
Marianna swallows.
“Adjust dosage,” she says. “Carefully.”
Her fingers brush his skin as she reaches across him, and the reaction is instant. Heat flares beneath her gloves, sharp and undeniable, a pull answering a pull she has spent lifetimes suppressing. Her heart stumbles, then steadies by force of will alone.
Not now.
She clamps down on the sensation, reaches for the small vial tucked discreetly in her pocket. Her movements remain precise as she injects the suppressant through his IV line, masking the act within a flurry of necessary motion.
The response is immediate. His muscles ease. The monitors settle.
No one else notices.
Marianna straightens slowly, pulse pounding in her ears. The bond—because there is no other word for it—thrums beneath her skin, furious and awake. It has been sleeping for centuries. She has made sure of that.
Seeing him has changed the equation.
“We need to move,” she says. “OR. Now.”
They wheel him out with practiced speed, the gurney gliding through halls cleared by security that has arrived far too quickly. Men in dark suits line the walls, eyes sharp, hands close to weapons they do not display.
High-profile indeed.
As they move, Marianna catches fragments of whispered conversation.
“—hit was clean—”
“—not random—”
“—someone wanted him dead—”
She ignores it all. Her focus narrows to the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his brow furrows even under sedation, as if some part of him knows he is not safe.
The operating room doors swing open. The lights blaze. The familiar territory should calm her.
It does not.
