The Lycan's fated weak mate

Heart racing and pounding loud in his ear, chest heaving as he weaved his way around the people in his way. His eyes caught a basket of tomatoes, and effortlessly he jumped over it, hearing the owner yell after him.

"Stop!"

Mason glanced at the group of boys chasing after him. Are they not tired? He could barely feel his legs, his strength wearing thin as they had been chasing him for almost an hour.

His fist clenched. He couldn't give up; he needed to lose them. If they got to him, it would be over. His rib still hurt, and the doctor had warned him he might have internal bleeding if the bullying didn’t stop. He couldn't afford to get hospitalized, not with so much else to worry about.

He glanced back again, just to keep their distance in check, but found them gone. Had he lost them? He halted for a moment—they were nowhere in sight. Gripping his bag closer, he headed for the next corner but was welcomed by a punch to his face.

Mason fell, nose bleeding. His head spun as he hit the ground hard, pain shooting through his back, making him yelp.

"Where do you think you're going, misfit?" Authur, the most brutal one among them, smirked down at him.

Hastily, Mason got to his feet and tried to run out of the corner, but was met with another brutal punch, sending him back to the floor with a busted lip. Thane, who had hit him, glared down at him.

"Please, let me go," Mason couldn’t help but beg. A single hit might kill him. James grabbed his collar, his face inches away as he shot him the coldest look.

"Begging now, huh? Thought you'd learn by now that it only makes it worse."

Mason could taste the metallic bitterness of his blood on his lips. He wanted to fight back, scream, run—do anything but plead—but the pain radiating through his body was overwhelming.

One of the boys snickered, kicking Mason's bag, its contents sprawling across the floor. Mason's eyes flickered to his belongings: books, notes, his phone. He watched as the boy stepped on his notes, and it took every ounce of strength in him not to yell.

"Look at you. Nothing but a pathetic stray," Authur sneered. "I gave you a strict warning, didn’t I? I asked you to be careful with my essay, but you made it obvious the work was yours."

Mason sniffled. "I told you, I have no idea how Mrs. Katherine found out," he defended, only to have Authur slam him against the brick wall, making him wince.

"Yes, you did. You did it on purpose, thinking I wouldn't make you do my schoolwork anymore. But guess what? As long as you're alive and still in Washington, I'll torment you until your last breath," Authur spat.

Mason's vision blurred as he tried to fight back his tears. He wanted to argue that he had done everything to avoid suspicion, but it was pointless to argue with someone like Authur

Being the son of a famous tycoon in the city, Authur had everyone wrapped around his finger—both students and teachers. No one would believe Mason's story, even if he dared to tell it. Not only Authur but many others at school despised him.

Madon had gotten into the college on a scholarship, and he'd thought it was a dream come true. But setting foot on campus had turned it into a nightmare. He barely fit in, and even though he tried hard not to get noticed, his academic performance quickly drew attention Instead of bringing pride, it made him a target.

As the son of the wealthiest man in the city, Authur was used to getting whatever he wanted—and to being seen as the best. Mason's presence, his undeniable brilliance, threatened that image, even though he hadn’t meant to.

"I think... instead of helping you with your work and stuff..." Mason began, hoping what he was about to say wouldn’t trigger Authur any further. But he had no choice. "I think I should... maybe tutor you? So you can do it yourself."

"The fuck?" Jay cursed behind Authur, a hint that Mason had crossed a line.

Authur laughed, a laugh that seemed unhinged. "You want to tutor me? What do you think I am, a dumbass?"

Mason's jaw clenched. What the hell did he want from him, then? That was the only help he could offer. He couldn’t possibly make himself fail intentionally just because of Authur. Mason had goals too—to succeed, and to support his sick mother.

Before he could stop himself, the words slipped out. "I think instead of wasting your time here bullying me, you should be feeding your brain with necessary things."

He had gone insane. He had finally gone insane to say such a thing. Mason swallowed hard, trying to focus on Authur’s face, which now wore a smirk, his eyes narrowing coldly.

Surprisingly, Authur let go of his collar. Mason would have fallen if it weren’t for the wall, his knees weak from the intense running. Were they letting him go? His last shred of hope shattered as Authur grinned and gave the order.

"Beat him up."

Mason's eyes widened. No, not like this!

"No, wait. You can't—" The boys swiftly closed in, sweeping his feet out from under him. Mason curled into a ball as they stomped on him, each kick making his head spin with pain.

_

"Mister Mason Allen, you're young, with a lot ahead of you. Don't let anyone take that away from you. You're lucky again... but you can't keep letting this happen all the time. Internal bleeding is not something you can handle," the female doctor advised, her quipped and Mason knew so well she was trying to keep her frustration in check.This wasn't the first time she was patching him up, urging him to open up, but Mason knew better; that would only make things worse.

"We'll have to admit you, Mister Mason. Your body needs a proper check," the doctor said from behind.

"What—" Mason's eyes widened, panic flashing across his face. "Admit me? I don't think that's necessary..."

"It could get serious and lead to surgery. It's just for a while. Please stay," the doctor cut in. He sighed at the word "surgery." He couldn’t afford that, especially with no money and so much else to cover.On the third day, Mason felt better, though the bruises remained. No one had visited him; he had no relatives other than his sick mother. It had been three days since he last saw her—she would be worried sick.

“When am I getting discharged?” he asked the nurse attending to him, his expression flat.

“Tomorrow, Mister Allen—”

“Can I go home today? I can’t stay here any longer,” he cut in.

“But your treatment—”

“I want to leave. I’m fine already,” he snapped, his chest heaving with frustration. He hated his life.

“Oh... okay. I’ll inform the doctor,” the nurse said before leaving the ward.

The process was quick; the doctor prescribed medication and urged him to rest. Mason nodded, knowing that wouldn’t be possible in his situation.

With the little money he had, he headed to see his mother first. She looked thinner than before, the hollows of her cheeks deepened, and the once-bright spark in her eyes had dulled. She lay weakly on the bed, tubes in her nostrils and wrist, the steady beeping of machines echoing in the room.

He hated seeing her like this—sick, fragile, and slowly fading away. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he approached and sat beside her.

The doctor had been vague about her prognosis, but Mason knew the illness had taken hold of her months ago. The diagnosis was merely a way to delay the inevitable. His mother was everything to him, and he refused to lose her.

“Hey, Mom,” he said quietly, forcing a smile. “How are you feeling?”

She turned her head slightly to look at him. “Better,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “The nurses have been taking good care of me.”

“How is school, my love?” Her trembling hand reached for his. Her breath was weak and labored.

“School is fine... just as usual,” he lied, forcing another smile. He couldn’t tell his mother about Authur and his friends bullying him; that would only worry her.

“You’re such a great liar, son,” she chuckled. Right, he had bruises on his face. Her eyes flashed with sadness, but she said nothing.

The ward fell silent for a while. The weight of the situation gnawed at him, making it feel like the world was closing in, leaving him no space to breathe. The next diagnosis was looming, and he still hadn’t gathered enough money.

Now, he had missed three days of work; his boss would be furious.