His Mistress Wore My Luna Crown

The coffee in my mug had gone cold hours ago, much like the bed I’d woken up in.

Seven years. That’s how long I had been the Luna of the Silverclaw Pack. Seven years of sleeping in the guest suite while my mate, Alpha Jax Marshall, slept down the hall behind a locked door. To the pack, I was the “Iron Luna”—stoic, unshakeable, and frigid. They whispered that I was too cold to carry a pup, that my womb was as barren as my expression.

They didn’t know the truth. They didn’t know that the only thing colder than my demeanor was the secret I kept to protect their Alpha’s fragile ego.

“Luna Camille,” Beta Eugene’s voice grated on my nerves, pulling me back to the present. We were in the conference room, the morning sun highlighting the dust motes dancing over the heavy oak table. “As I was saying, the budget for the border patrols needs to be increased. Again.”

I looked at the spreadsheet in front of me. “Eugene, we increased the patrol budget by fifteen percent last month. Where is that money going? The receipts don’t match the requisition forms.”

Eugene leaned back, a smug smile playing on his lips. He was a greasy man, his ambition wearing him like a cheap suit. “Security isn’t cheap, Luna. Perhaps if you spent less time scrutinizing pennies and more time focusing on… domestic matters, the Alpha wouldn’t be so stressed.”

The insult was veiled, but sharp. *Domestic matters.* Code for: *Why haven’t you given us an heir?*

I kept my face perfectly smooth. “My husband’s stress levels are managed just fine, Beta. Your inability to account for ten thousand dollars, however, is a stress I will not ignore. Audit the logs. Or I will.”

I stood up, signaling the end of the meeting. As I gathered my files, the door opened and Jax walked in. He looked tired, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes. His aura, usually a crushing weight, felt brittle today.

“Jax,” I said softly. I reached out instinctively to brush a piece of lint from his dark blazer.

He flinched.

It wasn’t just a step back; it was a violent recoil, his whole body seizing as if I were holding a branding iron. He stumbled into the doorframe, his breath hitching.

“Don’t,” he hissed, his eyes wide with panic before they hardened into anger. “I told you, Camille. Give me space.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks, but I forced it down. Eugene was watching, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement.

“My apologies, Alpha,” I said, my voice flat. “I’ll leave you to your business.”

I walked out with my head high, but inside, I was bleeding. It was the condition. The curse. Whatever you wanted to call it. Jax’s wolf rejected the touch of any female. It caused him physical agony. We hadn’t touched in seven years. No marking. No mating. Just a sham marriage held together by my silence and his shame.

I