My Alpha Forced Me to Serve His Pregnant Mistress

The candles had burned down to stubborn nubs of wax, pooling onto the white linen tablecloth I had ironed myself. Across from me, the chair remained empty. The prime rib, seasoned with the rosemary I’d grown in the pack garden, was cold and gray.

Three years. Today marked the third anniversary of the day Alpha Brody Watkins marked me, binding my soul to his in front of the Moon Goddess and the Silverclaw Pack. It was supposed to be a celebration. Instead, it was a wake for a marriage that had died long ago.

My phone buzzed against the mahogany table, the vibration harsh in the silence of the dining room. My heart stuttered, a foolish flicker of hope rising in my chest. Maybe he was just late. Maybe there was a rogue attack at the border.

I unlocked the screen, and the hope died, strangled by the image that loaded.

It was a live photo. My mate, my husband, was throwing his head back in laughter, a bottle of beer in one hand. But it was his other hand that froze the blood in my veins. It was wrapped possessively around the waist of a woman I didn’t recognize, her face buried in his neck. They were at The Stray Dog, a notorious bar on the edge of our territory where rogues and low-ranked wolves mingled.

Another message popped up below the photo.

*"Loyalty Test Level 1: Wait for me. A good Luna knows patience."*

My wolf, Lexi, whimpered in the back of my mind, curling into a tight ball of misery. She didn’t have the strength to growl anymore. The bond between us and Brody had become a rusted chain, dragging us through the mud.

"He's testing us again," I whispered to the empty room.

I didn't sleep. I sat there as the moon climbed high and then dipped low, surrendering to the gray light of dawn. I was a Healer; I knew how to bandage wounds and mix salves for broken bones, but there was no herb in my garden that could fix this.

At 7:00 AM, the heavy oak front door didn't just open; it was kicked in.

The sound echoed like a gunshot. I stood up, my legs stiff from hours of immobility. Brody strode into the foyer, bringing the stench of stale whiskey, cigarette smoke, and cloying, cheap vanilla perfume with him.

He wasn't alone.

"Come on, babe. Don't be shy," Brody slurred, his voice rough. He yanked a woman into the house.

It was the girl from the photo. She was young, perhaps nineteen, with dyed blonde hair and a smirk that told me she knew exactly who I was. She wore a tight red dress that left little to the imagination, and her hand rested protectively, theatrically, over her flat stomach.

"Brody," I said, my voice steady despite the trembling of my hands. "It is the morning of our anniversary."

"Happy anniversary, Violette," he sneered, kicking the door shut behind him. He