My Mate Chose His Mistress

The venison had been in the oven for three hours.

I knew because I'd been watching the clock above the kitchen door the way you watch something you don't actually care about — just to have somewhere to put your eyes. The pack house smelled like rosemary and rendered fat and the kind of warmth that makes a place feel like home, which was funny, because this place had never been home. Not once in three years.

I pulled the roasting pan out and set it on the iron trivet. The meat was perfect. Honey-glazed, herb-crusted, the skin crackling at the edges exactly the way Eleanor had taught me the first Thanksgiving I spent here, back when she still believed her son was going to come around.

From the great hall, I heard Emmett laugh.

It was a real laugh — loose and easy, the kind he never used around me. Daisy said something I couldn't make out, and he laughed again. I picked up a spoon and basted the potatoes.

I am Avery Larson. I have been the Luna of Ironvale Pack for three years. I have cooked this feast every November, alone, in this kitchen, while my fated mate entertained the woman he actually wanted in the next room. I have never once burned the venison.

I consider that a personal achievement.

The kitchen door swung open and Eleanor slipped inside, closing it behind her with the careful quiet of someone who thinks she's being subtle. She was dressed for the feast — deep burgundy, silver at her throat, the former Luna's posture she never fully put down. Her eyes went to the roasting pan, then to me, and she smiled the way she always smiled at me: like I was something precious that her son kept leaving out in the rain.

"It smells wonderful, sweetheart," she said.

"It always does." I set the spoon down and reached for the bread. "You didn't come in here to compliment the venison, Eleanor."

She had the grace to look slightly caught. Then she crossed to the counter beside me, lowered her voice, and told me her plan.

She'd prepared a drink. A special one. A wolf-heat stimulant, she said — carefully sourced, carefully dosed, slipped into Emmett's glass before the toast. Just enough to override his stubbornness. Just enough to remind his wolf what it was supposed to want. She'd done her research. She was very thorough about it.

"One night," she said, squeezing my hand. Her grip was warm and certain. "That's all it takes. His wolf will remember. And then everything goes back to the way it should be."

She looked at me like we were co-conspirators. Like I was going to cry with gratitude.

I looked at her and thought: you sweet, catastrophically misguided woman.

"You've thought of everything," I said.

Her whole face lit up. "I have the glass ready. I just need you to make sure he drinks it before the toast. You're the Luna