My Mate Gave My Paintings to His Mistress

The rain hits our territory like the Moon Goddess herself is weeping, each drop sharp as ice against the packhouse windows. I press my face to the glass, watching the storm tear through the forest with a violence that makes my wolf whimper deep in my chest.

"Stella." Henry's voice cuts through the howling wind, flat and commanding. "We're taking the SUV for patrol."

I turn from the window to find my fated mate pulling on his leather jacket, Caleb beside him already dressed for the weather. The sight of them together—so alike with their dark hair and strong Alpha jawlines—still makes my heart skip, even after all these years.

"In this storm?" The words slip out before I can stop them. "Henry, it's dangerous out there. The roads—"

"Are pack territory." His amber eyes flash with irritation. "We know our own land, Stella. The borders need checking after weather like this."

Caleb doesn't even look at me as he zips up his coat. At seventeen, my son has grown tall and broad like his father, carrying himself with the same casual dominance that once made me feel protected. Now it just makes me feel small.

"But the SUV is the only vehicle that can handle these roads," I say, hating how my voice sounds—thin and worried like the weak Luna they always tell me I am. "If something happens—"

"Nothing will happen." Henry's tone shuts down any further argument. He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and drops it on the kitchen counter. "Caleb wants tiramisu for tomorrow's pack dinner. Make sure it's perfect."

My throat tightens. Tomorrow is the monthly gathering where all the families come together, where I'll smile and serve and pretend everything is fine while the pack mothers whisper about how lucky Caleb is to have such a devoted Luna for a mother. The irony tastes bitter.

"Of course," I whisper.

They're gone within minutes, the SUV's engine roaring to life before disappearing into the storm. I stand in the sudden silence of the packhouse, holding Henry's note with hands that shake just slightly. The paper is damp from his pocket, the ink slightly smeared, but his handwriting is clear enough: *Tiramisu. Don't mess it up this time.*

Don't mess it up this time.

The words sting because I've never messed it up. Not once. I've perfected that recipe over months of trial and error, watching Caleb's face light up with each improved version until I got it exactly right. But Henry always finds something wrong—too sweet, not sweet enough, the texture off by some imperceptible margin that only he seems to notice.

I check our pantry with growing dread. No mascarpone. No ladyfingers. No coffee liqueur. Of course. How could I have been so stupid as to assume we'd have the ingredients for something Henry demanded on zero notice?

The nearest store is at the territory border, a twenty-minute drive in good weather. In this storm, on foot, it might as