When His Mistress Lied About Carrying the Alpha’s Heir

I spent three hours on the cake.

Not baking it — I'd ordered that from the bakery in town, a three-tier vanilla buttercream with pink frosting roses and a sugar wolf howling at a crescent moon on top. Daisy had described it to me no fewer than eleven times since March. "Mama, the wolf has to be white. And the moon has to be the skinny kind, not the fat kind." I'd sketched it on a napkin and handed it to the baker myself.

The three hours were for everything else. The streamers — lavender and silver, because Daisy had changed her mind from pink two days ago and I was not about to argue with a girl who knew what she wanted. The balloon arch over the entrance to the Alpha suite's living room. The little party crowns I'd made by hand from gold cardstock and stick-on gems, one for each of the six pack pups Daisy had invited. And the big crown. Daisy's crown. Gold glitter, purple ribbon, and a plastic jewel the size of my thumbnail that she'd picked out at the dollar store with the seriousness of a jeweler selecting a diamond.

I set the crown on the kitchen counter and stepped back to look at the room.

It was good. It was exactly what she'd asked for.

My phone buzzed.

Scott.

*Emergency border patrol. Rogue activity near the eastern ridge. Taking a team out tonight. Probably won't be back until Sunday. Tell Daisy I'm sorry.*

I read it twice. Then I set the phone face-down on the counter and adjusted a streamer that didn't need adjusting.

It was Friday. The party was Saturday. He knew that. He'd known for two months, because Daisy had told him at dinner every single night, counting down the days on her fingers. "Fourteen more sleeps, Daddy. Thirteen more sleeps."

I picked up the phone and typed: *It's her birthday tomorrow, Scott.*

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

*I know. Can't be helped. Victor Crane's rogues don't check the calendar.*

Victor Crane. Alpha of the Blackmoor Pack. Our ongoing territorial headache — one I had personally mapped every strategic response to, including the eastern ridge patrol rotation that I had designed to require exactly four wolves and a Gamma, not the Alpha himself.

I typed: *The eastern ridge rotation doesn't need you. Send Ethan.*

Ethan Howell. Scott's Beta. Perfectly capable.

A longer pause this time.

*I'm the Alpha, Madelyn. I decide what needs me.*

I stared at the screen. There it was. That tone, even in text. The subtle pull of rank. The reminder that questioning him was the same as questioning the pack's chain of command.

I deleted the three responses I drafted in my head and sent: *I'll tell Daisy.*

He didn't reply.

The party was everything Daisy wanted it to be.

Six pups in gold crowns chasing each other through the living room. Cake smeared on faces. A game involving a blindfold and a stuffed wolf that