After His Mistress Helped Destroy My Wolf

The university administrator's office smelled like old paper and coffee that had been reheated too many times. Dr. Patricia Winters sat across from me, her reading glasses perched on her nose, looking at the resignation letter I'd typed the night before.

"Celine," she said carefully, "you're one of our most promising junior faculty. Are you certain about this?"

"Family transition," I repeated, keeping my voice steady. "I need to relocate. It's unavoidable."

She studied me for a long moment. I wondered what she saw. A young professor making a difficult choice? Or a woman who'd learned to keep her face very still?

"Effective at semester's end," she said finally, signing the form. "I'll need you to submit final grades by the fifteenth."

"Of course."

I walked out of her office with the signed paperwork in my bag and a strange lightness in my chest. One anchor cut. Three more to go.

That evening, I sat at my desk with the last stack of freshman essays spread before me. Barnaby lay at my feet, his breathing slow and even. I picked up my red pen—the one I never lent to anyone—and began grading.

The essays were about resilience. Ironic, really. I marked margins, circled weak thesis statements, wrote careful notes about structure and evidence. My handwriting was neat. Controlled. When I finished the last one, I stacked them precisely, left them on the desk with a note for my department chair, and made tea.

I forgot about it while pulling up London rental listings on my laptop. The tea went cold beside me, untouched, while I scrolled through photographs of small apartments in neighborhoods I'd never seen. Crescentwood Pack territory. Safe. Far.

Barnaby lifted his head and looked at the front door. A moment later, I heard Jared's car in the driveway.

I closed the laptop.

***

The real estate contact met me at a coffee shop three towns over, far from Silverfang territory. His name was Marcus Chen, and he'd sold a house to a colleague of mine two years ago. He didn't ask questions when I told him I needed a fast sale.

"How fast?" he asked, pulling out a tablet.

"As fast as possible. Price it to move."

He named a figure twenty percent below market value. I nodded.

"You're leaving someone," he said. Not a question.

I looked at him steadily. "I'm leaving a situation."

"Fair enough." He tapped something into his tablet. "I can have it listed by tomorrow. Photos this afternoon?"

"I'll be out from two to five."

We shook hands. I walked to my car, sat in the driver's seat, and allowed myself ten seconds of shaking. Then I started the engine and drove to the bank.

The account manager was a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. I told her I wanted to open a new account. Individual access only. No joint permissions.

"Will you be transferring funds from an existing account?" she asked.

"Yes. Everything from my personal savings."

She didn't blink. "I'll need two forms of identification."

I slid my driver's license and passport across the desk. She processed everything with quiet efficiency. Twenty minutes later, I walked out with a new account number memorized and my savings—modest but mine—safely transferred.

Two anchors cut.

That night, I composed an email to Lydia Hartwell, a college acquaintance who'd moved to London five years ago and married into the Crescentwood Pack. We'd kept in touch sporadically. Holiday cards. Occasional messages. I chose my words carefully:

*Lydia, I hope this finds you well. I'm writing because I find myself in need of a significant change and remembered you'd found a home with Crescentwood. I'm hoping to relocate to London in the coming weeks and wondered if you might be able to provide guidance regarding temporary housing and pack protocols for someone seeking provisional asylum. I'd be grateful for any assistance. Best, Celine.*

I read it three times. Deleted "asylum," reconsidered, put it back. It was the correct word. I hit send.

Three anchors cut.

***

Jared became more attentive as the Ceremony date approached. Softer. Warmer. He booked a private dinner at the restaurant where we'd had our first date. Brought me flowers—white roses and lavender, the exact combination that matched the fabricated cedar-and-rain scent he'd constructed.

"Three weeks," he said, setting the bouquet on the kitchen counter. His smile was tender. Genuine-looking. "Can you believe it?"

"It feels surreal," I said. True enough.

He pulled me close, his scent wrapping around me like a lie made tangible. I let myself lean into it. Let my wolf—confused, aching, still believing—respond to the false signal. I knew what he was doing. Fattening the emotional stakes. Making sure the bond felt real and deep and unbreakable so the rejection would cut cleaner.

I could play that game too.

"I keep thinking about our future," he murmured against my hair. "The life we're going to build. The pack we'll lead together."

"Me too," I whispered.

Barnaby stood in the doorway to the living room, watching us. He didn't growl. He simply refused to enter the room. His dark eyes were steady. Certain.

Jared noticed. His hand tightened slightly on my waist—just for a second—before he released me and smiled.

"I should start dinner," he said.

"I'll help."

We moved through the kitchen like a couple who'd done this a hundred times. He chopped vegetables. I set the table. We talked about small things. The weather. A movie we might see. His fabricated work stories.

I mirrored his warmth with devastating precision. Laughed at his jokes. Touched his arm when I passed him. Let my scent—real, unmasked—mix with his false one.

Inside, I was counting days.

Seventeen until the Ceremony.

Fourteen until my house sale closed.

Ten until my last university obligation.

Three until my flight to London.

I'd already booked it. One-way. Red-eye. I had the boarding pass saved on my phone, buried in a folder labeled "Recipes."

After dinner, Jared pulled me onto the couch and wrapped his arms around me. We watched something on television. I don't remember what. I rested my head on his shoulder and felt his heartbeat, steady and slow, and thought about how easy it was to fake tenderness when you had a goal.

He kissed my forehead. "I love you," he said.

"I love you too," I replied.

Barnaby left the room.