After His Mistress Killed My Baby, I Stole Her Future

The bass from the orchestra downstairs thumped through the floorboards, a rhythmic pounding that matched the frantic beat of my heart. I moved through the shadows of the upper hallway, clutching the stolen keycard against my palm until the edges bit into my skin. Every servant, every guard, every sycophant was currently in the Great Hall, toasting to the erasure of my son.

The coast was clear.

I slipped into Colton’s private office and pressed the door shut, locking it with a trembling hand. The room smelled of him—rich cedar and rain—but beneath it was the cloying, rotten sweetness of vanilla. Kimora had been here recently. She had marked even this sanctuary.

I didn't waste time. I went straight to the large portrait of the first Alpha of the Obsidian Shadow Pack hanging behind the desk. I gripped the heavy frame and swung it outward. Behind it sat a sleek, titanium safe.

My breath hitched. This was it.

I inserted the black card into the slot. The light blinked from red to green with a cheerful *chirp* that sounded too loud in the silence. The heavy door clicked and swung open.

I reached inside, my fingers brushing against cold stacks of cash and velvet jewelry boxes—bribes, no doubt. But I wasn't here for money. I pushed aside a stack of bearer bonds and found a thick, leather-bound ledger tucked in the back. I flipped it open.

My eyes widened. It wasn't just pack finances. These were records of territory trades. Illegal trades. Colton wasn't just ignoring the Rogue problem; he was selling them safe passage through our lands in exchange for rare minerals. He was trading our safety for profit. This was treason against the Council.

I shoved the ledger into the waistband of my dress, the cold leather pressing against my spine.

Then I saw it.

Shoved into the corner of the safe, gathering dust, was a plain wooden box. It looked like a cigar box, unpolished and cheap. But it was the label taped to the lid that made my knees buckle.

*Medical Waste - Date: Nov 12.*

November 12th. The day I gave birth.

A whimper tore from my throat, raw and animalistic. My hands shook violently as I reached for it. It felt light. Too light. I pried the lid open.

Inside, resting on a bed of rough cotton, was a tiny, clear plastic bag filled with grey ash. And on top of the bag sat a plastic hospital bracelet, so small it could fit around my thumb.

*Baby Boy - Clara.*

The world stopped. The music downstairs, the fear of getting caught, the pain of the mate bond—it all vanished into a singularity of pure, freezing horror.

*Medical waste.*

They hadn't just killed him. They hadn't just lied to me. They had labeled my son—my flesh, my blood, the future of this pack—as garbage. They had shoved him in a box next to dirty money and forgotten him.

"I've got you," I whispered, tears dripping off my chin and landing on the dry wood. "Mama's got you now."

I closed the box and clutched it to my chest, shielding it with my arms. A low growl started deep in my chest, vibrating through my ribs. It wasn't a sound of grief anymore. It was the sound of a mother who had nothing left to lose.

I turned to leave, my hand on the doorknob.

The door swung open before I could turn it.

Kimora stood there.

She was still wearing that shimmering silver dress, but her face was twisted into a mask of ugly suspicion. Her eyes darted from my face to the open safe behind me, and finally, to the wooden box clutched against my heart.

"You thieving little rat," she hissed, stepping into the room and kicking the door shut behind her. The lock clicked. "I knew you were up to something when you staged that fainting act."

"Move," I said. My voice didn't sound like mine. It sounded like grinding stones.

Kimora laughed, a sharp, barking sound. "Or what? You'll cry at me? You're a wolfless, pathetic excuse for a Luna. And now..." She glanced at the safe again. "Now you're a liability."

She didn't wait for a response. She didn't monologue. She just dropped.

The sound of bones snapping filled the small room—a wet, crunching noise that used to sicken me. Her silver dress shredded as fur erupted from her skin. Within seconds, a massive grey wolf with manic yellow eyes stood between me and the exit.

She wasn't here to intimidate. She crouched low, her lips peeling back to reveal rows of dagger-sharp teeth. She was going to kill me. She would claim I broke in, went mad, and she had to put me down to protect the Alpha.

*Kill her,* my wolf screamed in my head. *Rip her throat out.*

Kimora lunged.

I didn't have time to shift fully. My clothes would restrict me, and I couldn't drop the box. I couldn't let Jedidiah fall.

So I let the rage take my hand.

As 150 pounds of muscle and fur flew through the air, I didn't cower. I swung my free right hand in a vicious arc, channeling every ounce of my suppressed aura into my fingertips.

My nails lengthened instantly, hardening into razor-sharp, obsidian claws.

*SQUELCH.*

My hand connected with her snout in mid-air. I felt the resistance of skin, the pop of cartilage, and the wet warmth of an eye bursting under my claw.

Kimora’s momentum carried her into me, knocking me back against the desk, but her attack had turned into a thrashing panic. She hit the floor, scrambling backward, her paws slipping on the polished wood.

A sound tore through the Pack House—not a human scream, but a high-pitched, garbled yelp of agony that shattered the air. It was loud enough to wake the dead. Loud enough to stop the music downstairs.

Kimora writhed on the rug, blood pouring from the ruin of her face. Three deep gouges ran from her forehead to her jaw. Her left eye was gone.

I stood over her, breathing hard, my hand dripping with the blood of the woman who murdered my son. The box was still safe in my left arm.

"An eye for a life," I spat, my voice vibrating with the Alpha tone I had never been allowed to use.

Downstairs, the silence was absolute. Then, the thundering of footsteps began.