After My Alpha Saved His Mistress Instead of Me

The banquet hall glittered like a trap.

I stood at the entrance in the gown Lucy had approved three weeks ago—midnight blue silk that made my white-jasmine scent seem sharper, colder. The Silverfang Pack's annual banquet. Two hundred wolves in formal dress. Candles everywhere. Music drifting from the string quartet in the corner.

I was late because Cameron had been late sending the car.

I scanned the head table and found my seat. Not at Cameron's right side. Not even at his left. A chair near the end, tucked beside Gamma Lowell's wife, a kind woman who always looked faintly embarrassed on my behalf.

Cleo Powell sat at Cameron's right.

She wore crimson. Her dark hair was pinned up to show her throat—unmarked, but displayed like an invitation. She leaned toward Cameron, laughing at something he'd said, her hand resting on the table close enough to his that their fingers nearly touched.

I walked to my assigned seat. No one spoke. A few she-wolves glanced at me, then away. The Gamma's wife smiled tightly and murmured, "Luna."

"Good evening," I said.

I sat. I folded my hands in my lap. I did not look at the head table again.

The first course arrived. I ate three bites of salmon and set my fork down. My wolf stirred faintly, like something turning over in sleep, then went quiet. She had learned, over three years, not to reach for Cameron's scent. It only hurt when she did.

Halfway through the second course, Cameron stood.

The hall went silent instantly. That was his gift—his Alpha aura filled a room before he even spoke. Pine and thunder. I smelled it from across the hall and felt nothing.

"Thank you all for gathering tonight," Cameron said. His voice carried easily, deep and controlled. "Silverfang has had a strong year. Our borders are secure. Our alliances are stable. And I want to take a moment to recognize someone who has been...instrumental in supporting the pack's social standing."

He turned slightly toward Cleo.

My hands stayed folded in my lap.

"Cleo Powell has shown exceptional dedication," Cameron continued. "Her efforts in organizing pack events and representing Silverfang at regional gatherings have been invaluable. To honor that, I've commissioned a piece to mark her contributions."

He looked directly at me for the first time that evening.

"Luna Astrid," he said, his tone flat and formal, "I'd like you to craft a moonstone pendant for Cleo. Something worthy of her service."

The hall was so quiet I could hear the candles burning.

A moonstone pendant. For another woman's throat. Commissioned by my mate.

Moonstone pendants were sacred. They were cut for marking ceremonies—for mates, for Lunas, for bonds the Moon Goddess herself had blessed. To craft one for anyone else was to strip the ritual of its meaning.

I met Cameron's eyes. His expression was unreadable, but his wolf was there behind it, watching me. Waiting.

He wanted a reaction. Jealousy. Anger. Anything.

I gave him nothing.

"Yes, Alpha," I said.

My voice was quiet and clear. I did not look at Cleo. I did not look at the pack members staring at me with a mix of pity and discomfort.

Cameron's jaw tightened. Just slightly. Just enough that I noticed.

Cleo smiled and touched his arm. "Thank you, Alpha," she said warmly. "I'm honored."

The meal resumed. Conversations started again, tentative at first, then louder. I finished my water. I did not eat another bite.

When the banquet finally ended, I returned to my workshop.

It was a small room off the east wing of the pack house—mine by contract, untouched by anyone else. My cutting table. My tools. My stones. The only space in Silverfang that felt like it belonged to me.

I pulled the design I'd been working on from the drawer. A raw moonstone, pale and flawless, the size of a plum. I set it on the table under the lamp and studied it.

Cleo's pendant.

I could make it technically perfect. I could cut it so precisely that every facet caught the light exactly right, so that when she wore it, wolves would stop and stare. I could make it beautiful enough to hurt.

And it would mean nothing.

I picked up my smallest blade and began.

The first cut was always the hardest—finding the stone's natural fault line, the place where it wanted to split. I ran my thumb along the surface, feeling for the pulse beneath. There. A faint vibration, like a heartbeat.

I pressed the blade in and the stone opened cleanly.

For the next four hours, I worked in silence. My wolf stayed quiet. My hands stayed steady.

When I finally finished, the pendant was flawless. A teardrop shape, perfectly symmetrical, cut to catch light from every angle. It would look stunning against Cleo's throat.

I set it in a velvet box and locked it in the cabinet.

Then I sat at my table, pulled a small rough moonstone from my pocket—a piece I'd kept for myself, uncut and unpolished—and ran my thumb along its edge.

My wolf stirred. Just once. Then went silent again.

I stayed there until dawn, counting the weeks left on my contract.

Seventy-three days.