After My Mate Branded His Mistress Luna

The small plastic strip on the clinic counter dried into two sharp pink lines.

Pregnant.

I sat alone on the edge of the examination table, staring at the little white stick under the humming fluorescent light. My fingers were cold.

I ran the math in my head. Four weeks. It had happened the week before the banquet, on one of those rare nights Lorenzo had come back to our bed out of habit rather than desire. His hands had been rough, his wolf quiet, taking what the bond offered without looking me in the eye.

A baby. His pup.

A sick, cold ache settled in the pit of my stomach. In the old days, I would have run to his office, breathless, holding the news like a miracle. Now, the knowledge felt like an unexploded bomb in my hands.

If Lorenzo found out, it wouldn't fix anything. He wouldn't look at me with tenderness. He would call it a trap. He would say I got pregnant to hold onto the Luna title, or worse, claim the child wasn't his to justify casting me aside faster. And Sutton would circle like a vulture.

Inside my chest, my wolf went utterly silent. It wasn't the silence of fear. It was the absolute stillness of a predator waiting in tall grass, breathing without a sound.

*Nobody finds out,* I told her.

She offered no argument, only a low hum of agreement deep in my bones.

I picked up the test, wrapped it tightly in three layers of paper towels, and shoved it deep into my coat pocket. When the healer opened the door, clipboard in hand, I slipped off the table with a calm smile.

"Just low iron and stress, like you thought," I said smoothly. "Thanks, Martha."

I buttoned my wool coat all the way to my throat and walked out into the cold afternoon air. I didn't call Rocco. I didn't tell a single living soul. I kept my chin up and walked back to my quarters with a secret buried under my ribs.

***

Two nights later, neutral ground proved there was no such thing as peace.

The gathering was held at *The Velvet Iron*, an underground, wolf-run club in West Hollywood. It was neutral territory—a place where half a dozen California packs met to drink, cut deals, and size each other up. The air was thick with the scent of bourbon, cedar, and competing pheromones. Bass vibrated through the concrete floorboards.

I stood by the edge of the mezzanine, watching the crowd below.

Down near the VIP lounge, Lorenzo held court. He looked striking in a crisp dark suit, laughing easily with the Alpha of the Crescent Ridge Pack. Beside him stood Sutton.

She wore a backless crimson dress cut so low in the front it left nothing to the imagination. More importantly, it left her neck completely bare. Lorenzo’s fresh mating bite glistened against her pale skin, red and raw, an arrogant trophy for every pack leader in the state to admire.

Every time Lorenzo leaned in to whisper in her ear, every time his broad hand settled against the small of her waist, a phantom wave of nausea rippled through my chest. The cracked mate bond dragged every dirty spark of his attraction straight into my veins. It felt like hot grease poured over my skin.

Then, Sutton looked up.

Through the strobe lights and smoke, her gaze locked onto mine. She didn't look away. Instead, she slowly slid her fingers along Lorenzo’s jaw, pulled his face down, and let him kiss her right in front of the southern Alphas.

When they broke apart, she looked back at me and smiled—a sharp, poisonous smirk that dared me to break.

*Let's see how much she likes the taste of her own medicine,* my wolf whispered, the words cold as ice.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the dark glass flask I had prepared before leaving the house. Cheap merlot, heavily steeped with concentrated wolfsbane sap. To an unshifted wolf, it smelled like rich blackberries. To an open wound, it was liquid fire.

I walked down the metal stairs, my footsteps steady and deliberate.

The crowd parted slightly as I approached. Lorenzo didn't see me until I was three feet away. His eyes narrowed in annoyance, his jaw tightening as if I were a stray dog stepping onto his porch.

"Reina," he began, his voice dropping into a warning growl. "Don't cause a—"

I didn't let him finish.

I uncapped the glass and hurled the dark red liquid straight into Sutton’s face.

The wine splashed across her cheeks, soaked into her silk dress, and poured directly into the fresh punctures on her neck.

Sutton’s eyes bulged. A second later, a high-pitched, curdling shriek ripped out of her throat.

"It burns! God, Lorenzo, it burns!" she screamed, clawing frantically at her collarbone as the wolfsbane seeped into her torn flesh, turning the puncture marks an angry, blistered black.

The club went instantly dead. The music seemed to vanish into thin air.

Lorenzo’s face went completely feral.

Before I could take a single step back, his hand shot out and clamped onto my shoulder like an iron vise. He didn't just push me. He threw his entire Alpha weight forward, hurling me violently backward into the low glass cocktail table behind us.

*CRASH.*

The heavy tempered glass shattered under my weight.

Pain tore through my back, knocking every drop of air from my lungs. A sharp, searing agony sliced through my right forearm as a jagged shard cut through my leather sleeve, opening a deep gash from wrist to elbow. Hot, dark blood gushed immediately, pooling onto the broken shards around me.

My vision blurred with gray edges. I instinctively curled my body inward, shielding my lower stomach with my left arm, protecting the secret buried there.

Lorenzo didn't even look down at the blood.

He didn't check to see if I was breathing.

His eyes were completely wild as he swept Sutton into his arms. Sutton had already collapsed against his chest, weeping theatrically, her eyelashes fluttering as she faked a delicate, trembling faint.

Lorenzo turned toward the exit, carrying her like a fragile bride. Halfway to the heavy double doors, he paused. He looked back at the dozens of wolves staring in stunned silence—warriors, Betas, and Alphas from every neighboring pack.

"My former Luna is no longer under pack protection in neutral territory," Lorenzo announced, his Alpha tone ringing with cold finality. "That is all."

He kicked the doors open and vanished into the night.

Nobody moved.

Not a single warrior offered a hand. Not an Alpha stepped forward. In neutral territory, the word of an Alpha stood absolute. To help me was to insult him.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, using the pain to force my limbs to obey. Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself off the shards of glass.

I stumbled to the empty bar, grabbed a thick black bar towel, and wrapped it tightly around my bleeding arm. With my left hand, I pulled the knot tight with my teeth.

Then I walked out.

I pushed through the exit and into the chilly night air, leaving a trail of crimson drops on the gravel. I didn't have my car keys. I had nothing.

I sat down on the concrete curb near the edge of the empty parking lot, pressing my bloody arm against my ribs. My head spun, but my spine stayed rigidly straight.

Forty minutes later, two bright headlights cut through the dark.

A heavy black truck swung into the lot and stopped inches from the curb. The door opened, and Beta Rocco stepped out into the damp cold.

He looked at my shredded sleeve. He looked at the towel soaked through with dark blood. His dark eyes hardened into stone, but he didn't utter a word. He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't offer empty pity.

Rocco simply walked over, pulled open the passenger door, and waited.

I stood up, climbed into the truck, and pulled the door shut.

We drove into the dark in absolute silence, and for the first time in days, the quiet was the only thing keeping me alive.