After My Mate Chose His Mistress Over Me

Piper comes every day now.

She brings trays of food I've always hated—overcooked meat, bitter greens, bread so dry it sticks in my throat. She sets them on the bedside table with a smile that never reaches her eyes, then settles into the chair Raylan uses at night, crossing her legs like she's holding court.

"The pack is thriving under my guidance," she says, examining her nails. The moonstone necklace catches the light. My necklace. "Everyone's so relieved to have competent leadership again. You understand, don't you? A Luna who can't even leave her room isn't much use to anyone."

I don't answer. I've learned that silence is the only weapon I have left.

"Raylan's been sleeping in the guest room," she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He comes to me when he can't sleep. We talk for hours. He tells me things he never told you."

The silver chain burns against my ankle. I focus on that pain instead of her words.

"Once the heir is born, you'll go to the Omega quarters. Or maybe an asylum—somewhere quiet where you can't cause any more trouble." She leans forward, her vanilla perfume making my stomach turn. "I'll raise the child as my own. Raylan and I have already discussed it."

After she leaves, I pull the journal from under the mattress. My hands shake as I write, documenting every visit, every threat, every detail. The words blur together, but I keep writing. Someday, someone will read this. Someday, they'll know the truth.

---

Four months in, my belly swells like a tumor.

I wake in the middle of the night to burning pain across my arms. Blood streaks the sheets, fresh scratches running from my wrists to my elbows. My nails are red.

Sera. She's fighting back the only way she can—clawing at the thing growing inside me while my conscious mind sleeps.

*Get it out,* she snarls in my head, her voice raw and feral. *Get it OUT.*

But the Alpha Command holds even in sleep. My body heals the scratches within minutes, leaving only faint pink lines that fade by morning.

The next night, it happens again. This time, the scratches are deeper, angrier. One crosses my swollen stomach, and I wake to Sera's howl of rage echoing through my skull.

Raylan finds me in the morning, blood dried on my arms and belly.

He doesn't say a word. Just leaves and returns with leather straps.

"No," I whisper, but he's already grabbing my wrists.

He binds my hands together, then ties them to the headboard. The leather is soft, expensive, but it might as well be silver for how trapped I feel.

"This is for your own good," he says, his voice flat. "And the pup's."

That night, he drags the chair to the corner of the room and sits, watching me like I'm a wild animal that might bolt. His eyes glow faintly in the darkness, never blinking, never looking away.

I close my eyes and pretend he's not there. Pretend I'm anywhere but here, bound and pregnant with a monster's child while my mate guards his precious legacy.

Sera whimpers, exhausted from her futile rebellion.

We're both prisoners now.

---

Six months. The thing inside me kicks and rolls, and I hate it with every fiber of my being.

Then the alarms start.

The sound tears through the pack house, sharp and urgent. Rogue attack. Northern border.

Raylan's on his feet instantly, his Alpha aura blazing. He looks at me, bound and chained, then at the door.

"Don't move," he says, like I have a choice.

He's gone in seconds, his footsteps pounding down the hall. Shouts echo through the building. Warriors mobilizing. Piper's voice, high and commanding, directing her guards.

The pack house empties fast. Through the window, I see wolves streaming toward the northern tree line, their forms blurring as they shift mid-run.

Silence settles over the room like snow.

I test the leather straps. Still tight. The silver chain still burns. But something's different. The constant pressure of being watched is gone.

The door opens.

Elena Cross stands in the doorway, her Beta aura muted, her face pale. She's wearing her battle gear, ready to join the fight, but she's not moving.

Our eyes meet.

She crosses the room in three strides and sets something on the bedside table. A key. Small, silver, gleaming.

The key to the shackles.

"I have to go," she says, her voice barely audible. "The northern border needs every warrior."

She turns and walks out, leaving the door open behind her.

I stare at the key. My heart hammers against my ribs.

Outside, the sounds of battle grow distant. The pack house is empty. Unguarded.

This is my chance. Maybe my only chance.

I reach for the key with my bound hands, my fingers stretching, straining.

Almost there.