After My Mate Chose His Rogue Mistress

The crowd erupted. Voices overlapped in a cacophony of shock and outrage, wolves rising from their seats, pointing, whispering behind raised hands. The air thickened with judgment, with scandal, with the delicious thrill of watching someone fall.

Marigold moved first. She stepped forward, her crimson dress catching the light as she pressed herself against Rhys's side. Tears—perfectly timed, perfectly placed—slid down her cheeks. "Oh, Rhys," she breathed, her voice trembling with manufactured pain. "I'm so sorry you had to endure this betrayal. You deserve so much better."

She was good. I'd give her that.

Rhys's chest puffed up, feeding on the crowd's energy, on Marigold's validation. His eyes found mine, and in them I saw something ugly—triumph mixed with cruelty. He thought he'd won.

"I, Rhys Brooks, Alpha of Silverfang," he began, his voice ringing with false authority, "reject you, Veronica Harper, as my mate and Luna of this pack."

The words hit like a physical blow. The mate bond—that invisible thread that had connected us for years—began to fray. I felt it unraveling, strand by strand, each one snapping with a burst of white-hot agony that radiated from my chest outward. My knees wanted to buckle. My wolf howled in pain.

But I didn't fall.

Instead, I straightened. Lifted my chin. Let Luna's power flood through me, silver light flashing in my eyes.

The crowd went silent. Confused murmurs rippled through the hall.

Rhys faltered, his next words dying on his lips. He'd expected me to crumble, to beg, to collapse in a heap of broken mate bond and shattered dignity. That's what rejected she-wolves did. That's what he'd been counting on.

I smiled. Cold. Sharp. Dangerous.

"Is that all?" I asked softly.

Before he could respond, before he could banish me as he'd planned, I laughed. The sound cut through the hall like ice cracking on a frozen lake—brittle, chilling, wrong. Wolves shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

I reached for the microphone on the podium, my fingers closing around it with deliberate slowness. When I spoke, my voice carried not just through the speakers but through something deeper—an Alpha command I'd kept buried for years, now unleashed.

"Let's make this interesting," I said, and every wolf in the room felt the weight of my words pressing against their consciousness. "A wager, Rhys. If I can prove that DNA test is a lie, you abdicate. You step down as Alpha."

Gasps. Shocked whispers. Someone dropped a glass.

Rhys's face flushed red. "You're desperate," he spat. "Grasping at straws because you know you're caught."

"Then you have nothing to lose by agreeing." I tilted my head, watching him. "Unless you're afraid?"

His jaw clenched. I could smell his anger, his wounded pride. Angie had risen from her seat in the front row, her face pale, her hands gripping the table. She was shaking her head slightly, trying to catch his attention.

But Rhys wasn't looking at her. He was looking at me, at the challenge in my eyes, at the crowd watching him. If he refused, he'd look weak. Afraid.

"Fine," he snarled. "Prove it. Show everyone what a liar you are."

I turned to Diana, who stood near the AV booth. Our eyes met. She nodded once, then moved to the control panel, pulling the flash drive from her pocket.

The screens flickered. Changed.

New data appeared—not Amy's DNA profile, but someone else's. The crowd leaned forward, squinting at the unfamiliar markers, the complex genetic sequences.

"This," I said, my voice steady and cold, "is Rhys Brooks's DNA profile. Taken from a blood sample during his last physical. Verified by three independent labs."

I walked to the screen, pointing to specific markers. "In werewolf genetics, Alpha bloodline is identifiable through specific genetic sequences. These markers here"—I indicated a cluster of data—"should match the late Alpha Brooks, Rhys's supposed father."

The hall was silent. Every eye fixed on the screen.

"But they don't." I let the words hang. "In fact, there's zero genetic connection. None. Rhys Brooks shares no DNA with the Alpha bloodline he claims to descend from."

Chaos erupted. Wolves shouted, chairs scraped, voices rose in disbelief and confusion.

Angie shot to her feet, her face twisted with rage and panic. "She's lying!" she screamed, her voice shrill. "She faked that data! She's trying to destroy us because she's been caught!"

I turned to her slowly, and the look in my eyes made her step back.

"Did I?" I asked quietly. "Then explain how three separate labs came to the same conclusion. Explain how the genetic markers don't lie."

Angie's mouth opened and closed. Her hands were shaking now, wringing together in that telltale gesture of hers.

I looked back at the crowd, at Marcus Sterling in the front row. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp, calculating.

"The question isn't whether I'm lying," I said. "The question is—who is Rhys Brooks really?"