When my pup ill, my Alpha was dating with his sister-in-law

The apple pie was still warm when I carried it up the stairs of the Pack House.

Cinnamon. Brown sugar. A lattice crust I'd redone twice because the first one looked crooked.

Dylan loved apple pie. He'd loved it since we were teenagers, back before he was Alpha of the Silver Moon Pack, back when he used to steal slices off my plate and grin like a thief.

Six years of marriage. A five-year-old son. A pack that bowed its head when I walked by and called me Luna.

I really believed I had it all.

"Luna Quinn!" One of the young omegas, Tessa, nearly bumped into me in the hallway. Her eyes dropped to the pie, then darted toward the study door. "Oh. Are you... going in there?"

"I am. He's been buried in border reports all week. He needs a break."

"Maybe you should wait. He said no interruptions."

I laughed. "He always says that."

Tessa opened her mouth, closed it, and hurried away without another word.

Strange girl.

The study door was cracked open. I lifted my hand to knock.

Then I heard it.

A woman's moan. Low and breathy.

"Dylan... right there. Don't stop."

My knuckles froze an inch from the wood.

That voice. I knew that voice. I'd sat beside it at every pack dinner for three years. I'd held it while it sobbed at a funeral.

I leaned closer to the gap in the door.

My husband had a woman bent back across his desk. Her dress was shoved up around her waist. His shirt hung open. Papers I'd watched him stress over were scattered on the floor under their feet. His mouth was on her throat, and his hips were moving against her in a hard, steady rhythm.

Her red nails dug into his shoulders.

Anna.

His brother's widow.

"Tell me," Anna gasped, tugging his head up by the hair. "Tell me you like me better than her."

Dylan chuckled. The same lazy chuckle he gave me on Sunday mornings.

"Quinn's a good wife," he said. "But she's so boring. You're the only one who makes me feel anything anymore."

The plate slid out of my fingers.

It hit the floor with a crack. Glass and apple filling splattered across the hallway, sticky and hot against my ankles.

Inside, the moaning stopped.

"What was that?" Anna whispered.

I didn't wait to hear his answer.

I ran.

I didn't feel the stairs. I didn't feel the doorknob of our bedroom. I only felt the lock click under my shaking hand, and then my back sliding down the door until I was sitting on the cold floor.

Boring.

I pressed my fist against my mouth, but the sound came out anyway. Ugly, choking sobs that shook my whole body.

Boring. After six years. After I gave him a son. After I stood next to him through every challenge, every rogue attack, every sleepless night.

And Anna. Of all people.

Mark had only been dead three years. Dylan had cried at his brother's grave. I'd watched him do it.

A tiny knock tapped against the door.

"Mommy?"

I wiped my face hard with both palms. "Just a second, baby."

I stood, smoothed my hair, and opened the door.

Jacob stood there in his dinosaur pajamas, clutching Mr. Biscuit, the brown teddy bear with one ear chewed flat. His dark eyes went straight to my face.

"You're crying."

"No, sweetheart. I just got something in my eye."

"Both eyes?"

A laugh burst out of me. Wet and broken, but a laugh.

He walked in, set Mr. Biscuit on the bed like a guard, then stood on his tiptoes and reached for my cheek. I knelt down so he could reach. His small thumb dragged across my skin, clumsy and serious.

"Did Daddy hurt you?" he asked.

My heart stopped.

"Why would you say that?"

"Because you only cry when Daddy is mean." His little chin jutted out. "I'll go beat him up. I'm strong. I can do a wolf growl. Listen."

He bared his baby teeth and made a sound like a squeaky door.

I pulled him into my arms before he could see my face crumple again.

"Daddy didn't hurt me," I whispered into his hair. "He's just really busy with work. That's all. I'm not sad. I promise."

"You promise promise?"

"Promise promise."

He sighed against my neck, like he didn't quite buy it but had decided to let me win.

I held him until he fell asleep in our bed, Mr. Biscuit tucked under his chin.

Then I carried him to his room and waited.

Dylan came home after midnight.

I heard his footsteps in the hall, heavy and unhurried. The bedroom door opened. He smelled like soap.

He'd showered. Somewhere else.

"Still up?" He crossed the room and bent to kiss my forehead.

His lips were warm. I wanted to scrub the spot off with my nails.

"Where were you?" I asked.

"Working. Where else?" He tugged off his watch and tossed it on the dresser. "By the way, there was no dinner downstairs. I'm starving, Quinn. You couldn't leave a plate out?"

I stared at him.

He actually looked annoyed. Like I'd failed him.

"I made you a pie today," I said quietly.

"Yeah? Where is it?"

"On the floor outside your study."

He paused with one hand on his collar. Just for a second. Then he shrugged.

"Somebody probably knocked it over. I'll have Tessa clean it up tomorrow."

He pulled his shirt over his head.

And there it was. On the side of his neck, right below his ear. A dark red mark, ringed with tiny teeth prints.

Not mine. I'd never left a mark like that on him in my life.

Something cold crawled up my spine and settled in my stomach. For six years, I'd thought this was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen.

Now he just made me sick.

"Dylan." My voice came out steadier than I expected. "What's on your neck?"

He touched the spot. His jaw flexed.

"What are you talking about?"

"That bruise. Right there."

"It's nothing. Training with the warriors. Somebody got rough."

"With their teeth?"

His eyes narrowed. "What exactly are you trying to say, Quinn?"

I stood up from the bed. My hands were shaking, so I crossed my arms.

"I'm saying I was at the study door today. I'm saying I heard—"

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

The screen lit up between us.

Neither of us moved.

Then I looked down.

A photo. Anna, lying across white sheets, wearing nothing but a lazy smile and one of Dylan's shirts, unbuttoned all the way down.

Under it, a message.

*Baby, I still want you.*