His Mistress Wore My Luna Crown

The coffee in my mug had gone cold hours ago, much like the bed I’d woken up in.

Seven years. That’s how long I had been the Luna of the Silverclaw Pack. Seven years of sleeping in the guest suite while my mate, Alpha Jax Marshall, slept down the hall behind a locked door. To the pack, I was the “Iron Luna”—stoic, unshakeable, and frigid. They whispered that I was too cold to carry a pup, that my womb was as barren as my expression.

They didn’t know the truth. They didn’t know that the only thing colder than my demeanor was the secret I kept to protect their Alpha’s fragile ego.

“Luna Camille,” Beta Eugene’s voice grated on my nerves, pulling me back to the present. We were in the conference room, the morning sun highlighting the dust motes dancing over the heavy oak table. “As I was saying, the budget for the border patrols needs to be increased. Again.”

I looked at the spreadsheet in front of me. “Eugene, we increased the patrol budget by fifteen percent last month. Where is that money going? The receipts don’t match the requisition forms.”

Eugene leaned back, a smug smile playing on his lips. He was a greasy man, his ambition wearing him like a cheap suit. “Security isn’t cheap, Luna. Perhaps if you spent less time scrutinizing pennies and more time focusing on… domestic matters, the Alpha wouldn’t be so stressed.”

The insult was veiled, but sharp. *Domestic matters.* Code for: *Why haven’t you given us an heir?*

I kept my face perfectly smooth. “My husband’s stress levels are managed just fine, Beta. Your inability to account for ten thousand dollars, however, is a stress I will not ignore. Audit the logs. Or I will.”

I stood up, signaling the end of the meeting. As I gathered my files, the door opened and Jax walked in. He looked tired, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes. His aura, usually a crushing weight, felt brittle today.

“Jax,” I said softly. I reached out instinctively to brush a piece of lint from his dark blazer.

He flinched.

It wasn’t just a step back; it was a violent recoil, his whole body seizing as if I were holding a branding iron. He stumbled into the doorframe, his breath hitching.

“Don’t,” he hissed, his eyes wide with panic before they hardened into anger. “I told you, Camille. Give me space.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks, but I forced it down. Eugene was watching, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement.

“My apologies, Alpha,” I said, my voice flat. “I’ll leave you to your business.”

I walked out with my head high, but inside, I was bleeding. It was the condition. The curse. Whatever you wanted to call it. Jax’s wolf rejected the touch of any female. It caused him physical agony. We hadn’t touched in seven years. No marking. No mating. Just a sham marriage held together by my silence and his shame.

I needed air. I headed toward the mess hall for lunch, hoping the noise of the pack would drown out the ringing in my ears. The cafeteria was bustling. Pups were running between tables, and the smell of roasted chicken filled the air.

Then, the chatter stopped.

The silence rippled outward from the serving station like a wave. I followed the collective gaze of two hundred wolves.

Jax had entered the mess hall. Beside him was the new intern, Ezra Ramirez. She was small, with wide, innocent doe eyes and a scent that was sickly sweet—like vanilla dipped in syrup. She was laughing at something he said, walking too close.

Suddenly, Ezra tripped over her own feet. It was clumsy, almost theatrical. She pitched forward, right into Jax’s chest.

I froze. I waited for the flinch. I waited for Jax to shove her away, to double over in pain, to roar at her for daring to make contact.

It never happened.

Jax caught her. His large hands gripped her waist firmly, stabilizing her. He didn’t recoil. He didn’t wince. Instead, he leaned in, his nose burying itself in the crook of her neck. He inhaled deeply, a shudder running through his massive frame—not of pain, but of… relief.

“Careful,” Jax murmured, his voice a low rumble that carried across the silent room. He didn't let go. His thumb caressed the fabric of her shirt.

Ezra looked up at him through her lashes, her cheeks flushing pink. “Thank you, Alpha. I’m so clumsy.”

A murmur broke out across the hall. *He touched her.* *Did you see that?* *The Alpha touched her.*

I felt like the floor had opened up beneath me. For seven years, I had lived like a nun, guarding a man who couldn't be touched, only to watch him hold another woman in the middle of the pack house. The humiliation was a physical blow to the gut.

I turned on my heel and marched out before anyone could see the Iron Luna crack.

I went straight to his office. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I needed to know. Was he cured? Had the doctors finally found a solution, and he just hadn’t told me? Or was she… was she his *true* mate?

I tore through the filing cabinets. I told myself I was looking for Eugene’s missing ledgers, but my hands were shaking too hard for math. I checked the safe. Nothing. I checked the bottom drawer of his mahogany desk.

Buried under a stack of old territory maps, I found a crumpled receipt from a pharmacy two towns over.

*Prenatal vitamins.*

My breath hitched. I dug deeper, my fingernails scraping against the wood. There, wrapped in a tissue at the very back of the drawer, was a plastic stick.

Two pink lines.

A positive pregnancy test.

The world tilted on its axis. The silence of the room screamed at me. Jax wasn’t just cured. He wasn’t just touching her. He had broken the one sacred vow we had left. He had slept with her.

The Iron Luna didn’t cry. But as I stared at that little plastic stick, I realized the iron was rusting, and the woman underneath was ready to scream.