My Alpha Chose His Mistress Over His Wolfless Luna

The packhouse felt like it was holding its breath. Three days since the financial collapse started, and the tension had spread through every hallway, every room. I could feel it even from the east wing—wolves whispering, footsteps hurried and anxious, the scent of fear mixing with anger.

I was in my room when Julien found me.

He didn't knock. The door slammed open, and he filled the doorway, shoulders tight, jaw clenched. His eyes had that wild edge I'd seen before, back in the foster pack when the older wolves would corner us. Except now he was the one doing the cornering.

"You," he said, voice low and dangerous. "This is because of you."

I stood slowly from where I'd been sitting by the window. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play stupid." He crossed the room in three strides, and I forced myself not to step back. "Everything was fine until that stunt you pulled at the anniversary. You embarrassed me in front of the entire pack, and now look what's happening. Investors pulling out, alliances dissolving. You brought this on us."

The mate bond twisted, but I kept my face neutral. "You think I caused a financial collapse by defending myself?"

"You attacked Mya. You showed everyone how unstable you are." His hand shot out, gripping my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. "You're bad luck, Olivia. You always have been. I should've seen it sooner."

My wolf snarled inside my chest, but I kept her down. Not yet.

"Let go of me."

"You don't give me orders." His grip tightened. Then I felt it—a sharp, violent tug on the mind-link connection between us. The bond that let mates communicate, share thoughts and feelings. He was severing it.

Pain exploded through my skull. I gasped, hands flying up to clutch my head as he ripped the connection apart. It felt like something vital being torn away, leaving raw edges that burned.

When I could see again, he was holding my phone. My laptop sat on the bed where he'd tossed it.

"You won't be needing these," he said. "Can't have you spreading more poison, can we?"

"Julien—"

"You'll stay here. No contact with the pack. No devices. You'll eat what's brought to you and keep your mouth shut." He moved toward the door, then paused. "This is for your own good. To protect you from yourself."

The door closed. The lock clicked.

I stood there, breathing hard, one hand pressed to my temple where the severed mind-link still throbbed. The mate bond remained—that couldn't be cut without a formal rejection—but the communication channel was gone. He'd isolated me completely.

Or so he thought.

Two hours later, they came for me again.

Delta warriors, four of them, led by Marcus—one of Julien's most loyal. They didn't speak, just grabbed my arms and hauled me out of the room. I didn't fight. Didn't see the point yet.

They took me up. Higher than I'd ever been in the packhouse, up narrow stairs that creaked under our weight. The air grew colder, thinner. When we reached the attic, I understood why.

Silver.

The door frame was lined with it. The window bars, the bed frame, even thin wires woven through the walls. Not enough to kill, but enough to weaken. To make shifting impossible. To keep a wolf contained.

"Alpha's orders," Marcus said, not meeting my eyes. "For your protection."

They shoved me inside. The door slammed shut, and I heard multiple locks engage.

The silver's effect was immediate. A dull ache spread through my limbs, making my wolf retreat deeper inside. My Lycan blood kept me standing, kept me conscious, but I felt the drain. Subtle. Constant.

I moved to the small window. Looked out over the pack grounds, the forest beyond. From up here, I could see everything. The training grounds where Julien's warriors drilled. The main gates. The road leading away from Silverfang territory.

I pressed my palm against the glass. The silver in the frame made my skin tingle, but I didn't pull away.

Footsteps on the stairs. Multiple sets, moving fast. I turned as voices drifted up—Mya's, sharp and commanding, mixed with the deeper tones of Delta warriors.

They weren't coming to the attic. They were going to my sanctuary.

The room on the second floor where I kept everything. My tools, my designs, the artifacts I'd spent years creating. The ancestral jewelry passed down through my hidden Lycan bloodline, pieces that predated the Silverfang Pack by centuries.

I moved to the attic door, pressed my ear against it. Heard them below, the crash of drawers being opened, boxes overturned.

"Careful with that one," Mya's voice carried up the stairs. "It'll fetch at least fifty thousand on the black market. We need the cash flow."

"What about this necklace?"

"Take it all. She won't be needing any of it anymore."

My hands curled into fists. The silver burned where my skin touched the door, but I didn't move.

They were stealing from me. Selling my heritage, my work, my history to cover Julien's failing pack finances. Using my own creations to prop up the empire that was crumbling because I'd willed it to.

The irony would've been funny if it didn't make me want to tear the door off its hinges.

I stepped back. Looked around the attic. Silver-laced prison, yes. But prisons only worked if the prisoner was actually trapped.

I touched the base of my throat, felt my wolf stir despite the silver's drain. My Lycan blood hummed beneath my skin, patient and deadly.

Let them think they'd won. Let them sell my jewelry, spend my money, celebrate their small victories.

I'd take it all back. Every piece. Every dollar. Every scrap of dignity they thought they'd stolen.

And when I was done, there wouldn't be anything left of the Silverfang Pack but ashes and regret.