My Alpha Forced Me to Serve His Pregnant Mistress

The arrival of Lycan King Desmond Watkins didn’t just silence the Pack House; it rewrote the atmosphere entirely. The air, usually thick with Gloria’s cloying perfume and Brody’s erratic aggression, now carried the crisp, ozone scent of a thunderstorm.

Desmond didn’t leave after saving me from Brody's fist. Instead, he announced he would be staying indefinitely to conduct a "thorough financial audit" of the Silverclaw Pack’s contributions to the Council. He took the VIP suite on the third floor, a room that had been gathering dust for a decade.

For two days, the house was terrifyingly quiet. Brody and Harry were scrambling to cook the books, locking themselves in the Alpha’s office, while Gloria paced the parlor like a caged cat. I, however, tried to make myself invisible.

I was heading toward the infirmary, a basket of dried lavender pressed against my hip, when a shadow fell over me in the second-floor corridor.

"You walk softly for a Luna," a deep voice rumbled.

I froze. Desmond was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He wasn’t wearing his suit jacket, and the white dress shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. His grey eyes tracked my movement with an intensity that made my skin prickle—not with fear, but with a strange, humming awareness.

"I am not the Luna anymore, Your Majesty," I whispered, keeping my eyes lowered. "According to your nephew, I am a failure."

Desmond pushed off the wall and took a step toward me. The space between us charged with electricity. He reached out, his large, calloused fingers gently brushing the darkening bruise on my wrist where Brody had grabbed me.

A spark, hot and instantaneous, zapped through my skin. My breath hitched. Inside my mind, Lexi, who had been curled in a ball of depression for months, suddenly lifted her head and let out a soft, inquiring yip.

"Your wolf is not weak, Violette," Desmond said softly, using my name for the first time. His thumb traced the vein in my wrist, sending shivers racing up my arm. "She is merely... waiting. Do not let them break her."

Before I could respond, the heavy thud of boots echoed on the stairs. Desmond dropped his hand instantly, his face hardening back into a mask of indifference, but the warmth of his touch lingered on my skin like a brand.

Brody rounded the corner, stopping dead when he saw us. His eyes darted from Desmond to me, narrowing with paranoid jealousy. He didn't say a word to his uncle—he was too cowardly for that—but the look he shot me promised retribution.

Retribution came an hour later.

"You think you can curry favor with the King by playing the victim?" Brody hissed, cornering me in the laundry room. His breath reeked of mints, trying to mask the alcohol. "You think he'll save you? He's here for money, Violette. Once he gets his check, he'll leave, and you'll still be mine to deal with."

He grabbed a pile of silk garments from the counter and shoved them into my chest.

"Since you're so eager to be seen, you can make yourself useful. Allie needs a personal Omega. Her back hurts, and she can't manage her... delicate condition alone."

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a cruel sneer. "You are to hand-wash her clothes. You will clean her suite. You will scrub her toilet. If I catch you anywhere near the King again, I'll have you thrown in the cells."

My grip tightened on the silks, my knuckles turning white. But I didn't argue. I didn't cry. A cold, sharp realization settled in my chest.

"As you wish, Alpha," I said, bowing my head.

Brody smirked, thinking he had won. He didn't realize he had just handed me the key to his destruction. He was giving me unrestricted access to the enemy's lair.

The next afternoon, Allie left for a "prenatal massage" at the luxury spa in town. I waited until her car disappeared down the driveway before I entered the Master Suite.

It was painful to step inside. The room still held the ghost of my presence—the curtains I had sewn, the rug I had picked out. Now, it smelled of Allie’s cheap vanilla perfume and something else... something chemical.

I moved quickly. I stripped the bed, tossing the sheets into the hamper. I dusted the vanity, my eyes scanning every surface.

*Think like a Healer,* I told myself. *Look for the anomaly.*

I opened the bottom drawer of the heavy oak dresser. It was stuffed with scarves and lingerie, but something caught in the track, preventing it from closing fully. I reached back, my fingers brushing against a hard, plastic case hidden beneath a pile of red lace.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I pulled it out. It was a maintenance kit, but not for makeup. Inside were bottles of medical-grade adhesive, solvent, and a small tub of skin-tone silicone paste.

My hands trembling, I dug deeper into the back of the drawer and found a crumpled piece of paper. I smoothed it out on my thigh.

It was a receipt from *StageProp Masters* in the city.

*Item: Hyper-Realistic Silicone Maternity Bump - Month 4. Custom fit.

Notes: Rush order.*

The air left my lungs in a rush. I stared at the paper, the proof of their betrayal stark black ink against white. She wasn't pregnant. There was no heir. It was all a lie—a theatrical performance to steal my life.

I shoved the receipt into my pocket, my mind racing. This was good, but it wasn't enough. A receipt could be explained away; they could claim it was for a costume party or a prank. I needed something undeniable. I needed the pack to *see* it.

I looked up at the air vent high on the wall, directly facing the vanity where Allie got dressed every morning.

I didn't just need to find the evidence. I needed to catch her taking it off.