My Alpha Forced Me to Serve His Pregnant Mistress

The china cup rattled softly in my pocket as I hurried across the damp grass toward the potting shed. It was a cold, grey morning, the kind that seeped into your bones, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins kept me warm.

I had managed to swipe Brody’s breakfast teacup the moment he left the table to take a call, right before Maren could clear it. Inside, a few precious drops of amber liquid remained—the dregs of Gloria’s special "vitality" blend.

Once inside the safety of my shed, surrounded by the earthy scent of potting soil and drying sage, I locked the door. My hands trembled, not from fear, but from anticipation. I set the cup on my workbench and pulled a small vial from my hidden stash of reagents. It was a solution of crushed silver nitrate and moonflower essence—a simple mixture that reacted violently to aconite.

"Please," I whispered, tilting the vial.

A single clear drop fell into the teacup.

For a second, nothing happened. Then, the amber liquid hissed. A swirl of smoke rose up, smelling of burnt sugar and copper. The liquid didn't just change color; it turned a violent, bruising purple.

I gasped, covering my mouth. The concentration was lethal for a human, but for a werewolf, it was a slow, chemical castration.

Brody wasn’t just weak. He was sterile. His sperm count would be non-existent after years of ingesting this. Gloria, in her obsession to control him, had destroyed the very lineage she was so desperate to preserve.

I quickly snapped a photo of the reaction and poured the sample into a sterile medical jar, sealing it tight. I had the science. Now, I needed the visual.

That night, the walls of the Pack House felt like they were closing in on me. I slipped out the back door, needing the crisp air to clear the smell of deception from my nose.

I walked toward the rose garden, my arms wrapped around myself against the chill.

"You shouldn't be out here alone, Violette."

The deep, rumbling voice came from the shadows of the gazebo. I didn't jump; my wolf, Lexi, had sensed him long before I saw him. Desmond stepped into the moonlight, the silver beams catching the sharp angles of his face. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket, and his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, exposing the strong column of his throat.

"The rogues don't come this close to the main house," I said, stopping a few feet away. My heart did a traitorous flip in my chest.

"I wasn't talking about rogues," Desmond replied, his grey eyes darkening. He closed the distance between us in two long strides. The heat radiating off him was intoxicating, a stark contrast to the cold night. "The most dangerous predators in this territory are currently sleeping in the Master Suite."

He looked down at me, his gaze piercing through my defenses. "You are planning something. I can smell the scheming on you, little Healer. It smells like ozone and justice."

I held his gaze, refusing to cower. "I'm just surviving, Your Majesty."

"Desmond," he corrected, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Call me Desmond."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object. It was a lapel pin—a silver wolf's head with tiny sapphire eyes. The royal crest of the Lycan King.

He reached out, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of my collarbone as he pinned it to my sweater. The touch sent a jolt of electricity straight to my core, making my breath hitch.

"If anyone touches you—Brody, Gloria, or that woman—you show them this," Desmond commanded, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my knees weak. "This marks you as under my personal protection. Pack Law is superseded by Royal Decree."

"Why?" I breathed, my fingers hovering over the cool metal of the pin.

"Because," he murmured, leaning in close enough that I could feel his breath on my cheek, "I do not like seeing rare flowers trampled by weeds."

By lunch the next day, the pin was hidden safely under my blouse, burning pleasantly against my skin. The atmosphere in the dining room was tense. Desmond sat at the head of the table—a spot Brody usually occupied—forcing my husband to sit at the side like a pouting child.

Allie was making a show of her condition, groaning as she shifted in her chair.

"Brody, baby," she whined, pushing her plate of roast chicken away. "I can't eat this. The pup... he wants something else."

Brody immediately looked concerned. "What do you need, Allie? Anything."

She tapped her chin, feigning thought. "I need pickles. And... strawberry ice cream. Mixed together. Oh, and maybe some peanut butter."

The table went silent. Even Gloria paused, her fork halfway to her mouth.

I set my water glass down with a deliberate *clink*.

"That is highly unusual," I said, my voice calm and clinical.

Allie glared at me. "Excuse me? Are you questioning the future Alpha?"

"I am questioning the biology," I replied, looking directly at Desmond, who was watching the exchange with narrowed eyes. "Wolf pups require high protein and iron for rapid skeletal growth. A she-wolf carrying a powerful Alpha male would be craving raw red meat, organ tissue, or blood. Sugar and vinegar are human cravings, typically associated with a nutrient deficiency, not a shifter pregnancy."

Allie’s face went pale. "Every pregnancy is different! You wouldn't know, would you, you barren bitch?"

"Violette!" Brody roared, slamming his hand on the table. "Stop jealous-mongering!"

"Ow!" Allie suddenly shrieked, doubling over and clutching her stomach. "Oh god, the stress! It hurts! Brody, she's hurting the baby!"

Chaos erupted. Brody scrambled to Allie’s side, shouting for water. Gloria began fanning her.

In the pandemonium, no one looked at me.

I calmly pulled my phone from my pocket and opened the app connected to the micro-camera I had hidden in the vent of the Master Suite.

I scrolled back the timeline to 8:00 AM this morning.

On the screen, Allie stood in front of the mirror. There was no baby bump. Her stomach was flat. She picked up the silicone prosthetic from the bed, applied adhesive to her skin, and strapped it on, tightening the buckles at her back until it sat perfectly. She even practiced her waddle before leaving the room.

A cold, victorious smile touched my lips.

I didn't just have a theory anymore. I had the smoking gun.