My Alpha Left Me in the Fire for His Mistress

The morning sun offered no warmth as Martha strode into the servants' quarters, her face twisted in its usual contempt.

"Spencer," she snapped, tossing a worn basket at my feet. "The Moonflowers need tending. Every vine, every thorn."

I looked up from the floor where I'd been sorting laundry. "The Moonflowers? But they're—"

"Exactly," Martha cut me off with a cruel smile. "They're Presley's favorite. She wants them perfect for her birthday celebration tomorrow."

The Moonflowers were the pack's prized possession—rare, beautiful, and deadly. Their silver-blue blooms only opened under moonlight, but their vines were covered in thick, razor-sharp thorns that could pierce through leather gloves.

"Where are the gardening gloves?" I asked, rising to my feet.

Martha's laugh was like broken glass. "Gloves? For an Omega? Don't be ridiculous."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out my work gloves, dangling them before me before stuffing them back in. "These are mine now. You'll use your hands."

My stomach twisted. "The thorns—"

"The thorns will teach you respect," she hissed. "Or have you forgotten your place again?"

I hadn't forgotten. How could I? Every moment since the rejection papers burned had been a reminder.

The garden was silent except for the distant calls of birds. The Moonflower patch stretched before me, beautiful and terrible in equal measure. Each vine gleamed with wicked thorns that caught the sunlight like tiny knives.

I knelt in the dirt, my knees pressing into the cold earth. The first vine reached for me eagerly, its thorns finding my palm before I could react. Pain shot through my hand as the barbs sank deep.

"Diana," my wolf whimpered inside me. "This is wrong."

"It's necessary," I whispered back, gritting my teeth as I carefully pruned the vine.

Blood welled from the puncture wounds, dripping onto the dark soil. I moved to the next vine, and the next. Each one left its mark, each cut deeper than the last.

Time blurred as I worked. My hands became numb, then tingled, then burned with fire. The thorns tore through skin and muscle, leaving ragged wounds that refused to heal. Golden Healer Blood—the very thing they valued in me—now flowed uselessly into the dirt.

"Almost done," I murmured to myself, though my vision swam with exhaustion.

A shadow fell across me. I looked up, blinking away tears of pain.

"By the Moon Goddess," a deep voice breathed.

A man stood before me—tall, broad-shouldered, with kind eyes that widened in horror at the sight of my hands. Alpha Patrick Hamilton of the Silver Lake Pack. I'd seen him once or twice at inter-pack gatherings, always from a distance.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

"Pruning the Moonflowers," I replied stupidly, as if it weren't obvious.

His wolf rumbled audibly, a sound of distress that echoed through the garden. Without hesitation, he knelt beside me, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket.

"These need bandaging," he said, gently taking my bleeding hands in his.

His touch was warm, careful—so different from Nathaniel's bruising grip. Patrick wrapped the silk around my wounds with practiced precision.

"Why are you helping me?" I whispered.

His eyes met mine, golden flecks dancing in their depths. "Because no one deserves this."

Something shifted in the air between us—a recognition, perhaps, or a memory I couldn't quite grasp.

"Patrick Hamilton," he said softly. "We were at the academy together, before..."

Before I became Nathaniel's prisoner. Before my life became this nightmare.

"Diana," I managed, my voice barely audible.

"I know who you are," he said, his fingers lingering on mine. "And this isn't right."

A growl tore through the garden—primal, furious, and unmistakably Alpha. We both turned to see Nathaniel standing on the terrace, his eyes blazing with rage.

In three long strides, he was upon us. His hand closed around my upper arm, yanking me away from Patrick with such force that I cried out.

"What do you think you're doing?" Nathaniel snarled, his voice deadly quiet.

Patrick rose slowly to his feet, his posture careful but unafraid. "The girl was injured. I was helping."

"She is not yours to touch," Nathaniel spat. "She belongs to this pack."

"To you," Patrick corrected, his tone level but challenging. "Not to the pack."

Something dangerous flashed in Nathaniel's eyes. He pulled me tighter against his side, my bleeding hands crushed between us.

"Stay away from my property," he warned, the words dripping with venom.

"Property?" Patrick's eyebrows rose. "Is that what you call your mate?"

The air between them crackled with tension, two Alphas on the edge of violence. My heart hammered against my ribs as Nathaniel's fingers dug deeper into my flesh.

"Stay. Away. From. Her," Nathaniel repeated, each word a lethal promise.

Patrick's gaze dropped to my hands, still wrapped in his silk handkerchief. Something like determination hardened his features.

"This isn't over," he said quietly.

As he turned to leave, Nathaniel's grip tightened until I gasped in pain. But Patrick had already seen enough—and I knew with sudden certainty that nothing would ever be the same again.