My Alpha Risked Our Pup for His Mistress

The hospital room door burst open, and Sloan strode in with purposeful steps, her black hair gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. Behind her, Cole entered with a grave expression that made my heart sink.

"I've consulted with the pack elders," Sloan announced, her voice dripping with false concern. "And I'm afraid I have difficult news."

I struggled to sit up, my body still weak from the miscarriage. "What is it?"

Sloan exchanged a look with Cole before continuing. "You're suffering from Wolf Rot."

"Wolf Rot?" I echoed, confusion washing over me. "That's not possible. I've never heard of—"

"It's extremely rare," Sloan cut in smoothly. "A spiritual disease that affects werewolves with... compromised bloodlines."

Cole's jaw tightened as he stared down at me. "Is it contagious?"

"Highly," Sloan lied, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "It's already beginning to spread through the pack house."

I shook my head in disbelief. "This is absurd. There's no such thing as Wolf Rot."

"Are you calling our Head Healer a liar?" Cole's voice was ice cold as he stepped closer. "After everything you've done?"

"I lost our pup," I whispered, tears welling in my eyes. "I'm grieving."

"And the pack needs protection," he countered. "Sloan has evidence of your... condition."

She produced a folder containing charts and graphs that meant nothing to me. "The symptoms are clear—your healing abilities failing, your wolf retreating, your inability to carry an heir to term."

Each word was a dagger to my heart. My wolf remained silent within me, still conserving energy after our loss.

"The pack cannot have a Luna who carries such a curse," Cole declared, his voice taking on the formal tone of an official decree. "I hereby strip Isla Stewart of her title and position."

The words hit me like physical blows. Five years of loyalty, of love, of hiding my true nature to protect him—all discarded in a single moment.

"You can't do this," I gasped.

"I can and I have," he replied coldly. "The ceremony will be tonight."

---

Two guards escorted me from the Alpha suite that evening, carrying the few belongings I was permitted to take. The pack gathered in the courtyard, their faces a blur of curiosity and judgment as I was marched past them.

"Where am I being taken?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

"Somewhere appropriate for your new status," one guard replied, not unkindly.

They led me down narrow stairs to the basement level of the pack house—a damp, cold section reserved for servants and omegas. A small room with bare necessities awaited me.

"You'll be working in the laundry room starting tomorrow," the second guard informed me. "Six hours a day, plus kitchen duty."

I stared at the thin mattress on the floor, the single bulb hanging from the ceiling. "This is inhumane."

"With respect, Luna—former Luna—these are Alpha's orders."

As they left, locking the door behind them, I sank to my knees on the cold floor. Through the small window near the ceiling, I could hear music and laughter from the celebration above—Cole and Sloan announcing their new positions to the pack.

---

"Move faster!" The kitchen mistress shoved another pile of dirty dishes toward me. "Omega duties aren't for delicate hands."

I bit my tongue as I plunged my raw, bleeding fingers into the scalding water. Three weeks of this treatment had worn me down, but I refused to break.

From the great hall above came the sound of applause and cheers. Another week, another celebration—this time announcing Sloan's official position as Cole's "partner in leadership."

"Did you hear?" An omega whispered to another as they passed. "The Alpha and Sloan are already sharing the Alpha suite."

I kept scrubbing, ignoring the burn of tears in my eyes.

Later that day, as I carried linens to the laundry room, I overheard Marcus speaking urgently to Cole in the hallway.

"The Council has heard rumors about Isla's bloodline," he said, his voice low but clear to my enhanced hearing. "They're sending investigators next week."

"What?" Cole hissed. "How did they find out?"

"Sloan's been asking questions about rare bloodlines to other packs," Marcus replied. "Word got back to the Council."

I froze, linens clutched to my chest.

"If they discover what Isla truly is," Marcus continued, "they'll claim rights to her. The White Wolf bloodline belongs to the royal Lycan line—it's not for us to control."

"What are you suggesting?" Cole demanded.

"We need to contain this situation," Marcus replied. "Before it's too late."

Their voices faded as they moved away, but the fear their conversation instilled in me lingered. The Werewolf Council—the highest authority among our kind—was coming for me.

And based on the panic in Cole's voice, he had no intention of protecting me when they arrived.