My Alpha's Mistress Murdered Our Unborn Twins

Evelyn left for the regional pack council meeting on a Tuesday morning, her car pulling out of the long driveway just after dawn. I watched from the window of my temporary quarters—the small guest room on the second floor that Maren had insisted I take after the healer's ward, because going back to the Alpha's suite felt like walking into a tomb.

I waited two hours. Long enough for her to be well past the territory line, long enough that even if she forgot something and turned back, I'd have warning.

Then I went to her rooms.

The pack house had been Evelyn's domain long before Elias became Alpha, and she'd kept her private quarters even after he took the title—three interconnected rooms on the ground floor, tucked behind the library where most wolves wouldn't think to wander. The door was locked, but I'd lifted the spare key from the housekeeper's ring weeks ago, back when I still thought I might need leverage for something smaller than this.

The lock turned smoothly. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

Her sitting room smelled like lavender and old paper. Bookshelves lined two walls, filled with pack histories and genealogies, the spines so worn I could barely read the titles. A writing desk sat beneath the window, its surface meticulously organized—pens in a holder, correspondence stacked in a tray, a leather-bound planner open to this week's schedule.

I didn't waste time on the desk. Evelyn was too careful to leave anything damning in plain sight. I went straight for the locked drawer at the bottom.

It took me three tries with the letter opener before the lock popped. Inside: file folders, labeled in Evelyn's precise handwriting. *Montgomery Bloodline Records. Medical Consultations. Mating Arrangements.*

I pulled out the one labeled *Mating Arrangements* and opened it on the floor.

The first page was a list. Handwritten, dated four years ago—six months before Elias and I were introduced at the Silverpine summer gathering.

*Potential mates for E.M.:*

*Natasha Palmer – Silverpine founding line, excellent health markers, wolf genetics rated superior by Lycan assessment. No known complications. Strong fertility indicators.*

*Kira Ashford – Redstone Pack, secondary bloodline, adequate health but wolf slightly weaker than optimal.*

*Elara Vance – Moonshadow, strong wolf but family history of late-term pregnancy loss.*

There were notes beside each name. Clinical. Detached. Like she was evaluating livestock.

Beside my name, she'd written: *Optimal choice. Proceed with introduction.*

My hands were shaking. I set the page down carefully and kept reading.

The next document was a letter, printed on Lycan medical letterhead, addressed to Evelyn Montgomery. The date was five years ago.

*Dear Mrs. Montgomery,*

*Further to our consultation regarding your son's condition: genetic testing confirms progressive sterility consistent with recessive Montgomery bloodline defect. Azoospermia is now complete. Natural conception is no longer viable. Healer-assisted intervention remains possible if a compatible mate is secured quickly. Confidentiality assured per your request.*

*Dr. Soren Hale, Lycan Fertility Specialist*

I read it twice. Then I read it again.

*Azoospermia.* Complete. No longer viable.

Elias couldn't have children. Not naturally. Not ever.

And Evelyn had known.

I pulled out the next folder—*Medical Consultations*—and found the rest of it. Appointment records. A signed contract with Dr. Hale for a "discreet conception procedure." My name on the patient line. Elias's signature on the authorization line. My signature nowhere.

The procedure had been scheduled three days after our mating ceremony. I remembered that week—Elias had insisted I see "his family's healer" for a routine check, said it was tradition. I'd gone because I trusted him. I'd let them examine me, draw blood, perform an ultrasound I didn't understand the need for.

They'd used my body without asking. Without telling me. They'd treated me like an incubator they were loading with cargo.

My wolf snarled, low and vicious, and I pressed both hands flat against the floor to keep from shifting right there in Evelyn's sitting room.

*Breathe. Not yet.*

I took photos of everything. Every page, every note, every damning line of Evelyn's meticulous record-keeping. Then I put the folders back exactly as I'd found them, locked the drawer, and left the way I'd come.

---

Two days later, I made the call.

Dr. Soren Hale's office was in the Eastern territories, far enough from Ironveil that Elias probably thought it was safe. I used a human burner phone Sawyer had sent me and placed the call from a coffee shop three towns over, where no pack wolves would catch my scent.

The receptionist tried to stall me. "Dr. Hale doesn't discuss patient matters over the phone."

"Tell him," I said calmly, "that this is Natasha Montgomery, formerly Palmer. Tell him I'm invoking Lycan patient-rights provisions as the woman whose body was used in a conception procedure without informed consent. Tell him I have legal representation and I will file a formal complaint with the Lycan Medical Council if he doesn't speak to me in the next sixty seconds."

There was a long pause. Then hold music.

Dr. Hale picked up forty seconds later.

"Mrs. Montgomery." His voice was smooth, practiced. "I'm not sure what you've been told, but—"

"I've been told nothing," I said. "That's the problem. You performed a medical procedure on me without my knowledge or consent. You signed documents authorizing intervention in my body on behalf of an Alpha who concealed a sterility diagnosis from his mate. I want a full report. Certified. Every detail of Elias Montgomery's condition and every step of the procedure you performed. You have seventy-two hours."

"I'm bound by confidentiality—"

"You're bound by Lycan medical ethics," I interrupted, "which require informed consent for any fertility intervention. You didn't get mine. You got his. That's a violation, Dr. Hale, and we both know it."

Silence.

Then, quietly: "I'll have the report couriered to you by Friday."

"Good," I said, and ended the call.

---

The report arrived in a sealed envelope, delivered by a neutral courier to the address Sawyer had provided—a P.O. box in the human town, untraceable to me. I picked it up alone and read it in my car, parked at the edge of an empty lot where no wolves would pass.

*Patient: Elias Montgomery, Alpha, Ironveil Pack.*

*Diagnosis: Complete azoospermia secondary to recessive genetic defect. Irreversible. No viable sperm production. Natural conception impossible. Healer-assisted intervention performed with mate Natasha Palmer on [date]. Genetic material sourced via prior cryopreservation before condition progressed to complete sterility.*

I stopped reading. My vision blurred at the edges.

He'd known. He'd banked his genetic material years ago, before it was too late, and then he'd used it on me without telling me. Without asking.

The pups I'd carried—*my* pups, the ones I'd lost—had been conceived in a procedure I never agreed to, using a method I was never told about, to solve a problem I didn't know existed.

I sat there in the car for a long time, the report in my lap, my wolf howling silently inside me.

Then I called Sawyer.

"I have it," I said when she picked up.

"The sterility report?"

"Everything. The diagnosis. The procedure. Evelyn's records. All of it."

Sawyer didn't waste time on sympathy. "Good. Now we need to talk strategy. You've got grounds for formal Alpha removal under Lycan jurisdiction—non-consensual medical intervention, fraudulent mate bond maintenance, endangerment of a marked Luna. But timing matters. If you move too soon, he'll have time to build a defense. If you wait too long, he'll suspect something."

"I'm not waiting," I said. "I know exactly when I'm doing this."

"When?"

I thought of the memorial gathering. The red dress. The dismissive wave of Elias's hand.

"Soon," I said. "I'll know the moment when I see it. And when I move, it needs to be something he can't undo. Something that destroys everything at once."

Sawyer was quiet for a beat. Then: "Be precise. Be patient. And make sure when you pull the trigger, there's no way he walks away from it."

"I will," I said.

And I meant it.