My Mate Brought His Pregnant Mistress Home

Three weeks after Dr. Maren Cole mixed the first batch of oil, the trap was ready to spring.

The venue was a grand ballroom on neutral Silverfang territory. It was an annual multi-pack charity banquet, the kind of stiff political event Patrick usually hated. Normally, he would stand by the bar for twenty minutes, shake two hands, and leave early. But tonight, protocol demanded his presence.

I stood near the perimeter of the room, holding a glass of club soda, dressed in a sensible navy dress. From here, I had a clear view of the arched double doors and the long marble refreshment table.

Through a discreet favor I had called in with the Silverfang Beta’s wife—whose sister I had treated for silver poisoning two winters ago—Lacey entered through the side hall.

She wore an emerald gown that cut cleanly across her collarbones, leaving her old rogue scars completely hidden. Her posture was straight and impossibly still. She walked without hurry, her chin level, carrying herself like a woman who owned the ground beneath her heels.

And then the scent hit the room.

It was faint at first, then drifted like a cold tide through the warm hall. Frost, ancient pine needles, crushed ozone, and pure, untouchable authority. The manufactured Lycan-royal aura had steeped into her skin for twenty-one days, and now it bloomed.

Patrick was standing near the fruit display, reaching for a flute of champagne.

He froze. His fingers stopped an inch from the glass.

I watched his shoulders go rigid. His nostrils flared, dragging in the air in one deep, ragged breath. When he turned around, his pupils were completely blown, dark and wild, his wolf slamming against his ribs. His hand dropped away from the table.

He didn't recognize her face. Nine years of dirt, survival, and hunger had changed Lacey’s features, but the scent had transformed her entirely. Patrick didn't see the terrified rogue girl he had discarded at eighteen to chase a better title. He saw an unmated Lycan Princess standing less than twenty feet away.

Lacey brushed past him toward the patio doors. She didn't look at him. She didn't even acknowledge his Alpha aura. She simply let the scent of royalty trail behind her like silk.

Patrick’s throat bobbed. He took a half-step forward, his gaze locked onto her back like a predator starving for a kill.

From across the room, I watched his ambition swallow him whole. I set my glass down on a passing waiter’s tray and allowed myself, for the first time in seven years, a small, private smile.

***

Over the next two weeks, Patrick became a man possessed.

He suddenly developed an intense passion for inter-pack diplomacy. Gatherings, regional luncheons, and neutral trade mixers—events he had dumped onto his Beta, Reid Calloway, for half a decade—now filled his personal calendar. He attended every single one.

He ordered five new tailored suits from the city. He leased a high-end luxury vehicle under the Ashveil Pack’s discretionary account, claiming it was necessary to "project modern authority to visiting dignitaries."

Reid brought him the expense logs twice. Both times, I was in the outer office reviewing clinic receipts when Patrick’s Alpha voice tore through the heavy wood.

"My wardrobe and transit represent the Ashveil Pack, Reid," Patrick snapped, his voice ringing with pure command. "Do your job and balance the ledger. I am securing our future."

Reid had walked out of the office with a tight jaw and an uneasy look in his eyes.

Meanwhile, I gave Lacey her scripts. We met every night in the neutral apartment, running through every possible response.

"When he approaches you at the Silverfang council mixer tomorrow, give him three minutes," I told her, pouring hot tea into a ceramic cup. "Mention the ancient traditions. Tell him Lycan royalty guards their bloodline with extreme jealousy. Make him feel like an Alpha is small, but tell him he is different."

"Hot and cold," Lacey had said, a sharp, bitter humor in her eyes. "Keep him reaching, but never let him touch."

"Exactly," I replied. "Make him believe that if he bends just a little further, he will be a king."

Lacey executed it flawlessly. Patrick leaned in closer with every passing day, thoroughly drunk on the scent of an impossible prize.

***

Mya noticed. She wasn't stupid.

She felt Patrick’s attention slipping through her fingers. Instead of staying in the master bedroom, she began invading every corner of the pack house to reassert her territory. She showed up at the morning warrior training yard in tight maternity sweaters, rubbing her belly while Patrick gave tactical drills. She sat in the chairs outside his war room, humming loudly.

On a rainy Tuesday afternoon, she cornered me in the second-floor corridor outside the council chamber.

I was carrying a box of sterilized bandages down toward the stairs. Mya stepped directly into my path, forcing me to stop.

Her manicured hand rested protectively over her round stomach. Her eyes were sharp, glittering with vicious certainty.

"You look tired, Cora," Mya purred, leaning against the timber banister. "You really should stop running around with heavy boxes. Patrick and I were talking last night in bed. He mentioned that it’s almost time to simplify his arrangements."

She let the phrase hang in the hallway, watching me closely, waiting for the flinch she had been hunting for weeks.

Deep beneath my ribs, the starved wolf stirred. It didn't whimper. It bared its teeth against the cold bone of my chest, steady and awake.

I looked at Mya. I looked at the smug, curved lips, the silk scarf, the desperate pride of a mistress who had no idea she was already obsolete.

I stepped half an inch closer. My voice was very quiet.

"He simplifies arrangements the way he simplified Lacey Griffin," I said smoothly. "Ask him who she is."

Mya’s smirk froze. Her hand tightened over her belly, and for a split second, her eyes flickered with a sudden, ugly doubt.

I didn't give her time to ask a question. I shifted the box in my arms, walked right past her shoulder, and headed down the stairs.