My Mate Chose His Mistress Over Me

Daxton Bailey arrived at nine the next morning.

I heard his truck before I saw him—the low rumble of an engine that had seen better decades but refused to quit. The door chime rang. Buster's tail wagged before his head even turned.

That told me everything.

Daxton filled the doorway the way some men fill a room—not by trying, just by existing. He was massive. Broad shoulders, scarred hands, a face that looked like it had been carved with a dull blade and left unfinished. His eyes found mine, then dropped to Buster.

He crouched. Extended one hand, palm up, and waited.

Buster limped over and pressed his nose into Daxton's palm. Daxton scratched behind his ears without making a production of it. No baby talk. No performance. Just—contact.

I watched from behind the counter and felt something I didn't have a name for.

"Natalia Kennedy," Daxton said, straightening. His voice was low, unhurried. He didn't phrase it as a question.

"Daxton Bailey." I gestured to the counter. "You got my message."

"I did." He crossed the shop in three strides and stopped at a respectful distance—close enough to talk, far enough that I didn't have to tilt my head back. "Your sister said you'd know what I need."

I pulled the territorial map from under the counter and spread it flat. Three territories, unmarked borders, rogue routes sketched in pencil. Daxton's confederation held more land than most recognized packs, but the Lycan Council didn't acknowledge a single inch of it.

"You need legitimacy," I said. "Council recognition. A seat at the table."

Daxton's eyes tracked the map. "And you can provide that."

"I can provide bloodline-backed standing to petition the Council." I tapped the center territory. "My mother's family. Lycan line. I can verify it. That gives you leverage no rogue king has ever had."

His gaze lifted. "What do you need?"

I didn't blink. "A fake mate claim. Public. Your scent on my skin. Your arm at pack events. A shield."

"Against the Alpha who walked in here yesterday."

"Yes."

Daxton was quiet for three seconds. Then: "You understand what you're asking your nervous system to do."

I stiffened. "I understand the deal."

"No." His voice didn't rise. It just—landed. "You're asking your body to carry an Alpha's scent when your body reads Alpha proximity as violence. That's not strategy. That's exposure therapy without a net."

My hands flattened on the counter. "I've survived worse."

"I'm sure you have." Daxton leaned forward slightly, not crowding, just—present. "That's not the question. The question is whether you've thought about what happens when you flinch in public because my scent triggers you, and every wolf in the room sees it."

I held his gaze. My jaw was tight. "Then we make sure that doesn't happen."

"We make sure," Daxton repeated. He nodded once, slowly. "All right. Three days. I'll arrange scent-layering in stages—low concentration first, let your system adjust. You set the pace. If it's too much, you say so, and we stop."

"I won't stop."

"You might need to." His tone didn't change. "And that's fine."

I didn't answer.

Daxton straightened. "One more thing. I will not use Alpha tone in your presence. Not once. Not by accident. Not in anger, not in jest, not ever. That's non-negotiable."

Something in my chest cracked.

I didn't let it show. I nodded. Once.

"Three days," Daxton said. He turned toward the door, paused, and looked back. "Your wolf. She still in there?"

My throat closed. "I don't know."

He studied me for a moment. Then he left.

Buster circled back and sat on my foot.

I stood there, hands still flat on the counter, and tried to remember how to breathe normally.

---

Midnight came too fast.

I was in the back room, cleaning needles, when Buster's ears pricked. He didn't bark. He whined—low, uncertain.

I set the autoclave tray down and listened.

Footsteps. Slow. Uneven. Then—nothing.

I walked to the front of the shop and stood three feet from the door. Through the frosted glass, I could see a shape. Sitting. Back to the door.

My pulse spiked.

Then I heard it.

A whimper. Not human. Not quite wolf. Somewhere in between, threaded through a human throat.

Keanu.

I didn't open the door.

His voice came through the wood, rough and fractured. "Natalia. I know you're there. I can—I can feel you. Through the bond. It's still there. Thin, but it's there."

I pressed my palm flat against the door. The bond mark on my neck was cold. Dead. I felt nothing.

"I'll leave her," Keanu said. His voice cracked. "I'll leave Ivory. I'll cancel the ceremony. I'll step down as Alpha if that's what it takes. Just—just let me in. Let me explain."

I closed my eyes.

Buster pressed against my leg. I didn't move.

"I know what I did," Keanu whispered. "I know. I see it every time I close my eyes. The brand. Your face. The way you collapsed. I hear your wolf go silent and I—" He broke off. A sound like a sob. "My wolf is dying, Natalia. Every day, he's weaker. The pack sees it. They're losing faith. I'm losing dominance challenges to my own Gamma. The Moon Goddess is punishing me, and I deserve it, I know I deserve it, but please—"

I spoke through the door. My voice was quiet. Steady.

"Your wolf is dying because the Moon Goddess is punishing you. Not because I owe you mercy."

Silence.

"I felt the bond die the night your Alpha tone put me on my knees before three hundred wolves," I continued. "I felt it go cold. I felt my wolf scream and then go silent. You killed it, Keanu. You killed it when you spoke the rejection vow, and you made sure it stayed dead when you stood there and watched your Beta brand me."

I heard him slide down the door. His weight hit the ground.

"Nothing you say on the other side of this door," I said, "can resurrect what you killed."

I stepped back. Walked to the counter. Sat on the floor with my back against the wood and pulled Buster into my lap.

Keanu stayed.

I heard his breathing. Uneven. Broken.

I sat there until my hands stopped shaking.

It took an hour.

When dawn light crept through the shop windows, I heard him stand. Heard his footsteps. Heard the truck engine start and fade.

I stayed on the floor.

Buster licked my hand.

I looked at my right hand. No claw this time. Just skin. Just scars.

But I remembered the gouge in the counter.

I remembered the growl.

Somewhere inside me, something was waking up.

And it was angry.