My Mate Gave My Paintings to His Mistress

The fever hits me like a rogue's claws tearing through flesh.

One moment I'm standing in the dining hall, surrounded by hostile pack members and my son's cruel rejection. The next, my knees buckle and the world tilts sideways. My wolf whimpers deep in my chest, her aura flickering like a candle in a storm.

Someone catches me before I hit the floor—Henry's hands, familiar and wrong. Through the haze of fever, I hear him speaking in that concerned Alpha tone he uses for the pack's benefit.

"She's burning up," he announces, his voice carrying across the silent hall. "The stress of her... activities... has clearly taken a toll. I'll take care of her. A good mate doesn't abandon his Luna, no matter what she's done."

The pack murmurs approval. Everly makes soft, sympathetic noises. Caleb doesn't even look at me.

Henry carries me through the packhouse, and I'm too weak to fight him. My wolf tries to snarl, tries to push back against his aura, but she's fading. The toxic mate bond—poisoned by years of betrayal and gaslighting—is actively rejecting my body now, burning through me like silver in my veins.

I expect him to take me to our bedroom. Instead, he climbs the narrow stairs to the attic.

"Henry—" My voice comes out as a rasp. "What are you—"

"Shh." His Alpha aura presses down on me, crushing what little strength I have left. "You need rest. Somewhere quiet. Away from the pack you've betrayed."

The attic is drafty and cold, filled with forgotten furniture and boxes covered in dust. A single narrow bed sits against the far wall, the mattress thin and stained. This isn't care. This is punishment.

Henry deposits me on the bed like I'm something distasteful. His amber eyes are flat and cold as he looks down at me.

"You brought this on yourself," he says quietly. "If you'd just accepted Everly, if you'd been a proper Luna instead of chasing childish artistic dreams, none of this would have happened."

I try to speak, to defend myself, but my throat is too raw. My wolf whimpers, so weak now I can barely feel her presence.

Henry's Alpha aura surges, slamming into my wolf with brutal force. She yelps and retreats deep inside, suppressed so completely I lose our connection entirely. The sudden emptiness is terrifying—like losing a limb, like being cut in half.

"You'll stay here until you remember your place," Henry says. He walks to the door, and I hear the lock click from the outside. "Until you're ready to apologize to Everly and accept her exhibition with grace."

Then he's gone, and I'm alone.

The fever worsens over the next days—or maybe it's hours, I can't tell anymore. Time blurs into a haze of burning skin and shivering cold. The drafty attic offers no comfort, and no one comes. Not Henry. Not Caleb. Not a single pack member who once smiled at me and called me Luna.

I can't access the mind-link. Henry's Alpha authority has blocked me completely, cutting me off from the pack consciousness. I'm isolated in every way that matters—physically, mentally, spiritually.

My wolf is silent. Suppressed so deeply by Henry's aura that I wonder if she'll ever resurface.

On what might be the third day—or the fourth, I've lost count—I try to stand. My legs shake violently, barely supporting my weight. I need water. Need to find a way out. Need to do something other than lie here dying while my mate and stepsister steal everything I am.

I stumble toward the small window, hoping for fresh air, but my foot catches on something. I crash to the floor, pain exploding through my shoulder as I hit the rough wooden boards.

Something shifts beneath me. A loose floorboard.

Through the fever haze, I notice the gap. My fingers, clumsy and weak, pry at the board until it comes free. Underneath is a metal box, hidden deliberately beneath the floor.

Henry's box. I recognize his scent on it.

I shouldn't look. Some distant part of my fevered brain knows this is a violation of his privacy. But he's violated everything about me—my body, my art, my dignity, my very soul. What's one more betrayal between mates?

The box isn't locked. Inside are financial records, pack documents, things I don't understand through the fever fog. But then I see them.

Receipts. Dozens of them. From the Silvermoon Luxury Hotel, located three hours outside our territory.

My hands shake as I sort through them, my vision blurring. The dates swim before my eyes, but one stands out with devastating clarity.

The day Caleb was born. The day I nearly bled out on the delivery table, screaming for my mate while the pack healers fought to save both me and our pup. The day Henry claimed he was delayed by rogue attacks at the border.

The receipt is timestamped. 3:47 PM. Room service for two. Champagne. Strawberries. Luxury suite.

The same time I was dying.

My wolf, suppressed and weak as she is, manages one small, broken howl deep in my chest.

And something inside me—something fundamental and irreparable—finally shatters completely.