Twenty-Five Years as His Mate, Until She Arrived

I blinked slowly, my fingers tightening around the wooden ladle until my knuckles turned pale.

“I-I’ll make another pot,” I whispered, already reaching for his bowl.

Alpha Theron slammed the spoon against the table hard enough to make the dishes rattle.

“Oh, come now, Elyria.” His voice dripped with irritation. “If you’re still sulking over what I said earlier, this is a pathetic way to show it.”

I froze.

He leaned back in his chair with a scoff. “What is this? Punishment? You expect me to eat swamp water because your feelings got hurt?” His sharp amber eyes narrowed at me. “You did not even try. Preparing meals is the only responsibility you have in this packhouse.”

The only responsibility you have.

The words echoed louder than the sound of the spoon striking wood.

To them, that was all my existence amounted to.

Cooking meals.

Washing clothes.

Keeping the hearth warm.

Making sure their beds were prepared before nightfall.

I was the shadow moving silently through the halls of the packhouse while everyone else lived important lives.

It did not matter that I woke before sunrise every morning to prepare food for the warriors returning from patrol.

It did not matter that I stayed awake waiting for Theron whenever he returned late from alliance meetings in neighboring territories.

It did not matter that I raised our son mostly alone while Theron traveled between packs handling trade agreements and disputes.

None of it mattered because I was only a Luna in title.

Not in respect.

Not in value.

A real Luna stood beside her Alpha and advised him before the council fire. A real Luna was admired.

I was simply useful.

Once, long ago, I believed this life meant something.

I thought caring for my mate and tending to our home was honorable. The Moon Goddess herself blessed family bonds, did she not?

But what had all those years truly given me?

A son who rarely visited the packhouse anymore unless duty required it.

A mate who looked at me as though I were another burden strapped to his shoulders.

A father who spent half my life wishing another woman had been born in my place.

And perhaps the cruelest truth of all was this—

I allowed it.

I let myself fade quietly into the background until no one remembered there had once been more to me than this.

Tears blurred my vision as I lowered my head.

“I’ll prepare a fresh stew,” I said weakly.

Before anyone could answer, the heavy packhouse doors opened.

The sharp click of heels echoed across the stone floors.

“Well,” a smooth familiar voice said lightly, “this feels tense.”

My chest tightened instantly.

Marisella.

Of course it was her.

Even her presence carried elegance. Her dark silver cloak draped perfectly over her shoulders, embroidered with the crescent emblem gifted to high-ranking pack envoys. Moonstones glittered at her throat and wrists, reflecting the firelight with every graceful movement.

Marisella always looked untouchable.

Confident.

Admired.

The kind of woman people naturally turned toward.

The daughter my father had always wanted.

“I came to deliver the trade ledgers from the Northern Ridge Pack,” she said warmly, lifting a leather satchel. “I thought Theron might want to review them tonight so the council can finalize everything before the next full moon.”

My father immediately straightened in his seat.

“Marisella!” His entire expression brightened. “Come sit with us.”

Her eyes moved toward the table.

“Oh?” she said pleasantly. “You’re all dining already? Then perhaps I can join. I have been traveling since dawn, and the stew smells wonderful.” She smiled toward me. “Elyria always cooks well.”

Theron snorted.

“Not tonight.” He pushed the bowl away with obvious disgust. “It tastes terrible.”

Marisella blinked.

“I think she forgot seasoning exists altogether,” Theron continued dryly. “Honestly, the warriors would reject this.”

Heat flooded my face.

“How about we just head into town instead?” Theron suddenly said, standing from his seat. “The Silver Fang Tavern reopened after renovations. We might as well eat something decent.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely,” Marisella replied with an easy smile.

Father nodded immediately. “I heard they brought chefs from the western territories.”

Then Marisella looked at me.

“Elyria, come with us.”

For one brief, foolish moment, hope flickered inside me.

But Theron answered before I could even open my mouth.

“She can’t,” he said dismissively with a wave of his hand. “There’s still work to do around the packhouse.”

His eyes barely glanced at me.

“She can eat the stew herself so it doesn’t go to waste. Besides, we’ll mostly be discussing pack matters and trade routes. You know Elyria has no interest in those things.”

No interest.

As if anyone had ever allowed me to have one.

As if I did not dream of leaving these walls even for a single evening.

As if I did not want, just once, to sit at a table where someone served me instead.

Marisella hesitated slightly.

Then her smile returned.

“I’ll bring you something back from town then, cousin,” she said kindly. “Maybe honey cakes from the market.”

I forced myself to nod.

“Thank you.”

A few moments later, they were gone.

Their laughter echoed through the packhouse halls as servants opened the doors for them. I heard Theron’s deep voice, my father’s booming laugh, Marisella’s soft amusement blending together before fading into the distance.

No one said goodbye to me.

Silence settled heavily after they left.

I stood alone in the dining hall, surrounded by the smell of burnt herbs and disappointment.

Slowly, I sat down in Theron’s abandoned chair.

Then I lifted the same bowl he had spat into.

I tasted the stew.

Bland.

Too much water.

Too little salt.

He was right.

I had ruined it.

But not because I wanted revenge.

Not because I wished to hurt him.

I simply…

Could not taste anything anymore.

Numbness had settled so deeply inside me that even flavors seemed distant now.

My gaze drifted slowly around the packhouse dining hall.

The walls I had scrubbed myself after winter storms stained them with soot.

The curtains I stitched by hand during the famine years because the pack could not afford luxuries.

The wooden floors I knelt on countless times to polish before gatherings.

The winters I spent decorating the halls beneath moon lanterns so the pack would feel warmth during the cold season.

The birthdays.

The harvest feasts.

The full moon ceremonies.

Twenty-five years of devotion lived inside these walls.

And still…

I was not treated like a mate.

Not treated like a Luna.

I was treated like hired help that had overstayed her usefulness.

And somehow, that realization hurt more than every cruel word spoken tonight.

Quietly, I finished the bowl of stew myself.

Then I cleaned the table.

Washed every dish.

Wiped every counter.

Folded every cloth neatly like I always did.

When everything was finished, I climbed the staircase slowly and entered the bedroom Theron and I once shared as newly bonded mates.

The room felt enormous now.

Cold.

Empty.

The bed that once held whispered promises beneath moonlit nights now felt unfamiliar, like it belonged to strangers.

I sat at the edge of it and pressed a trembling hand against my chest where the mating bond rested faintly beneath my skin.

“I chose this,” I whispered brokenly.

At every insult…

Every dismissal…

Every lonely night…

I stayed.

I allowed them to shape me into someone small enough to ignore.

Someone silent enough to forget.

Tears finally spilled freely down my cheeks.

But through the ache, another thought slowly surfaced.

Quiet.

Fragile.

Dangerous.

Maybe I did not have to remain this way forever.

Maybe there were still pieces of myself buried beneath all this emptiness.

Pieces waiting to breathe again.

Before I became invisible.

And as distant laughter echoed faintly from outside the packhouse gates, I finally cried without restraint—

For the young woman I used to be.

And for the woman I still might become.