When My Mate Planned to Crown His Mistress Luna

The first artifact I planted was Tiffany's perfume bottle.

I'd lifted it from her guest room two days earlier, slipping in while she was at warrior training. The bottle was distinctive—frosted glass with gold lettering, that floral scent she'd worn since I brought her into Silverpine. I'd watched her apply it a thousand times. Now I held it in my palm, weighing its usefulness.

Travis kept a precise evening routine. Bourbon at eight. Pack communications until nine. Then a shower before bed. I waited until he left for a border patrol meeting, then let myself into his private quarters with the key he'd given me years ago. The bathroom smelled like his soap—cedar and something sharp. I set the perfume bottle on the shelf beside his razor, angled it so the label faced out, and left.

That night at dinner, I sat at his side and picked at roasted chicken I couldn't taste. Travis was quiet, distracted. His jaw worked like he was chewing on a thought he couldn't swallow. When Tiffany entered the dining hall late, his eyes tracked her across the room. Not with desire. With suspicion.

I kept my gaze on my plate and said nothing.

The second artifact was Tiffany's hair clip. Ornate, silver, impossible to miss. She'd left it in the pack house common room once, and I'd pocketed it. Now I wedged it deep into the cushions of Travis's office couch, the one near his desk where he reviewed classified pack documents. I made sure a corner of the clip was visible—just enough to catch the light.

Two days later, I was passing his office when I heard the sharp crack of something hitting a wall. I paused outside the door, my pulse steady, my scent controlled. Through the crack, I saw Travis standing over his desk, his fist clenched around the hair clip. His knuckles were white. His expression was something I'd never seen before—not anger, but a colder, calculating rage.

He didn't call for Tiffany. He just stood there, staring at the clip like it was evidence of a crime he was still piecing together.

I walked away before he could sense me.

The third artifact was the most dangerous. A piece of intimate she-wolf clothing—lace, unmistakably feminine, carrying Tiffany's scent. I'd stolen it from her laundry and kept it sealed in a plastic bag to preserve the scent signature. I waited until Travis left for a council meeting, then slipped it beneath a stack of his pack financial reports. Not hidden. Just tucked. Like someone had been careless.

That evening, I positioned myself in the hallway outside his office, pretending to read a book I wasn't processing. I heard him enter. Heard the shuffle of papers. Then silence.

Then a low, guttural snarl that made my wolf's ears flatten.

I closed the book and walked to the dining hall, my steps unhurried, my face composed. Inside, my heart hammered with something that wasn't fear. It was satisfaction.

The pack dinner that night was tense. Travis sat at the head of the table, his Alpha aura pressing down on the room like a storm front. Tiffany sat three seats down, her face pale, her hands folded in her lap. She kept glancing at him, confused and frightened.

I sat at Travis's right side, the position reserved for his future Luna, and pushed food around my plate. Conversations murmured around us—border patrol reports, supply logistics, the usual pack business. I waited until there was a lull. Then I set down my fork and tilted my head toward Travis, my voice soft and uncertain.

"There's such a strange she-wolf scent near your office lately," I said. I made sure my tone was innocent, confused. "Do you think one of the female warriors is leaving something behind after training?"

The table went quiet. Every head turned toward me. Then toward Travis.

His jaw tightened. His eyes flicked to Tiffany. She stared at me, her expression frozen somewhere between shock and panic.

"I'll look into it," Travis said. His voice was flat. Final.

I nodded, letting relief flood my face. "I'm sure it's nothing. I just thought it was odd."

The conversation resumed, but the damage was done. I could feel the pack members' eyes shifting between Travis and Tiffany. Whispers started before dessert was served. By the time dinner ended, the entire pack house was buzzing.

Two days later, I was searching for a book in the library when I heard voices down the hall. Low. Angry. I followed the sound to a supply closet near the healer's wing and pressed myself against the wall behind the door, which had been left cracked open.

"You're leaving your scent everywhere." Travis's voice was a snarl, his Alpha tone barely leashed. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Tiffany's voice was high, frantic. "I haven't been near your office in days—"

"Then explain the perfume. The hair clip. The—" He broke off, and I heard something slam against the wall. "You're a tool, Tiffany. A tool with a purpose. Don't confuse that with permanence."

"I'm not—" Her voice cracked. "Travis, I swear, I didn't leave anything. I've been careful. I've done everything you asked—"

"Then someone else is planting your things." His tone shifted, colder now. Calculating. "Which means someone knows."

Silence. Then Tiffany, barely a whisper: "Addison?"

"No." Travis's answer was immediate, certain. "She's broken. She can barely function. Look at her. She's not capable of this."

I pressed my wrist to my pulse point and held my breath. My wolf was silent, watching, waiting.

"Then who?" Tiffany's voice shook.

"I don't know yet," Travis said. "But you need to disappear for a while. Stay out of the main pack house. No more late-night visits. No more mistakes."

"But the ceremony—"

"Will happen exactly as planned." His voice dropped into that dangerous quiet. "As long as you don't screw this up."

Footsteps. The door swung open. I was already moving, slipping around the corner into the library's back stacks before either of them emerged. My hands were steady. My breathing was controlled.

But inside, my wolf was smiling.

The fracture had begun.