After My Alpha Mate Called His Mistress's Son His Heir

The ceremony hall smelled like pine boughs and beeswax candles. I'd spent the morning overseeing the arrangement—Marvin's portrait above the altar, flanked by ceremonial torches, the pack's ancestral banners hung in order of bloodline seniority. Three hundred wolves would fill these seats within the hour. Everything had to be exact.

I was adjusting the angle of the portrait when I heard Damien's voice behind me.

"Move those flowers to the left. The spacing is uneven."

I didn't turn. My hands stayed on the portrait frame, steadying it against the wall. My wolf pressed against something in my chest—not the dull restlessness I'd known for years, but something sharper now. Angrier. It pushed outward like it was testing the walls of its cage.

"Reese." Damien's voice came closer. "Did you hear me?"

I stepped back from the portrait. Turned.

Damien stood near the altar with Tiffany beside him, her hand tucked into his arm. She wore a dress the color of fresh blood. The boy trailed behind them, still in Walker colors, his small hand gripping Tiffany's skirt.

Damien pulled the folded document from his jacket again. The rejection form. He held it out like I was supposed to take it on command.

"Sign this now," he said. "We'll handle the ceremony, then you'll vacate the Luna quarters. Tiffany needs time to settle in before the pack assembly next week."

The mate bond tugged in my chest. Frayed. Weaponized. Still biologically present. Still capable of making my ribs ache when I looked at him. My wolf slammed against its cage so hard I felt the crack spread wider.

I forced myself still.

"The ceremony begins in thirty minutes," I said quietly. "You should take your seat."

Damien blinked. He wasn't used to redirection. Not from me. His jaw tightened. "Excuse me?"

"Your seat," I repeated. I gestured toward the front row, where Mabel already sat with her hands folded in her lap, her face carved from stone. "The pack is arriving. The elders are waiting. Your father's tribute begins shortly."

Damien's aura flared—Alpha dominance pushing outward, meant to make me lower my gaze. I felt it like pressure against my sternum. My wolf didn't flinch. It pushed back.

Tiffany's fingers moved to her coat pocket. I saw the edge of the small tin—wolfsbane salve. She palmed it reflexively, her thumb rubbing the lid.

Damien opened his mouth to argue. Then he looked past me at the wolves filing into the hall—Betas, Deltas, omegas, families with children. Three hundred witnesses. Even his vanity recognized the staging was wrong.

He shoved the document back into his jacket. "We'll discuss this after."

He walked to the front row. Tiffany followed, her hand still on his arm. The boy sat between them, swinging his legs.

I went back to the altar. My hands were steady. My wolf was not.

The hall filled quickly. Voices murmured—low, respectful, threaded with grief. I saw Jonah near the eastern wall, standing with the border patrol wolves. Elena sat three rows back, her healer's bag at her feet. Mabel hadn't moved. She stared straight ahead at Marvin's portrait, her face unreadable.

I was lighting the last ceremonial torch when the rear doors opened.

The hall went silent.

A man stepped through—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the kind of authority that didn't need announcement. His aura hit the room like a pressure wave. Heavier than any Alpha I'd ever felt. Older. Absolute. The wolves nearest the door dropped their gazes without thinking.

Lycan King Alaric Thornewood.

I recognized him from the formal portraits I'd seen in pack archives. But the portraits hadn't captured the weight of him—the way his presence filled a space and made everything else feel smaller.

He didn't approach the Alpha's seating. He stayed at the back of the hall, flanked by two wolves in Lycan court colors. His gaze swept the room. Methodical. Searching.

Then his eyes found me.

He went very still.

My wolf surged. The crack in my chest split wider—something enormous pressing against the cage walls, something that had been locked down so long I'd forgotten it was there. My breath caught. My hands tightened on the torch I was holding.

The King's nostrils flared. His eyes—pale gray, almost silver—didn't leave my face.

One of his retinue moved through the crowd toward him. The man was older, lean, with the look of someone who'd spent years tracking things that didn't want to be found. He leaned close to the King's ear and spoke a single word I couldn't hear.

The King's jaw tightened.

I forced myself to turn back to the altar. Set down the torch. My hands were shaking now. I pressed them flat against the stone to steady them.

Behind me, I felt the King's gaze like weight between my shoulder blades.

The ceremonial elder stepped forward and raised his hands. The hall quieted. Three hundred wolves settled into their seats.

The tribute was beginning.

And the Lycan King—who had traveled three territories for reasons he had not explained—stood at the back of the hall, watching me with an intensity that made my wolf scream inside its cage.