My Alpha Believed His Mistress Over His Pregnant Mate

The convoy jerked to a sudden halt, throwing me against the leather seat. Before I could steady myself, the first howl pierced the air—wild, feral, and unmistakably hostile.

"Rogues," Marcus growled, already reaching for his weapon. "A lot of them."

My heart hammered against my ribs as the vehicle rocked with the impact of bodies slamming against it. Through the tinted windows, I caught glimpses of matted fur and glowing eyes—at least twenty rogues surrounding our three-car convoy.

"We're outnumbered," I whispered, my fingers instinctively reaching for the mate mark on my neck.

Donovan's face remained impassive, but I felt the sudden surge of his power filling the car. The Alpha aura he usually kept carefully controlled now radiated from him in suffocating waves.

"Stay down," he ordered, his voice cold and precise as he pressed a button to communicate with the other vehicles. "Marcus, take half the warriors and secure the perimeter. The rest—"

A massive rogue slammed into our door, his claws raking down the window with a sickening screech. I flinched, but Donovan didn't even blink.

"Protect the Luna first," he commanded, his Alpha tone vibrating through the air with such force that even I felt the weight of it. "Whatever happens, she doesn't get hurt."

Something warm unfurled in my chest at his words. Despite everything—the coldness, the distance, the constant reminders of my weakness—he was prioritizing my safety over his own.

The warriors moved with practiced efficiency, forming a protective circle around our vehicle before pushing outward to engage the rogues. Blood splattered across the windows as Donovan's elite forces fought with lethal precision.

I watched in horror and fascination as a Delta warrior tore out a rogue's throat, only to be immediately set upon by two more. The air filled with snarls and screams, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the acrid smell of fear.

Donovan's hand found mine, squeezing once before releasing it. "Stay here," he said, his voice slightly softer than before. "This will be over soon."

As he stepped out to join the fight, I remained frozen in place, his command echoing in my ears. *Protect the Luna first.* Maybe there was still something between us worth saving.

---

Three days later, we stood in a sleek Manhattan funeral home, surrounded by pack members in somber black. Grandma Helena had been more than just a former Luna—she'd been my anchor, my confidante, the only one who believed in me when everyone else saw only a Late Bloomer with a weak wolf.

"She was proud of you," Donovan said quietly as we stood before her closed casket. "She never doubted your strength."

I swallowed hard, fighting back tears. "I need to find her jewelry box. The one with her mother's pendant."

"Take your time," he replied, his hand hovering near my back without quite touching it. "I'll be here."

With a grateful nod, I slipped away from the main viewing room, following the familiar scent of Grandma's perfume down the hallway. She'd stayed in this building during her final weeks, when her health had deteriorated too rapidly for anyone to explain.

I found myself in a small parlor off the main hall, its windows overlooking a quiet garden. "Grandma?" I called softly, though I knew she wouldn't answer.

That's when I heard it—Donovan's voice, low and gentle in a way I'd never heard before.

"Does this hurt?"

I froze, my hand halfway to the door. Through the crack, I could see into a small sitting area.

Donovan knelt on the floor, his powerful frame folded into an unexpected posture of humility. Before him sat Violette, the pack Healer, her delicate features arranged in a mask of pain as she extended her ankle.

"Just a little," she whispered, her fingers brushing his arm. "I twisted it when I was helping Elder Martha yesterday."

I watched, unable to move, as Donovan gently probed her ankle with his fingers. His face—usually a study in cold authority—had softened into lines of concern. His Alpha aura, always so overwhelming and intimidating, was completely suppressed.

"I can feel the swelling," he murmured, his thumb tracing circles on her skin. "You should have told me immediately."

"It wasn't that bad," Violette replied, her voice honeyed with false modesty. "I didn't want to bother you with something so trivial."

"You're not a bother," Donovan said firmly, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made my stomach twist. "You never have to worry about that."

The tenderness in his voice struck me like a physical blow. In five years as his mate, I had never once heard him speak to me with such gentleness. Never once had he looked at me with such devotion.

Never once had he knelt before me, offering comfort and care without demanding submission in return.

I pressed my hand against my mouth to stifle the sound threatening to escape my throat. The hope that had bloomed during the rogue attack withered and died, leaving only the bitter taste of truth.

My mate—my Alpha—was capable of tenderness. He just chose never to give it to me.