My Alpha Believed His Mistress Over His Pregnant Mate

The packhouse felt hollow when we returned from the funeral. Unlike the bustling energy that usually filled our home, a heavy silence hung in the air, pressing against my chest with each breath. I moved through the halls like a ghost, barely aware of the sympathetic glances from pack members who had attended Grandma Helena's service.

Donovan had disappeared into his office immediately upon our return, leaving me alone with my grief. Part of me was grateful for the space—the other part still ached from what I'd witnessed at the funeral home.

"Let me know if you need anything," Marcus said quietly as we parted ways in the main hallway. His eyes held a sadness that matched my own, and I wondered if he knew more about Donovan's relationship with Violette than he let on.

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat, and made my way to Grandma's room at the east wing of the packhouse.

The scent of her perfume still lingered in the air as I pushed open the door. Lavender and sage—the same fragrance she'd worn every day of her life. My fingers trembled as I flipped on the light switch.

"Grandma," I whispered to the empty room. "I'm going to take care of everything."

Her belongings were precisely arranged, just as she'd left them. The quilt she'd hand-stitched for my sixteenth birthday still covered her bed. The reading glasses she'd always misplaced sat neatly on her nightstand beside a stack of well-worn romance novels.

I sank to my knees beside her bed, running my fingers over the soft carpet. This room held so many memories—late-night conversations about the Moon Goddess's will, lessons on pack politics, and her unwavering belief in my strength despite my Late Bloomer status.

"I'll find your jewelry box first," I said aloud, trying to fill the silence with purpose.

As I moved to the closet, something felt off about the floor beneath me. I paused, my hand hovering over the carpet. The texture seemed uneven, almost bumpy.

Frowning, I pulled back the edge of the rug.

The floorboards beneath were slightly askew, one corner raised just enough to catch the fabric. My heart quickened as I knelt closer, examining the edges. Someone had pried this board loose and then replaced it hastily.

Violette had been Grandma's primary caregiver. She'd spent hours alone with my grandmother while I was fulfilling Luna duties or accompanying Donovan to pack meetings.

"What were you hiding?" I murmured, slipping my fingernails under the edge of the board.

It came up easily, revealing a small cavity beneath. Inside lay a sleek tablet, its screen dark but still charged. My fingers trembled as I retrieved it.

This wasn't pack property—the small pink case was distinctly feminine, adorned with tiny crystals that caught the light. Violette's personal tablet, hidden in my grandmother's room.

I tried to power it on, but a passcode screen appeared. Four digits. I tried Grandma's birthday, then mine, then Donovan's. Nothing.

Then I remembered—Violette's clinic ID number. The one she'd proudly displayed on her lab coat when she'd first introduced herself as Grandma's healer.

I typed in the numbers: 1-9-2-7.

The screen unlocked.

A folder labeled "Helena" sat on the desktop, alongside several others marked with dates. My stomach twisted as I opened it.

What I saw made my blood run cold.

Videos. Dozens of them. Each file named with my grandmother's name followed by a date.

I clicked on the most recent one.

The screen flickered to life, and I found myself staring at a manipulated video of me—or rather, a version of me that had been cruelly edited. In the footage, I was tied to a chair in the pack's dungeon, my head bowed as Donovan stood over me.

"You're nothing but a weak Omega," the video-version of Donovan snarled, his voice somehow both his and not his. "I reject you as my mate."

The camera panned to show other pack members turning away from me in disgust.

"No!" I gasped, clicking frantically to the next video.

This one showed me wandering alone through the forest, bloody and broken. "The pack has exiled you," a voiceover announced in Violette's unmistakable tone. "No one wants a Late Bloomer Luna."

File after file revealed the same pattern—cruel manipulations showing me tortured, rejected, abandoned. Each video ended with Violette's voice describing in graphic detail what would happen to me next.

My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the tablet. These weren't just meaningless recordings—they were weapons. Psychological torture designed specifically to frighten and harm my grandmother.

"She played these for her," I whispered, horror washing over me in waves. "She showed these to Grandma while she was sick."

The elderly wolf had been bedridden, fragile, and completely at Violette's mercy. No wonder her health had deteriorated so rapidly. No wonder she'd been so agitated in her final days.

Violette hadn't just been neglecting my grandmother—she'd been actively torturing her with these twisted fantasies of my suffering.

The tablet slipped from my fingers as the full weight of realization crashed over me. Violette hadn't just exploited Donovan's trauma—she'd used it to destroy my grandmother, piece by piece, until her heart simply couldn't take anymore.

And I had been too blind to see it.