My Alpha Forced Me to Serve His Pregnant Mistress

Three days had passed since I was demoted from Luna to scullery maid in my own home. The Pack House kitchen, once a place where I experimented with healing broths and nutritious meals for our warriors, had become my prison.

The knife rhythmically hit the cutting board, slicing through the prime beef tenderloin. *Chop. Chop. Chop.* I was preparing steak tartare for Allie. According to Brody, the "future Alpha" needed raw protein, and Allie had developed a sudden, voracious appetite for the most expensive cuts of meat in the larder.

"Don't mince it too fine, Violette," Gloria’s voice grated against my ears like sandpaper. "The mother of the heir needs texture."

Gloria stood at the stove, her back to me. She was brewing tea for Brody, a ritual she had insisted on performing herself every evening since he took the Alpha title. She claimed it was an ancient family recipe to boost vitality.

Steam curled up from her pot, drifting across the kitchen island. My nose twitched. As a Healer, my sense of smell was sharper than the average wolf's, tuned specifically to identify herbs and toxins. Beneath the heavy aroma of peppermint and chamomile, there was something else. Something faint, acrid, and metallic.

I paused, the knife hovering over the meat. I inhaled deeply, dissecting the scent profile.

*Aconitum.* Wolfsbane.

My blood ran cold. It was diluted—heavily masked by the mint—but it was unmistakable. Wolfsbane was poison to our kind. In large doses, it killed. in small, consistent doses... it weakened the wolf spirit. It suppressed the aura. And it caused sterility.

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. Brody wasn’t infertile by nature. His own mother had been chemically castrating him and suppressing his Alpha power for years.

"Is something wrong, Violette?" Gloria turned, her eyes narrowing as she caught me staring.

I quickly lowered my gaze, resuming my chopping. "No, Gloria. Just ensuring the fat is trimmed properly."

I couldn't speak. Not yet. If I accused the Pack Matriarch of poisoning the Alpha without proof, I would be executed for treason before sunset. I had to be smart. I had to be patient.

Thirty minutes later, I carried the silver tray into the dining room. The sight that greeted me made my stomach churn. Allie sat in my chair—the Luna’s chair—at the foot of the long mahogany table. She was wearing one of my silk robes, the sash tied loosely over her prosthetic belly.

Brody sat at the head, looking pale and exhausted, sipping the tea Gloria had just served him. He looked up as I entered, his lip curling.

"Finally," he grumbled. "My son is starving."

I placed the plate of steak tartare in front of Allie. The meat was fresh, vibrant red, and topped with a raw quail egg, exactly as she had requested.

Allie picked up her fork, her eyes gleaming with malice. She took a large bite, chewed slowly, and then her eyes went wide.

"Ptui!"

She spat the mouthful of meat onto the pristine white tablecloth.

"Oh god!" she screamed, clutching her throat. "It's rotten! It burns!"

Before I could react, she grabbed the edge of the plate and flung it at me. The heavy porcelain shattered against my hip, splattering raw meat, egg yolk, and capers all over my apron and shoes.

"She's trying to poison me!" Allie shrieked, fake tears instantly springing to her eyes. "She's trying to kill the heir because she's jealous! Brody, help me!"

"I checked that meat myself," I said, my voice shaking with suppressed rage. "It was cut from a fresh loin ten minutes ago. There is nothing wrong with it."

"Liar!" Brody roared. He slammed his fist onto the table, shaking the silverware. He stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floor. The wolfsbane might have been weakening him, but his rage was entirely human and entirely dangerous.

"I give you a roof over your head, I let you stay in the pack despite your failure, and this is how you repay me?" Brody stalked toward me, his face twisted into a mask of hate. "By attacking my pregnant mate?"

"She is lying, Brody," I said, standing my ground even as my wolf, Lexi, whined in terror. "Smell it. There is no rot. There is no poison—at least, not in the meat."

He didn't listen. He never listened. He raised his hand, his fingers curling into a heavy fist. I saw the intent in his eyes. He wasn't just going to scold me; he was going to beat me into submission in front of his mistress and mother.

I flinched, squeezing my eyes shut, bracing for the impact.

*BOOM.*

The double doors to the dining hall didn't just open; they exploded inward, the wood splintering against the walls.

A wave of power—heavy, suffocating, and terrifyingly ancient—slammed into the room. It wasn't just an Alpha aura; it was something far denser. It felt like the gravity in the room had suddenly tripled.

Brody froze, his hand still raised in the air. His eyes went wide, the pupils dilating in instinctual fear. Beside him, Gloria dropped her teacup, the china shattering on the floor. Even Allie stopped her fake sobbing, her mouth hanging open.

Every wolf instinct in my body screamed at me to drop to my knees and bare my neck. It was the biological imperative to submit to a predator far higher on the food chain.

"I was told the Silverclaw Pack lacked discipline," a deep voice resonated through the room. It was calm, low, and vibrated in my chest like the lowest note of a cello. "But I did not expect to see an Alpha raising his hand against a female."

I opened my eyes.

Standing in the ruin of the doorway was a man who seemed to suck the light out of the room. He was tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders clad in a dark, tailored charcoal suit that cost more than this entire house. His hair was black as a raven's wing, swept back from a face that looked like it had been carved from marble—sharp, cold, and devastatingly handsome.

Desmond Watkins. The Lycan King.

Brody’s arm dropped to his side as he scrambled to bow, his knees shaking. "Uncle... Your Majesty. We... we weren't expecting you."

Desmond ignored him completely. He stepped into the room, the crushed wood crunching beneath his polished dress shoes. He didn't look at Brody. He didn't look at the sobbing mistress or the terrified mother.

His eyes, the color of storm clouds, locked directly onto mine.

For a second, the crushing weight of his aura vanished, replaced by a strange, electric hum that zipped down my spine. My wolf, who had been cowering for days, suddenly stood up, alert and pacing. She didn't feel fear. She felt... pulled.

Desmond walked straight up to me, ignoring the raw meat splattered on my shoes. He looked at the bruise forming on my jaw from where Brody had grabbed me days ago, and then at Brody’s still-clenched fist.

"You are the Luna?" he asked. His voice wasn't gentle, but it wasn't cruel. It was merely expecting an answer.

"I... I was," I stammered, fighting the urge to look away from his intense gaze.

Desmond turned his head slightly, casting a look of utter disdain over his shoulder at his nephew.

"Stand down, boy," Desmond commanded. He didn't shout, but the power in his voice hit Brody like a physical slap. Brody whimpered, his wolf forcing him to look at the floor.

Desmond turned back to me, and for the first time in three years, I saw something other than contempt in a man's eyes. I saw fury, but it wasn't directed at me. It was for me.