My Alpha Took His Mistress to Our Mating Bed

The hall did not erupt. Werewolves never do, not in front of strangers. They simmer.

I watched it happen the way you watch a kettle—the small tells first. Alpha Greer's wife setting her napkin too carefully across her lap. The Greenfell Beta turning his head a quarter inch toward Jessie and then away, as if he had not seen what he had seen. A young Omega along the back wall pressing both hands flat to her apron to stop them shaking.

Jessie went rigid in her chair. Her right hand was still hovering near her ear, frozen mid-reach, the half-peeled patch curling there like a confession written in pink adhesive. Her cheeks were the color of raw meat.

Rowan moved.

He shoved his chair back so hard the legs shrieked on the marble. He grabbed Jessie's elbow—not gently, not tenderly, the way a man grabs a piece of evidence he is trying to hide—and hauled her up. Then he came for me.

I stayed seated. I lifted a sliver of pear to my mouth and chewed it slowly.

He stopped a foot from my chair. Close enough that I could smell the jasmine on his collar. Close enough that the silver ring on his hand was at the level of my eye.

"Olivia." His voice dropped into that low, gravel register I had heard him use a hundred times to break Deltas in the training yard. The Alpha Tone. "Stand up. Smile. Tell them it was a mistake."

The Omegas in the room flinched as one body, ducking their heads toward their plates. The young one in the apron actually whimpered.

I did not flinch. I could not have flinched if I had wanted to. The Tone broke against my skin like seawater on a cliff and ran off in harmless little rivers. My Lycan blood, six years tamped down to a polite ember, did not even bother to flare.

I set my fork down. I dabbed the corner of my mouth with the napkin. I tilted my head and looked up at my husband with the polite, faintly puzzled expression I had perfected at six different state dinners.

"Of course, darling," I said, loud enough for the four nearest tables. "I'd be glad to clear up the misunderstanding. I'm only confused by one little thing."

I turned my face toward Alpha Greer, then toward the Greenfell delegation, then—lastly, almost as an afterthought—toward Jessie, who had gone the color of paper.

"Why," I asked, in the gentle tone of a woman asking after the weather, "would a male Delta warrior require high-potency heat-suppressants?"

The word heat hit the room like a dropped plate.

I watched Rowan's throat work. I watched him try to summon the Tone again and find nothing there—nothing but a dry click. There was no answer. There was no answer that did not bury him deeper. To call it a misprint was absurd; the box was sealed pharmaceutical-grade. To call it a prank was to admit who the joke pointed at. To say nothing was to confirm everything.

One of the Greenfell Alphas coughed into his fist. It sounded suspiciously like a laugh smothered at birth.

I rose, smoothing my dress over my hips. I touched Rowan's wrist with the tips of two fingers, the gesture of a Luna soothing an overtired mate.

"I'm feeling unwell," I told the hall. "I'll retire. Please—" a small smile, perfectly weighted, "—enjoy the rest of the evening. The harvest has been very kind to us this year."

I clicked my tongue once. Barnaby rose at my hip, silent as snow. We walked the length of the hall together. No one spoke until the doors closed behind us.

Then, faintly, I heard the sound I had been waiting six years to hear.

Laughter. Just one woman's, quickly hushed. It was enough.

***

He came to our chambers an hour later. I had expected him sooner.

I was at my vanity, taking the pearls off one strand at a time, when the door slammed open and his reflection filled the mirror behind mine. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat. His hair was wrecked. His ring caught the lamp.

"Olivia—baby—listen to me."

I unhooked an earring.

"It was nothing. It was a moment. Do you know what kind of pressure I'm under, running this pack? Do you know what those Alphas out there are going to say tomorrow because of your little stunt? You humiliated me. You humiliated us—"

The other earring.

"—and Jessie is my brother, Olivia, my brother, you know what those patches were really for, she's been sick, she's been—"

A bracelet.

"Look at me." The Tone again, ragged this time. "Olivia. Look at me when I'm speaking to you."

I looked at him. In the mirror. Calmly. The way you look at a stranger asking directions.

He kept talking. He talked about pack reputation and the Northern Alliance and the weight of the crown on his head and the loneliness of leadership. He talked until his voice frayed at the edges. He talked until even he could hear how thin it had become.

When he finally stopped, breathing hard, I unscrewed the cap of my night cream and screwed it back on. I met his eyes in the glass.

"How long?"

His mouth opened. Closed.

I nodded once, as if he had answered.

"Have the guest chamber prepared," I said. "You'll be sleeping there tonight."

Barnaby, on the rug behind me, finally laid his great silver head down on his paws and watched the man in my mirror the way a butcher watches a hanging side of beef.