My Alpha Took His Mistress to Our Mating Bed

I did not sleep.

I lay on my side of a bed that had not held my husband since midnight, with one hand spread flat over my lower belly, counting. Two weeks late. Two weeks of nausea I had blamed on banquet planning, of a soreness in my breasts I had blamed on the pearls. Two weeks of a small, stubborn flutter at the base of my spine that I had not let myself name.

By dawn I had decided. I dressed in soft gray. I left Barnaby on the rug—he whined, but he stayed when I told him to—and walked the back path to the Healer's clinic alone.

Elias Thorne was already awake. He always was. He met me at the door with a teapot in his hand and the careful, practiced calm of a man who had stitched up too many Lunas in too many quiet hours.

"My Luna."

"Elias. I need a blood draw. Privately."

He did not ask why. He set the teapot down.

The needle was small. The wait was not. I sat on the edge of the cot with my hands folded in my lap and watched the morning light crawl up the white tile wall. I thought about the library. I thought about jasmine. I made myself think about neither.

When Elias came back from the lab room, his face was the color of unbleached paper. He set the slip of paper down on the tray beside me as if it might burn through.

"Luna." His voice cracked once and recovered. "You are with child."

I nodded. I had known. The flutter had told me.

He did not move. He stood there with both hands gripping the edge of the tray, and he stared at the paper as if waiting for the numbers to rearrange themselves into something safer.

"There is more," he said. "The cellular markers—Luna, I have been a Healer for thirty-one years. I have seen Alpha pups. I have seen twin Alpha pups. I have never seen—" He stopped. He wet his lips. "The Lycan signatures in this blood are so far above standard Luna readings that the machine flagged it as an error. I ran it twice."

He lifted his eyes to mine, and in them was the dawning, terrified comprehension of a man who has just realized which woman has been standing in his clinic for six years.

I held his gaze. I did not soften it.

"Your oath, Elias."

"On my hands and on the moon," he whispered. "Not a syllable. Not to him. Not to anyone."

"Thank you."

I sat for a long moment after that. One hand drifted, without my asking, to the flat plane below my navel. Under the wool of my dress, under skin and muscle, something the size of a pearl was already humming with a frequency older than the pack-house, older than the Burke name, older than every smiling matron in the Northern Alliance.

My child. My father's grandchild. A Lycan heir.

I breathed in. I breathed out. I straightened my shoulders.

"Thank you, Elias," I said again, and I meant it for more than the test.

I was reaching for my coat when the clinic doors banged open hard enough to rattle the glass jars on the shelves.

"Elias! ELIAS!"

Rowan filled the doorway with Jessie slung in his arms like a sack of grain. Her head lolled against his shoulder. Her skin had gone a sick yellow-gray, sweat sheeting off her temples, and her left hand—Goddess—her left hand was caught between forms, three fingers stretched into long, knotted half-claws, the nails black and splitting. Her teeth were chattering so hard I could hear them across the room.

Withdrawal. The suppressants she'd been mainlining for a decade, ripped out of her bloodstream by stress and a punctured patch and a public unmasking, were tearing her wolf apart trying to come up.

Rowan did not see me. Or he saw me and chose not to.

He shoved past my shoulder—the actual physical shoulder of his pregnant mate—and dumped Jessie onto the cot I had just risen from. The paper with my results fluttered to the floor. Nobody noticed.

"Fix her." His voice was a wreck. "Elias. Now. I don't care what it costs, I don't care what you have to use, you fix her or so help me Goddess I will strip your rank by sundown."

Elias's hands were already moving—that was his oath too—but his eyes flicked, just once, to me.

I was still standing where Rowan had brushed past me. My coat was over my arm. My right hand had returned, without thinking, to my stomach, splayed protectively over the small humming pearl inside me.

Elias's gaze met mine across his patient's twitching body. I had never seen a grown wolf look so sorry.

I gave him the smallest shake of my head. *Do your work. Don't look at me again.*

I let out one slow breath through my nose. Then I picked up the paper from the floor, folded it neatly into quarters, slipped it into my pocket, and walked out.

The corridor was cold. The stone wall was colder. I set both palms flat against it and let my forehead rest between them and I counted.

One, two, three.

A man who would shove his pregnant mate aside to lay his mistress on her cot.

Ten, eleven, twelve.

A mate who had not even glanced down to see why my hand was on my stomach.

Twenty-two, twenty-three.

My child would never know him. My child would never call that man father. My child would grow up in a house where no one's hand ever pushed past its mother to reach for someone else.

Thirty.

I lifted my palms from the wall. I straightened my spine vertebra by vertebra. Somewhere in the center of my chest, the last warm thing went out, neat and final, like a candle pinched between two fingers.

When I walked back out into the morning sun, I was not a Luna anymore.

I was something the Moonveil Pack had not yet learned to fear.