My Alpha Wanted His Mistress as Luna

I didn’t go to sleep after returning from the southern valley.

Instead, I sat at the desk in the small study adjoining our bedroom and pulled the pack’s digital ledgers onto my laptop. For four years, I had balanced Shadowridge’s books. Whenever numbers didn't align, I had excused Jared’s sloppy record-keeping as typical Alpha arrogance. Jared never had patience for paperwork.

Now, I looked with open eyes.

I scrolled back through forty-eight months of accounts. The trail was subtle, buried beneath legitimate line items—border patrol equipment, emergency grain supplies, regional summits. But the rhythm was rigid once I knew what to seek.

Fifteen thousand dollars. Every month, on the third Tuesday.

The funds moved from the main pack treasury into a regional shell account labeled *Discretionary Outpost Maintenance*, then vanished into untraceable cash withdrawals. I cross-referenced the dates against Jared’s official calendar. Every single transfer aligned with a scheduled "alliance summit" or "border treaty review."

He wasn't just maintaining a mistress and a child. He was funding them with pack sweat and labor. Over four years, Jared had quietly stolen more than seven hundred thousand dollars from his own people.

I opened my personal leather-bound notebook. For years, I had used it to draft alliance terms and track pack birthdays. Now, I turned to a fresh page and began to write. I penned every transaction date, account number, wire stamp, and forged sign-off in neat, precise ink.

By six in the morning, the light outside turned grey. My coffee sat beside me, pitch black and stone cold. I stared at the columns of numbers. The financial blueprint of his treason was complete.

Over the next six days, I waited for my windows.

When Jared took the warriors out for morning drills, I slipped back into his private office. I picked the lock on his bottom desk drawer with steady hands.

The burner phone sat in the dark felt tray. I powered the screen on, holding my personal phone in my left hand, snapping crisp photos of every message thread.

*Jared: She suspect anything?*

*Malia: No. Anakin asked if you’re coming tonight. He wants to show you his drawing.*

*Jared: I’ll sneak away after the budget meeting. Can’t stand being in the house with her today.*

*Malia: Why keep her around at all? It’s humiliating for me and your son.*

*Jared: You know why. She does the paperwork. She keeps the Council off my back. But she’ll never shift, Malia. She’s half a wolf at best, barely an Omega with a title. Once the winter solstice arrives, I’ll claim pack infertility laws, reject her publicly, and mark you. You’ll have the Luna suite before the new year.*

I scrolled further down, my thumb moving without a shake.

*Jared: And get rid of that damn wolf-dog she keeps in the yard. That animal smells like her failure. Once you move in, I’ll have Thomas take it out into the deep woods and shoot it.*

A sharp, electric pinch flared beneath the skin of my collarbone, right where Jared’s mate mark sat. I lifted two fingers and pressed down on it. The skin was dead and cold under my touch. No warmth. No magic. Just scar tissue.

I didn’t shed a tear. Tears were for wounds that could heal. What Jared had hollowed out was already dead.

I photographed the serial numbers on the battery casing, closed the phone, and locked the desk drawer. Then I backed the photos up to three separate cloud drives under encrypted keys.

By Friday evening, Jared had returned from pack patrol. He was sharp-edged, pacing the living room like a caged beast. I remained quiet, folding laundry on the armchair with Duke lying across my feet. Duke’s heavy grey head rested on my slippers, his golden eyes tracking Jared’s every move with a low, silent wariness.

Jared stopped in the archway, frowning at my stillness. He was used to me organizing his dinner, smoothing his schedule, or asking about his patrols. My silence made him uneasy.

"You're awfully quiet tonight, Vic," he said, crossing the rug.

"Just tired," I replied, keeping my eyes on the white linen in my hands. "Preparing the seating charts for the banquet takes time."

He stood over me for a second, hesitating. Then, he sat on the edge of the sofa, reached out, and caught my chin with his thumb and forefinger.

Suddenly, the mate bond flared.

Jared pushed a deliberate, heavy wave of warmth straight down our connection. It was artificial—a forced projection of proprietary affection designed to soothe an unsettled mate. It felt oily, suffocating, and false.

"You work too hard for this pack," he murmured, his voice dipping into that smooth, practiced tone he used with council elders. He leaned in and brushed his lips against my temple. "Don't stress over the seating. You're the Luna. You sit at my right hand, like you always do."

He let his hand slide down my neck, lingering over the mark he had given me four years ago, before resting his palm heavily against the small of my back. He squeezed, an Alpha asserting ownership before an audience of none.

I looked into his eyes, smiled faintly, and nodded. "Of course, Jared."

Through the invisible link between our chests, I felt his shoulders drop. His wolf gave a smug, contented sigh inside his mind. He believed me. He believed his Alpha charm had smoothed over whatever strange quiet had crept into the house.

He pulled back, poured himself two fingers of bourbon, and turned on the television.

I set the folded sheet aside, scratching Duke gently behind his ears. In my chest, that strange, ancient ember from the night before stirred again, burning low and fierce beneath my ribs.

I noted his relief. I filed it away. And I waited.