My Husband’s Mistress Wore My Skin

The cage smells like rust and rot. My fingers scrape against cold metal bars, nails splitting as I claw for freedom that doesn't exist. Cain's laughter echoes from somewhere above, a sound that crawls under my skin and nests in my bones.

"Please—" My voice cracks. The word tastes like blood.

I jolt awake with my hand wrapped around the silver knife from my boot, blade pointed at shadows that aren't there. My silk sheets are soaked through with sweat. The knife trembles in my grip—my hands always shake when I'm alone—and I force myself to count. One breath. Two. Three.

The bedroom door opens without a knock. Only one person has that privilege.

"Miss Vivienne." Elena's voice cuts through the fog. She crosses the room with practiced efficiency, setting a glass of water on the nightstand. Her dark eyes assess me without judgment, the way they have for the past five years. "The nightmare again?"

I slide the knife back into its hiding place and reach for the water. The glass is cool against my palm, grounding. "What time is it?"

"Four in the morning." She moves to the windows, drawing back the heavy curtains. Manhattan's skyline glitters beyond the glass, a constellation of steel and ambition. "You have the anniversary dinner with Commander Evans tomorrow evening. Shall I confirm the reservation?"

The water turns bitter on my tongue. Tomorrow marks five years since Phoenix married me in a ceremony that felt more like a funeral. Five years of separate bedrooms and careful distance. Five years of him looking through me like I'm a ghost haunting his perfect military career.

"Cancel it." The words surprise us both. I set down the glass and meet Elena's gaze. "I'm going to Seattle instead."

Her expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tightening around her eyes. "Miss Vivienne—"

"I need to try, Elena." My voice drops to something quieter, more desperate. "One more time."

She studies me for a long moment, then nods. "I'll arrange the flight."

Twelve hours later, I'm stepping off a private jet onto the tarmac of the Seattle military outpost. The air here tastes different—pine and rain instead of exhaust and concrete. It should feel cleaner. Instead, it makes my chest tight. This city holds too many ghosts.

The soldiers at the entrance snap to attention when they recognize me, but their eyes tell a different story. I've learned to read the micro-expressions, the slight curl of a lip, the way gazes slide away. They're wondering what the Supreme Alpha's sister is doing here. Wondering if the rumors are true—if I really am tainted, broken, unfit to stand beside their decorated commander.

I lift my chin and let my spine straighten into the posture drilled into me since childhood. A Moore doesn't flinch. A Moore doesn't show weakness.

"Mrs. Evans." The guard's voice carries false respect. "Commander Evans isn't expecting—"

"I don't require an announcement." I keep my tone pleasant, but there's steel underneath. "I know the way."

I walk past them before they can object, my heels clicking against polished floors. The base is exactly as I remember—sterile hallways lined with commendations and photographs of military victories. Phoenix's face appears in several, his expression proud and distant.

His private quarters are on the third floor. I bypass the security checkpoint with nothing more than a look—the privilege of bloodline—and make my way down the corridor. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I force my breathing to remain steady. This is it. One final attempt to salvage something from the wreckage of our marriage.

I reach for the door handle. It turns easily—unlocked. Of course. Phoenix has never feared intrusion in his own domain.

The sitting room is empty, but I hear sounds from the bedroom beyond. My feet carry me forward even as warning bells chime in the back of my mind. The door is ajar, spilling warm lamplight across the threshold.

I push it open.

Phoenix is on the bed, his military uniform discarded on the floor. His hands are tangled in honey-blonde hair, his mouth pressed against lips that aren't mine. The woman beneath him wears a dress I recognize—pale blue cotton with pearl buttons, identical to one I wore when I was nineteen and still believed in fairy tales.

But it's the scent that destroys me. Jasmine and vanilla. My signature perfume from before Seattle. Before the cage. Before everything shattered.

The woman—Sabrina Hart, I recognize her from pack gatherings—makes a soft sound against Phoenix's mouth. She's younger than me by three years, her skin unmarked by scars, her eyes bright with manufactured innocence.

She's wearing my past like a costume.

Phoenix hasn't noticed me yet. His hand slides down her spine, possessive and tender in a way he's never touched me. Not once in five years of marriage.

I stand in the doorway and watch my husband kiss a ghost of who I used to be.