My Mate Stole From the Pack to Spoil His Mistress

Annalise's herbal shop became our war room.

We met after midnight, when the human town was asleep and the pack house assumed I was in bed. She spread the financial records across her workbench like surgical instruments. I brought my laptop and the IT manual I'd ordered under a fake name from a human bookstore two towns over.

"Supply requisition for wolfsbane extract," Annalise said, tapping a line item. "Dated March seventh. We don't use wolfsbane in any of our healing protocols. Never have."

I cross-referenced the date against my phone's location history. March seventh was the night Denver claimed he was reviewing border patrols with Roland. He'd come home at two in the morning smelling like expensive wine and hotel sheets.

"How much?" I asked.

"Twelve hundred dollars."

I opened Sutton's social media archive on my burner account. March eighth, she'd posted a photo of a designer handbag with the caption: "When he knows your taste." The bag's retail price, according to a quick search, was eleven hundred and ninety-five dollars.

"Got it," I said quietly.

Annalise made a note. We worked like that for hours. Her finding discrepancies. Me matching them to Denver's absences, to Sutton's posts, to the scent trails he left on our sheets. The IT manual taught me how to pull metadata from photos, how to verify timestamps, how to build a timeline that would hold up under scrutiny.

By dawn, we had a spreadsheet with forty-three entries. Each one a theft. Each one a lie.

"There's a secondary account," Annalise said, her voice tight. "Labeled 'Strategic Consultation Fund.' It's been active for eighteen months."

I leaned over her shoulder. The account showed regular deposits from the main pack treasury and regular withdrawals to an entity called 'Reynolds Advisory Services.'

"That's her," I said.

Annalise nodded. "He created a fake Gamma-level position and he's paying her out of pack money. Fifty-two hundred a month."

My wolf snarled. The mate bond mark flared hot against my neck. I pressed two fingers to it and breathed through the pain.

"Keep digging," I said. "I want every transaction. Every date. Every dollar."

Annalise looked at me across the table. Her healer's eyes saw everything I wasn't saying.

"You're not going to break," she said softly. It wasn't a question.

"No," I said. "I'm going to finish this."

I drove home as the sun rose. Denver was still asleep. I climbed into bed beside him, my body cold, my mind colder.

Three nights later, the pack held an elder dinner at the main hall.

I wore a deep green dress that Denver had once said brought out my eyes. I styled my hair the way he liked. I smiled at the right moments and laughed at the elders' jokes. I was the picture of a devoted Luna.

Denver stood at the head of the table and raised his glass. The room quieted.

"To the Moon Goddess's greatest gift," he said, his Alpha voice warm and commanding. "The bond that grounds every Alpha in what truly matters."

He reached across the table and took my hand. His palm was warm. His scent was cedarwood and mountain rain, the same scent that had stopped my breath at our Come of Age Ceremony ten years ago.

I smiled and squeezed his hand. My thumb found his pulse and pressed gently. I counted the beats. I counted the lies embedded in every word.

The elders applauded. Someone called for a toast. I lifted my glass and met Denver's eyes across the table. He looked at me like I was still his greatest asset. Like I would always be there.

I smiled wider.

That night, I sat in my office and transcribed his exact words into my private records. "The bond that grounds every Alpha in what truly matters." I flagged the entry for the Pack Banquet presentation I'd already begun assembling in a password-protected file.

The days blurred together after that. I attended pack functions. I greeted visiting Betas with the grace expected of an Ironvale Luna. I managed the pack finances Denver had never bothered to restrict my access to, noting every discrepancy, every phantom expenditure.

I watched him leave for "training ground inspections" and return hours later smelling like hotel soap and floral perfume poorly masked by forest air. I recorded the dates.

I counted the nights he missed Emberlynn's bedtime stories. Fourteen in the last month alone. I wrote them down.

One evening, I stood in the doorway of his office and watched him prepare for a pack function. He adjusted his Alpha crest pin in the mirror, tilting his head, checking his reflection from multiple angles. He'd done this a thousand times before. I used to find it endearing—the way he cared about representing the pack well.

Now I saw a man rehearsing a character he wasn't.

He caught my reflection in the mirror and smiled. "Ready?"

"Always," I said.

My wolf whimpered softly inside my chest. She didn't understand why our mate's scent carried another she-wolf's mark. She didn't understand why the bond burned instead of soothed.

I pressed my fingers to my neck, to the mark that had once felt like a blessing and now felt like a brand. The pain flared hot and sharp. I breathed through it.

Denver offered me his arm. I took it. We walked into the gathering together, the perfect Alpha pair.

And with every step, I counted the days until the Pack Banquet. Until the moment I would stop performing and start destroying.

My hands were steady. My smile was flawless. My wolf grieved.

But Florence—Florence was three moves ahead and closing in.