After My Mate Humiliated Me for His Packmate

The cabin sat at the end of a gravel road so narrow the pines brushed the sides of Camden's truck. I had picked this place myself. Three months ago, over coffee in our kitchen, I circled it on a map and told him it was perfect—no neighbors, no cell service, just us and the Goddess and the sound of snow settling against the windows.

He had smiled then. Kissed my forehead. Said, "Whatever you want, Maze."

I carried that smile with me into the cabin like a warm coal in my chest.

By sunset, I had it all ready. Ceremonial candles along both windowsills, white wax already softening at the tips. My grandmother's Luna blessing memorized so completely I could feel the shape of the words behind my teeth. Roast lamb in the oven, rosemary and garlic filling the air. A bottle of wine breathing on the counter. I had spent the whole afternoon cooking, my sleeves pushed up, humming the old pack songs Sylvia used to sing while she braided my hair.

I lit the last candle and pressed two fingers to the mark-spot on my neck. The bond hummed there, low and warm, like a second pulse.

I, Maisie Harper, Luna of the Blackridge Pack, mated to Camden Elliott six weeks and four days.

The Moon Goddess had chosen this. She did not make mistakes.

I believed that with my whole body.

Camden came in through the back door, boots stomping snow onto the mat. He shrugged off his coat, and the pine-and-leather scent of him rolled through the room. My wolf stretched inside my ribs, pleased.

"Smells amazing," he said. Then, easier than breathing, "Hey, so—Rory's coming up tomorrow. She's between assignments. Pack thing. Couple of days, tops."

My hand stopped on the candle.

"Rory."

"Yeah."

I turned. He was already opening the wine, back half-turned to me, casual as if he had told me the weather.

"Cam. This is our bonding retreat."

"I know."

"The whole point was—"

"Maze." He set the bottle down and looked at me the way he always did when he was about to reframe something. Warm eyes. A small, tired smile. A little bit of Alpha weight sliding into his voice like a stone slipping into water. "She's my packmate. She grew up in my litter. Don't do this."

"Do what."

"This." He gestured at me, gentle, disappointed. "The jealousy thing. It's not a good look on a Luna. You should understand pack dynamics better than that."

The words pressed against my skin. My wolf shrank back, small and confused.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"Okay," I said quietly.

He kissed the top of my head. "That's my girl."

We ate. He talked. I nodded in the right places. The lamb tasted like nothing.

After dinner, he pulled on his coat again. "Gonna run the perimeter real quick. Stretch the wolf out."

"I'll come with."

"Nah, you cooked all day. Rest." He tapped my nose. "I'll be back in an hour."

He was gone for three.

I heard the door at almost midnight. I had been reading Sylvia's journal on the couch, waiting, telling myself I was not waiting. He came in flushed from the cold, snow melting in his hair, and pulled me up off the couch into a hug at the bedroom doorway.

I pressed my face against his neck without thinking. It was instinct—the mark-spot, the sacred hollow between shoulder and throat, the place that was supposed to smell only of us.

And it hit me.

Heavy. Dark. Musky. A she-wolf's scent, thick and unmistakable, pressed directly into the skin where his mark sat under mine.

I went absolutely still.

"Cam." My voice came out flat. "Why does your mark-spot smell like her."

He didn't even flinch. His hand rose—slow, casual—and rubbed at his own neck. The same tell I had seen a dozen times and told myself meant nothing.

"Rory ran with me for a stretch. Litter-mates carry residual scent, Maze. You know that. Years of proximity." He tilted my chin up. His eyes were soft. His voice was softer. "A real Luna would understand pack dynamics better than this. We've talked about this."

"I…" My wolf whimpered under my ribs, small and turned around. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay." He kissed my forehead. "Come to bed."

I lay awake in the dark for hours. He slept easily beside me, one arm across my waist. I pressed two fingers to my own mark-spot and stared at the ceiling. The bond hummed there still, but the hum had a strange edge to it now, a fine crack I could feel and not see.

A real Luna would understand.

I told myself that until the sky began to turn grey.

---

Rory arrived just after nine.

I heard her before I saw her—boots on the porch, a laugh that was too loud for this cabin, this morning, this life. She came in with two duffel bags slung over one shoulder and stamped snow off her boots without looking at the mat.

"Cammy!" she called.

Camden, coming down the stairs, grinned like a boy. "Ror."

She dropped her bags in the middle of the living room floor.

I had set the breakfast table with care—two plates, folded napkins, a small vase of dried lavender I had brought from home. Rory walked past it, past me, past the coffee I had just poured for Camden, and dropped into the chair across from mine. She reached over my hand for the coffee pot without a word and filled a mug I had not offered her.

"Morning, Maisie," she said, and smiled.

Camden came up behind her and squeezed her shoulder. She tilted her head back against his stomach and laughed at something he had not said.

I sat very still.

My wolf pressed hard against my sternum, hard enough that I felt the burn of it in my throat, and I pressed her back down with every ounce of will I had.

A real Luna would understand.

I lifted my cup. I sipped my coffee. I smiled.

And underneath the table, my fingers found the mark-spot on my own neck, and stayed there.