I Faked My Death to Escape My Alpha

The kitchen smells like cinnamon and pine, the scents of the Moon Festival mingling with the sharp tang of my anxiety. I'm Aspyn Spencer, and tonight I'm not preparing for the celebration as the Alpha's mate. I'm here as a servant.

My hands ache from scrubbing pots all afternoon while the pack house buzzes with excitement above me. Seven years. Seven years of being Desmond's fated mate, and still no mark on my neck. The other she-wolves whisper when they think I can't hear. Unmarked. Unwanted.

I hoist the crate of wine bottles, the wood digging into my palms. It's heavy, but I've learned not to ask for help. The stairs creak under my weight as I climb toward Desmond's office. My wolf stirs uneasily inside me, a constant ache of longing for a mate who refuses to claim us.

I pause outside his door, catching my breath. That's when I hear it.

"Seven years, Marcus." Desmond's laugh cuts through the wood like a blade. "Seven years without marking her, and I'm still standing. Told you I'd win that wager."

The crate slips. I try to catch it, but my fingers have gone numb.

Glass explodes across the hallway floor. Red wine spreads like blood across the hardwood, and I can't move. Can't breathe.

A wager.

The door flies open. Desmond fills the frame, his dark eyes narrowing when he sees me standing in the wreckage. He's beautiful in that cruel way of his—sharp jaw, broad shoulders, every inch the Alpha. But right now, all I see is a stranger.

"Do you have any idea how much that wine cost?" His voice is ice.

Marcus appears behind him, his face pale. "Alpha, maybe—"

"Get out," Desmond snaps, and Marcus vanishes.

Desmond's hand closes around my upper arm, dragging me into his office. The door slams. I stumble, catching myself on the edge of his desk, and something inside me breaks open.

"A wager?" My voice cracks. "I was a bet?"

"Aspyn—"

"Seven years." The words tear out of me. "Seven years I've waited for you to mark me, to claim me, and it was all just some sick game to prove you're stronger than the Moon Goddess?"

His jaw tightens. "You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." My hands are shaking, but I force the words out. The rejection ritual. It's the only way to break a mate bond. "I, Aspyn Spencer—"

His eyes flash red.

The Alpha Command hits me like a physical blow. My throat seizes. My body locks in place, every muscle frozen under the crushing weight of his dominance. I can't move. Can't speak. Can't even breathe properly.

Desmond steps closer, and I hate that even now, even after everything, my traitorous wolf whimpers at his nearness.

"Listen very carefully," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow feels more threatening than a shout. "If you ever try to reject me, if you ever try to leave this pack, I will personally escort your father to the border and throw him to the Rogues. Do you understand?"

Tears burn my eyes, but I can't even blink them away.

"Viktor's been very patient about those gambling debts," Desmond continues, circling me like a predator. "But patience has limits. Your father's only alive because I allow it. Because you're mine, even without a mark."

The Command releases. I collapse against the desk, gasping.

"Get cleaned up," he says, already turning away. "The Festival starts in an hour. You'll be serving tonight."

"Serving?" The word comes out broken.

"Did I stutter?" He doesn't even look at me. "Khloe will be sitting beside me on the dais. You'll make sure our guests are taken care of. Now go."

The Moon Festival is a blur of lights and laughter that feels like mockery. I move through the crowd in a simple black dress—servant's attire—while everyone else wears their finest. The visiting dignitaries from neighboring packs fill the great hall, and there, on the raised platform, Desmond sits with Khloe draped across his lap like a trophy.

She's wearing the Luna's crown. The one that should be mine.

I carry a tray of wine glasses, keeping my eyes down. My wolf has retreated so deep inside me I can barely feel her anymore. Maybe that's a mercy.

"Oh, clumsy me!" Khloe's voice rings out, sickeningly sweet.

I look up just in time to see her knock her wine glass off the armrest. It shatters at the base of the dais, red liquid spreading across the white marble.

"Aspyn, darling," she coos, her fingers tangling in Desmond's hair possessively. "Be a dear and clean that up, won't you? On your knees, please. We wouldn't want anyone to slip."

The hall goes quiet. Every eye turns to me.

Desmond says nothing. Does nothing. Just watches with those cold, dark eyes.

I set down my tray. My legs feel like they might give out, but I force myself to kneel on the marble. The wine soaks into my dress as I pull a cloth from my apron and start wiping.

Somewhere above me, Khloe laughs.

My hand moves to my stomach without thinking—a protective gesture I've developed over the past few weeks. The secret I've been carrying, the tiny life growing inside me that Desmond doesn't know about. His pup. The Alpha heir.

I press my palm flat against my belly, and for just a moment, I let myself imagine a different world. One where the father of my child actually wanted us both.

But that world doesn't exist.

This one does. And in this world, I'm on my knees, cleaning up after the woman who stole my life, while my mate—the father of my unborn pup—sits above me like a king on his throne.

The Moon Goddess must be laughing.