My Mate Brought His Pregnant Mistress Home

At 7:14 on a Tuesday evening, Mya Perry walked into the Ashveil pack house in a tight white dress, resting one manicured hand over her swollen belly.

I sat at the long communal table, checking warrior injury logs while three Omegas folded fresh bandages beside me. The scent of cloying, foreign jasmine rolled off Mya, heavy and suffocating.

"Three months left," Mya announced, her voice ringing clear against the timber walls. "The Alpha’s heir is healthy. And Patrick promised I’ll be sworn in as your new Luna before the naming ceremony."

I looked up. Three steps behind her stood Patrick, my mate of seven years. His arms were crossed over his chest. His jaw was set like granite.

He didn't blink. He didn't deny it. His silence gave away every dirty secret he had hidden behind late-night "border patrols."

At my neck, the mate mark pulsed once, turning bitterly cold. It felt as if thick ice had spread under my skin, leaving the bond completely numb and hollow. For a second, my lungs locked up.

I didn't scream. I didn't beg.

I pressed two fingers against the freezing bite mark on my neck—my habit for seven long years—then capped my pen. I closed the leather binder with a soft click, stood up, and looked Mya in the eye.

"Excuse me," I said evenly.

Mya’s prepared smirk faltered for half a second, thrown off by my calm voice. I turned my back on both of them and walked out.

I went straight to the pack clinic.

Dr. Maren Cole was putting away glass vials. Without a word, I sat down on the linoleum floor, resting my spine against her bottom wooden shelf. Maren didn't ask questions. She just closed the clinic blinds and stood near me in the quiet room.

After ten minutes of dead silence, I looked up. "Pull the Come of Age Ceremony records. Fifteen years back."

Maren nodded. She went to the metal archives and pulled a stack of yellowed folders. I flipped through the brittle pages until I found the year Patrick turned eighteen.

There it was.

*Blood-scent match confirmed — Patrick Snyder / Lacey Griffin (rogue, unaffiliated). Bond rejected by Alpha-designate within the ceremony night. Grounds: insufficient political standing.*

Patrick had dumped his true fated mate nine years ago because a rogue orphan couldn't buy him power. Then he had pursued me for my healing abilities and pack bookkeeping.

"Give me your car keys, Maren," I said.

Forty minutes later, I crossed into the lawless edges of Queens rogue territory. I pulled up to a run-down gas station bathed in flickering neon light.

Near the dumpster, a woman was loading insulated food bags into the back of a battered gray sedan. Her sleeves were pushed up, showing lean muscles and grease smudges on her forearms.

Lacey Griffin.

I stepped out of the car. The gravel crunched under my boots. She stiffened instantly, turning with guarded eyes.

"Lacey," I said. "I’m Cora. Patrick Snyder’s Luna."

She went completely rigid. Her hand rested near the tire iron tucked into her open trunk. "If he sent you here to run me off, tell him I don't give a damn about his pack boundaries."

"He doesn't know I'm here," I said, stepping closer. "He took a pregnant mistress into our house tonight. He threw you away nine years ago for status. Now he's doing the same to me."

Lacey let out a harsh, dry laugh. "Men like Patrick always upgrade when something shinier walks by. What do you want from me?"

"Revenge," I said plainly. "I have money, pack protection, and a clean identity in neutral territory. In return, I need you to play the role Patrick won't be able to resist. A lost Lycan Princess."

Lacey stared at me, her sharp eyes scanning my face. "Why would you trust me? I loved him once."

"Because he threw us both away," I replied. "And I need someone who already knows the cost of that."

Lacey looked down at her battered car, then back at me. She wiped the motor oil off her palms onto her jeans.

"Tell me the rest," she said.

By midnight, we were back in Maren’s private apothecary behind the clinic.

I laid out the entire layout on the steel counter: rare mountain herbs to mask Lacey's rogue scent under a thick, royal Lycan musk, weeks of intensive posture coaching, and a series of "accidental" meetings at high-society banquets.

"And when he begs for her hand?" Maren asked quietly from the shadows.

"Lycan royalty doesn't share bloodlines," I said, meeting Maren’s gaze. "Lacey will demand he take the royal bonding draught to prove his loyalty. I need that draught laced with wolfsbane."

Maren didn't hesitate. "Wolfsbane at that dosage will destroy his fertility permanently. In both human and wolf form."

"Good," I said.

Maren turned around and reached for the locked herb cabinet.

At dawn, Patrick summoned me to his second-floor study through the pack mind-link. His mental voice was cold and demanding, like a boss calling in an employee.

When I opened his heavy oak door, he was sitting behind his mahogany desk.

"Mya is moving into the master suite today," Patrick said, not even looking up from his tablet. "Her pup needs stability. Your role as Luna will be transitioning over the next two months. It’s for the good of the pack."

Deep inside my chest, the wolf that had been quiet and starved for seven years suddenly bared its fangs. A fierce, boiling heat rose through my veins.

I kept my face completely smooth.

"I understand," I answered softly. "I will make the transition seamless."

He gave a pleased, arrogant grunt, thinking I had folded like a beaten dog.

I walked out of his office, took the back stairs down to the pack archive vault, and locked the steel door from the inside. For the next six hours, I worked without stopping. I downloaded clean copies of every hidden territory bank account, every unpaid defense debt, and every military treaty Patrick had signed with neighboring packs.

I loaded the backup drives into a heavy steel lockbox and carried it quietly through the lower tunnels to Maren’s clinic.

As I walked back down the upstairs hallway to finish packing my clothes, Patrick’s voice drifted out through his half-open office door. He was on the phone with the pack jeweler.

"Order the custom platinum Luna band," Patrick said, laughing lightly into the receiver. "Size six. Engrave Mya's name on the inside."