My Mate Gave My Paintings to His Mistress

The rain hits our territory like the Moon Goddess herself is weeping, each drop sharp as ice against the packhouse windows. I press my face to the glass, watching the storm tear through the forest with a violence that makes my wolf whimper deep in my chest.

"Stella." Henry's voice cuts through the howling wind, flat and commanding. "We're taking the SUV for patrol."

I turn from the window to find my fated mate pulling on his leather jacket, Caleb beside him already dressed for the weather. The sight of them together—so alike with their dark hair and strong Alpha jawlines—still makes my heart skip, even after all these years.

"In this storm?" The words slip out before I can stop them. "Henry, it's dangerous out there. The roads—"

"Are pack territory." His amber eyes flash with irritation. "We know our own land, Stella. The borders need checking after weather like this."

Caleb doesn't even look at me as he zips up his coat. At seventeen, my son has grown tall and broad like his father, carrying himself with the same casual dominance that once made me feel protected. Now it just makes me feel small.

"But the SUV is the only vehicle that can handle these roads," I say, hating how my voice sounds—thin and worried like the weak Luna they always tell me I am. "If something happens—"

"Nothing will happen." Henry's tone shuts down any further argument. He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and drops it on the kitchen counter. "Caleb wants tiramisu for tomorrow's pack dinner. Make sure it's perfect."

My throat tightens. Tomorrow is the monthly gathering where all the families come together, where I'll smile and serve and pretend everything is fine while the pack mothers whisper about how lucky Caleb is to have such a devoted Luna for a mother. The irony tastes bitter.

"Of course," I whisper.

They're gone within minutes, the SUV's engine roaring to life before disappearing into the storm. I stand in the sudden silence of the packhouse, holding Henry's note with hands that shake just slightly. The paper is damp from his pocket, the ink slightly smeared, but his handwriting is clear enough: *Tiramisu. Don't mess it up this time.*

Don't mess it up this time.

The words sting because I've never messed it up. Not once. I've perfected that recipe over months of trial and error, watching Caleb's face light up with each improved version until I got it exactly right. But Henry always finds something wrong—too sweet, not sweet enough, the texture off by some imperceptible margin that only he seems to notice.

I check our pantry with growing dread. No mascarpone. No ladyfingers. No coffee liqueur. Of course. How could I have been so stupid as to assume we'd have the ingredients for something Henry demanded on zero notice?

The nearest store is at the territory border, a twenty-minute drive in good weather. In this storm, on foot, it might as well be on the moon.

But I've walked farther for less. I've done worse things to keep the peace, to be the Luna they need me to be. My wolf stirs restlessly as I pull on my rain jacket, but I push her down like I always do. She's been quiet for so long now, suppressed under the weight of disappointment and constant criticism, that sometimes I forget she's even there.

The storm hits me like a physical blow the moment I step outside. Rain drives sideways across the packhouse grounds, turning the world into a gray blur of water and wind. Within seconds, I'm soaked through, my jacket useless against the fury of the weather.

Each step toward the territory border is a battle. The wind tries to push me back, the rain stings my face, and the cold seeps through my clothes until my bones ache. My wolf whimpers with each step, confused and hurt by this punishment we're inflicting on ourselves. For what? For whom?

But I keep walking because that's what good Lunas do. They sacrifice. They endure. They put everyone else's needs before their own until there's nothing left of themselves but the hollow shell of service.

The border store is a beacon of warm light in the storm, and I stumble inside dripping and shivering. The elderly human cashier takes one look at me and shakes her head.

"Honey, you shouldn't be out in weather like this."

I want to tell her I shouldn't be doing a lot of things. Instead, I smile and gather the ingredients with numb fingers, paying with the emergency cash I keep hidden in my jacket pocket.

The walk back is worse. The storm has intensified, and I'm carrying bags that grow heavier with each step. My wolf has gone completely silent now, retreating so deep inside that I feel utterly alone in my own skin.

That's when I see the lights.

The pack's annual Moon Festival. I'd forgotten it was tonight, forgotten that the community center would be decorated with fairy lights and filled with laughter and warmth. The sight of it stops me in my tracks, and before I can think better of it, I'm moving toward the treeline that borders the festival grounds.

I tell myself I just want to see. Just want to feel connected to my pack for one moment before I go home to bake alone in an empty kitchen.

But what I see destroys everything.

Henry and Caleb are there, dry and laughing, surrounded by pack members who beam at them like they're the sun and moon combined. And there, nestled between them like she belongs, is Everly.

My stepsister. My childhood shadow. The woman who should be nothing more than a distant memory.

Henry is wrapping his coat—his Alpha coat, the one that smells like pine and power and everything I once thought was mine—around Everly's shoulders. She looks up at him with those doe eyes that fooled our father years ago, and Henry looks back at her like she's precious. Like she's worth protecting from the storm.

Caleb is laughing at something Everly said, his whole face bright with an affection I haven't seen directed at me in years. They look like a family. A perfect, happy family that has no room for the broken Luna standing in the rain.

The bags slip from my numb fingers, hitting the mud with a wet splat. Mascarpone and coffee liqueur and ladyfingers scatter across the ground, ruined and forgotten.

For the first time in years, my wolf doesn't whimper.

She snarls.

And something fundamental shifts inside my chest, like a lock finally turning after being jammed for too long. I turn my back on the festival, on the family that never wanted me, and walk home through the storm.

But I'm not the same woman who left.