My Mate’s Mistress Tried to Kill Me and Our Pup

I should have known something was wrong the moment I couldn't reach him.

The pack house was alive with celebration—strings of lights wrapped around the wooden beams, tables groaning under platters of roasted meat and honey cakes, wolves laughing and clinking glasses. Everyone had gathered to welcome Brady home after three long years serving as Gamma in the Northern territories. Three years of waiting, of counting down the days until I could feel his arms around me again.

I stood near the fireplace, smoothing down the emerald dress I'd chosen specifically because Brady once said it made my eyes look like forest pools. My wolf stirred restlessly beneath my skin, eager to reconnect with her mate. I reached out through our bond, that invisible thread that had tied us together since we were seventeen.

*Brady? I'm here. Welcome home.*

Nothing.

I tried again, pushing harder against the mental barrier. It felt like hitting a wall of solid ice—cold, impenetrable, deliberate. My chest tightened. In all our years together, even across the distance, I'd never been completely blocked out.

Across the room, I spotted him. Brady stood near the bar, his broad shoulders filling out his leather jacket, dark hair slightly longer than I remembered. He looked good—strong, confident, every inch the warrior who'd been defending our allies. But he wasn't alone.

A petite she-wolf with honey-colored hair stood close to him, too close, her hand resting on his forearm as she laughed at something he said. I didn't recognize her, but the way she looked at him made my wolf bare her teeth.

I wove through the crowd, my heart hammering. As I approached, a scent hit me like a physical blow—cloying and herbal, like crushed sage mixed with something sickeningly sweet. It clung to Brady's skin, intertwined with his natural musk of pine and leather. Foreign. Wrong.

"Brady," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady.

He turned, and for a split second, something flickered in his dark eyes. Guilt? But it vanished so quickly I might have imagined it. "Celeste. Hey."

Hey. After three years, he greeted me like a casual acquaintance.

The she-wolf stepped back, but not far. Up close, I could see she was beautiful in a delicate way—all soft curves and doe eyes. The herbal scent was coming from her.

"Can we talk?" I kept my tone light, aware of the eyes watching us. "Privately?"

Brady's jaw tightened. "This is Natasha. She's... I've been mentoring her. Helping her adjust."

Mentoring. The word felt like a knife between my ribs.

"I'd like to speak with my mate," I said, meeting Natasha's gaze directly. My wolf pushed forward, demanding acknowledgment of our claim.

Natasha's lips curved into a small smile before she dipped her head and melted into the crowd. But that scent—her scent—remained on Brady's clothes, his skin.

I grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the back hallway, away from the music and laughter. The moment we were alone, I rounded on him.

"Why can't I reach you through the bond?" My voice cracked despite my best efforts. "And why do you smell like her?"

"Celeste, don't do this." Brady ran a hand through his hair, looking everywhere but at me. "You're being paranoid."

"Paranoid?" The word came out sharp. "I haven't seen you in three years, and the first thing I notice is another woman's scent all over you. You're blocking me out of your mind. How am I supposed to react?"

"Natasha needed help. She's vulnerable, and I was assigned to protect her. That's all." His tone was defensive, almost rehearsed. "You're making something out of nothing."

"Then let me in." I pressed my hand against his chest, right over his heart. "Open the bond. Let me feel what you're feeling."

For a moment, his expression softened. His hand came up to cover mine, and I felt a flicker of hope. Then his fingers closed around my wrist, firmly removing my hand from his chest.

"I'm tired, Celeste. It's been a long journey. Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

He walked away, leaving me standing alone in the hallway. Through the doorway, I watched him return to the party, watched Natasha gravitate back to his side like a moon pulled by gravity.

I touched the silver claw necklace at my throat—the one Brady had given me on our mating day, promising forever. The metal felt cold against my fingers.

Something was very, very wrong.

And deep in my chest, where our bond should have hummed with warmth and connection, there was only a hollow, aching silence.