After My Mate Marked His Mistress Publicly

At precisely 8:15 on the night of the Winter Solstice, Brady Sanders buried his face into another woman’s neck.

I sat twenty feet away at the lower tables, watching as Lilith Guzman tilted her chin back with a slow, purring sigh. Brady didn't just touch her. He dragged his jaw along her collarbone, breathing her in with that slow, deliberate nuzzle meant only for a fated mate. A heavy, cloying scent of amber and musk rolled off the dais, burying what little was left of the rain and jasmine between us.

The mark on the right side of my neck flared instantly. It was a jolt of pure, freezing agony, like someone pressing dry ice into my collarbone. Deep in my chest, my wolf—weak and shivering from weeks of Lilith’s wolfsbane-laced training rations—let out one sharp, broken keen against my ribs, then fell silent.

The entire banquet hall died. Two hundred pack members froze with forks half-raised. No one breathed.

I didn't blink. I didn't drop my gaze. I pushed my chair back, the wooden legs scraping loud against the stone floor, and stood up.

Brady went rigid on the platform. He pulled away from Lilith, his jaw tightening into that familiar, unyielding slab of stone. Lilith stayed right where she was, draped against his side, offering me a small, smug smile. She thought this would break me. She thought I would run out crying, just like the other seven girls Brady had paraded through the pack house this past year.

I walked three paces forward, stopping just below the dais.

"I, Avery Riley," I said, my voice steady, carrying cleanly into every corner of the room, "reject you, Brady Sanders, Alpha of Shadowmere, as my mate."

A collective gasp ripped through the hall.

The pain hit immediately. It felt like an iron cable snapping inside my chest, whipping backwards through my ribs. The raised edge of the mark on my neck withered, turning gray and ashen before collapsing flat against my skin—cold, dead scar tissue. The bond was gone.

Brady lurched forward. A violent tremor rocked his broad shoulders, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists against the banquet cloth. His pupils blew wide, flashing an involuntary, frantic gold as his wolf howled in agony within his skull. But his pride won out. He clamped his teeth together until a tendon bulged in his neck, refusing to make a sound.

I held his wild, furious eyes for three seconds. Then, I looked away.

Heavy footsteps broke the silence from the rear corridor.

A sudden, crushing weight slammed into the room. It wasn't the suffocating pressure of an Alpha command; it was older, vast and sovereign, rolling across the hall like thunder before a storm.

The Lycan aura brought the entire room down.

Beta Colt Mercer hit the flagstones on one knee. Beside him, our Gamma sank, followed by every Delta, warrior, and elder in the hall. Up on the dais, Brady fought it with everything he had, his teeth bared in a snarl, but biology snapped his head down. His chin dropped to his chest in raw, forced submission.

Kieran Voss strode down the center aisle.

The Lycan Prince wore a dark coat, his face carved from cold marble. He hadn't been invited. He didn't look at Brady, and he didn't spare a glance for Lilith cowering beneath the Alpha table. He stopped right in front of me, his gray eyes steady, and held out his arm.

He didn't say a word. He just waited.

I placed my hand on his forearm. His wool coat was warm beneath my fingers, solid and unyielding.

Together, we turned and walked down the center aisle, past two rows of kneeling wolves whose breathing sounded like terror. I never looked back.

The heavy double doors thudded shut behind us, cutting off the room. A second later, a muffled, ragged howl of pure fury echoed through the thick oak panels.

I pulled my coat tighter, my fingers brushing against the ice-cold scar on my neck.

Kieran slowed his pace to match mine, his boots quiet on the stone floor. "My wolf has known your scent since we were seven," he said quietly. "I didn't come tonight to rescue you, Avery. I came because you were always going to walk out that door, and I wanted to be on the right side of it when you did."

I looked up at him. The hallway lamps cast sharp shadows across his jaw. I didn't say thank you. Gratitude would have turned this into charity, and we both knew it wasn't.

Something in his gaze softened, his Lycan aura settling down to an easy, quiet hum that smelled faintly of ancient cedar and lightning.

Behind us, the doors of the banquet hall creaked open as the stunned guests began pouring out in a panicked, whispering rush. Through the thinning crowd, I caught one last glimpse of the grand hall.

The room had emptied. Brady sat entirely alone at the center of the long table, staring straight ahead at Lilith’s untouched glass of wine. Around his shoulders, the golden glow of his Alpha aura was visibly fraying, thinning at the edges like smoke in the winter air. The bitter phantom scent of jasmine and rain drifted through the open archway, his frantic wolf pumping out the memory of a bond that no longer existed.

With a sudden, guttural roar, Brady brought his fist down.

The two-inch oak table splintered right down the middle with a deafening crack.

In the doorway, Colt Mercer stood motionless, his arms pinned to his sides, watching the broken wood without saying a single word.