My Mate Rejected Me for His Mistress

At nine forty on the eve of our third mating anniversary, I lifted Wesley’s heavy coat to hang it and choked on another woman’s skin.

His scent had always been cedarwood and rain. Tonight, it was drowned in spiced vanilla and heat—thick, slick, and hours-fresh.

The mate mark on the left side of my neck flared with a sudden, vicious burn, then went dead cold. For three years, the wolf inside me had been a silent void. But right then, deep beneath my ribs, something snar

led. A knot of raw, blistering fire rolled over my chest, demanding blood.

My fingers trembled once. I forced them still. I pressed two fingers against the scarred vein on my left inner wrist, took a breath, and followed the trail out into the dark.

The scent cut straight through the boundary pines to the lake.

A cedar cabin stood at the water’s edge, golden light spilling from the panoramic windows. I stayed in the pine shadows and looked inside.

Lydia Shaw sat at the dining table, laughing. Around her neck hung the moonstone bonding pendant—the one I had commissioned by selling my foster mother’s silver locket, the only thing I owned from my childhood. Across from her sat Wesley’s mother and father, clinking crystal glasses.

"To the real Luna of Ironveil," Wesley’s mother toasted, beaming.

Wesley’s scent was everywhere in that room. Baked into the floorboards. Imprinted on the sofa cushions. Draped over Lydia’s bare shoulders.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. My chest felt hollow, like an empty cellar. I turned around and walked back through the freezing trees.

Two hours later, the front door of our quarters clicked open.

Wesley stepped into the foyer, loosening his silver silk tie. He smelled entirely of her.

"You’re up late," he said, not looking at me.

"Who is she?" I asked. My voice was flat. "How long?"

Wesley froze, his hand dropping from his collar. His eyes narrowed. He didn't offer a lie. He didn't even look guilty. He walked to the sideboard, poured two fingers of amber whiskey, and turned to face me.

"Her name is Lydia Shaw," he said smoothly. "Her family runs the eastern routes in Thornfield. And she’s been mine for six months."

My pulse ticked once against my collarbone. "You gave her my pendant."

"It suits her," he replied, tilting his head with contemptuous patience. "Look at yourself, Anya. You’re an Omega. Wolfless, nameless, bloodless. I gave you three years of food, clothes, and an Alpha’s roof. But tomorrow night is my Alpha Ascension Ceremony. The Lycan Council will be watching."

He set his glass down with a sharp *clack*.

"Here is how this works," he said, stepping into my space. His Alpha aura slammed forward like an iron wall, trying to buckle my knees. "You will stand beside me tomorrow in public as my marked mate. You will smile for the Council delegates. Then Lydia takes the Luna suite. She will carry my pups. You will stay in the servant wing, out of sight."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I reject you on the dais," he snapped, his voice dropping into a harsh, grating growl. "Before every allied pack. I will tear the bond out by the root, brand you a discarded she-wolf, and throw you to the border gates. No pack will take you. You will die a rogue in the dirt."

He leaned in, his breath hot against my cheek. "Be grateful, Anya. Without me, you are nothing."

The fire under my ribs flared again, hot and sharp, biting back against his aura. My chin stayed up.

"I understand," I said quietly.

Wesley smirked, clearly mistaking my silence for defeat. "Good. Wear the dark green dress tomorrow. Don't embarrass me."

He turned and walked into the guest room, slamming the door.

The moment the lock turned, I moved.

I knelt by the bed, pulled out the iron key tucked into my boot, and unlocked the heavy cedar chest. From the bottom, beneath folded winter quilts, I pulled out a worn black ledger.

Three years of records. Every monthly contribution I had paid from my bakery wages into his parents' household fund. Every date Wesley had "requisitioned" iron from the armory. Every single treasury receipt I had filed as an unpaid clerk, tracking tens of thousands of dollars rerouted to an off-grid construction company—the lakeside cabin.

I opened to a clean page and wrote: *Lydia Shaw. Thornfield Pack. Embezzlement timeline confirmed.*

At four in the morning, I slipped out into the fog and took the servant stairs down to the Healer’s annex.

Maren Sollte was alone in the archive room, surrounded by herbal jars and parchment. When the door opened, she looked up, her tired eyes widening as she took in my face.

"Anya?" she whispered. "What happened?"

"I need the sealed wolfsbane report," I said, keeping my voice level. "From Wesley’s ambush three years ago."

Maren went deathly still. The vial in her hand clattered against the oak table. "Anya... Wesley ordered those records classified under Alpha seal. If he discovers—"

"The wolfsbane didn't just tear his wolf," I cut in, stepping up to her desk. "It poisoned his reproductive tract. He's sterile, Maren. You ran the blood-scent test yourself."

Maren looked down at her shaking hands. Guilt had aged her face by ten years. For three years, she had pushed iron needles into my veins, siphoning my blood week after week to keep Wesley’s shattered wolf alive, all while keeping his dark secret buried.

"He told me he would kill my apprentice if I spoke," she whispered, tears cutting tracks down her cheeks.

"He won't kill anyone after tomorrow," I said. "Seal the document with the official healer crest. Sign your true name."

Maren stared at me for ten seconds. Then she stood, went to the locked iron safe behind the herb rack, and pulled out an envelope stamped with red wax. She pressed the Ironveil Healer seal hard into the fresh wax and pushed it across the table into my hands.

"God forgive us," she murmured.

I took the thick paper, slid it deep inside my jacket, and pressed two fingers to the bruised vein on my left wrist.

Through the cracked window, down in the courtyard, torchlight flared. Wesley’s voice cracked across the stones, loud and arrogant, ordering the guards to raise the crimson Luna banners for Lydia.