After My Mate Chose His Pregnant Mistress

Five years. One thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five days. That was how long I had stood on the precipice of my own life, waiting for it to truly begin.

I smoothed the silk of my midnight-blue dress—Dominic’s favorite color—and forced my hands to stop trembling. The Moonstone Pack House was alive with a nervous, electric energy. Streamers in the pack colors of silver and blue fluttered from the porch railings, snapping in the crisp autumn breeze. Below, the pack members gathered in a hush, their eyes darting between the driveway and me. They were waiting for the fairy tale. The Alpha’s daughter and the war hero, the adopted son who had fought for our safety, finally reuniting to lead them.

"He’s close, Serenity," Sienna, my wolf, murmured in my mind. Her voice was usually warm sunlight, but today she was pacing, her tail twitching with an anxiety I couldn't quite place. "I can feel him."

"I know," I whispered, pressing my thumb hard against the inside of my wrist, a habit I’d developed to ground myself. "He's coming home."

The deep rumble of heavy transport trucks shattered the silence. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Dust billowed at the end of the long driveway as the convoy appeared, the lead truck grinding to a halt right in front of the porch steps.

The door opened. A heavy boot hit the gravel.

Dominic Weaver stepped out. He was broader than I remembered, his jawline sharper, a new scar cutting through his eyebrow that only made him look more rugged. He looked like every dream I’d kept alive during the lonely nights of his absence. My breath hitched. I took a step forward, my smile ready, my arms already lifting to welcome him.

He looked up. His eyes met mine.

And then he looked away.

The smile froze on my face. Dominic didn't rush up the stairs. He didn't shout my name. Instead, he turned back to the open cab of the truck. He reached his hand in, his posture tender, protective.

A woman stepped out, taking his hand. She was small, with mousy hair and wide, fearful eyes. Blair O'Brien. I knew her—she was a low-ranking Omega who had left for the support lines a year ago. But it wasn't her face that sucked the air out of the courtyard.

It was the swell of her belly.

A collective gasp swept through the crowd. The streamers fluttering above me suddenly felt like a mockery, a cheap decoration for a funeral. Blair was visibly, undeniably pregnant. At least six months along.

Dominic guided her down to the gravel, his hand lingering on the small of her back. He whispered something to her, then looked up at the porch again. He didn't look at me. He looked past me, toward my father, Alpha Evans, who stood like a stone statue at the top of the stairs.

"Father," Dominic said, his voice rough with travel and something else—shame. "We need