The Alpha Ex Made Me a Mistress, His Rival Made Me Queen

The stranger stopped breathing before I got him through the door.

“Table,” I snapped.

Grandfather swept the supper bowls aside as I lowered two hundred pounds of blood-soaked werewolf onto the scarred oak. One glance at the claw wound across the man’s ribs, and all the color left the old healer’s face.

“Freya, what have you done?”

“Saved the argument for later.” I pressed a folded cloth to the wound. Blood welled through it at once. “Boil water. Then get the silver forceps.”

“He’s a fighter.”

“He’s dying.”

“Those facts are not mutually exclusive.”

The stranger’s coat had been cut nearly to ribbons. Under it, three parallel gashes ran from his sternum to his left side, and a shard of silver was buried beneath the lowest rib. His pulse fluttered against my fingertips—fast, then frighteningly faint.

Outside, the evening wind moved through the pines. Somewhere beyond the clearing, an engine growled on the ridge road and went silent.

Grandfather heard it too. His gaze snapped toward the shuttered window.

“Whoever opened him up may still be looking.”

“Then help me before they find a corpse.”

He swore under his breath but reached for the kettle.

I cut away the ruined shirt. The stranger was broad-shouldered, hard with old scars, and far too well fed to be a rogue. A black iron pendant hung against his chest, stamped with a twin-headed hawk. Not Bloodfang. I didn’t recognize the crest.

That should have reassured me.

It didn’t.

“Silver’s close to the lung,” Grandfather said as he set down the forceps. “Pull it wrong and he drowns in his own blood.”

“Hold the lamp.”

“Freya—”

“Please.”

His mouth tightened. He raised the lamp.

I worked the forceps into the wound. The stranger’s body convulsed, one hand striking the table hard enough to crack a bowl on the floor. His eyes stayed shut, but a growl rolled through his chest.

“Easy,” I said. “You can kill me after I keep you alive.”

The silver fragment came free with a wet scrape. Grandfather dropped it into an iron cup, where it hissed against a splash of vinegar.

The stranger dragged in a ragged breath.

“There,” I whispered.

Then his hand closed around my wrist.

His eyes opened—amber with the wolf, clear despite the fever. He moved with astonishing speed for a man half bled dry, pulling me close enough that I felt the edge of an unsheathed claw against my pulse.

“Who sent you?” he rasped.

“No one.”

“Bloodfang?”

“If Bloodfang had sent me, I wouldn’t have removed the silver.”

His gaze cut to Grandfather, then the door, measuring exits and threats. The claw pressed harder.

Grandfather cocked the shotgun behind him.

“Release my granddaughter,” he said, “or she’ll have to stitch the back of your skull as well.”

For one suspended second, nobody moved.

Then the stranger let go.

His head struck the table. He was unconscious before I caught his shoulder.

Grandfather lowered the gun but not his temper. “A handsome stranger bleeding beside a river. We have seen this story.”

“He was in a ravine.”

“That distinction will comfort me when his pack burns down the cabin.”

I threaded a needle. “You can lecture while you hold the wound closed.”

“I intend to.” He planted both hands against the stranger’s ribs. “Fourteen months ago, you found Jason Caldwell half-dead by the river. Six months later, he remembered he was Alpha of Bloodfang—and conveniently remembered the noblewoman waiting to marry him.”

“I remember.”

“You waited for him.”

“I remember that too.”

Jason had stood on this porch and promised to break his arranged match. Three months later, a trader brought us a pack bulletin with Jason smiling beside his new Luna, Clara Thorne. Jason returned only after the wedding, dressed in black silk and wearing another woman’s scent.

He had offered me a cottage on his estate, servants, and the honor of becoming his private mistress.

I had offered him a kettle to the head.

Grandfather watched me pull the first suture tight. “Heartbreak has not improved your judgment.”

“This isn’t about my heart.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” I tied off the stitch. “It’s about refusing to become the sort of person who steps over a dying man.”

His anger faltered. Only for a moment.

We worked in silence after that. Twelve stitches. A rib binding. Willow bark for the fever and comfrey packed around the torn muscle. By the time I washed the blood from my hands, darkness had filled the windows.

The stranger lay on our spare cot, breathing steadily at last.

Grandfather picked up the iron pendant with a strip of cloth. “Military issue.”

“You recognize it?”

“No. But rogues don’t carry minted iron or wear boots with hidden knife sheaths.” He nodded toward the stranger’s left boot. “And ordinary soldiers don’t have assassination scars.”

A thin white line circled the man’s throat, old and clean—the mark of a garrote that had failed.

I checked the window again. No lights moved among the trees.

“Two nights,” Grandfather said. “When he can stand, he leaves.”

“One night if his fever breaks.”

“And if he says anything about fate, mates, or eternal devotion, I’m loading silver.”

“Agreed.”

A faint sound came from the cot.

The stranger was awake again. This time his eyes were blue-gray, the wolf-light gone. His gaze settled on the pendant in Grandfather’s hand.

“My name is Lucian,” he said.

His voice was weak, but there was command beneath it—the kind men obeyed before they realized they had chosen to.

“Do you know where you are?” I asked.

“In neutral territory, north of the border creek.”

“Do you know who attacked you?”

“Yes.”

Grandfather and I exchanged a look.

“No lost memory?” he asked.

Lucian’s mouth curved without humor. “I remember everything.”

Outside, a branch cracked beneath a heavy boot.

Lucian turned his head toward the shutter.

“They found me,” he said.