An Affair with My Mate's Father

Anastasia’s POV

“…I promise to give my all to this Pack and make it the strongest in the country. The goddess be my witness. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming—and may you all have a lovely night.”

The hall erupts in thunderous applause. Cheers roll like a wave, rising and crashing as my mate—Damon Pierce, Alpha of the Silverfang Pack—steps down from the podium. His smile is broad, warm, magnetic. He shakes hands, clasps shoulders, and waves as if every soul in the room belongs to him.

But when he finally slides into the seat beside me, that warmth vanishes. The air shifts. My skin prickles. His aura is no longer the golden glow of a leader, but the icy chokehold of a predator.

He leans in, his lips brushing mine with deceptive tenderness. The crowd sees a loving Alpha kissing his Luna. I feel the monster hiding in plain sight. His finger traces my cheek, wiping at an imaginary smudge—then his eyes darken, cruel and cutting. Beneath the table, his heel grinds down on my toe.

I nearly yelp, but swallow the sound, my body locked in terror.

“Try not to look so pale, honey,” he hisses through his smile, his voice dipped in venom. “This isn’t a funeral.”

A lump swells in my throat. My hands tremble in my lap, but I dare not cry. Not here. Not where cameras flash and Pack members whisper. A Luna breaking down in public would be a scandal.

And Damon loves a scandal—just not when it involves him.

“Does it still hurt?” His tone is syrupy-sweet, but his finger digs into my cheek, right where the bruise blooms beneath the concealer.

I shake my head. “No.” The lie cracks in my voice, and a tear betrays me, sliding down my cheek.

Last night’s beating plays on repeat in my mind—the first punch so heavy I thought I’d black out. I wish I had. Instead, he kept going until his rage was fed. Until I could no longer feel where the bruises ended and my body began.

“I’d apologize,” Damon murmurs, brushing my hair back like a doting husband, “but we both know I’d be lying. Next time, keep your filthy claws off my phone.”

My blood runs cold. He knows. He always knows.

I hadn’t meant to pry. I hadn’t gone looking. But when his phone buzzed and lit up beside me, curiosity had betrayed me. One glance—that was all it took. A nude. A stranger’s body. Filthy words. A promise of what they’d do next time.

He caught me holding it. And he made me pay.

Now, here I sit. Luna of the Silverfang Pack. Envy of every woman in this hall. And yet, I am nothing more than Damon’s punching bag. His possession. His prisoner.

The crowd laughs at a toast. My chest aches with silence.

Then—suddenly—I smell it.

A scent so sharp, so intoxicating, it sears through the fog of my misery. Strong. Dangerous. Forbidden. It dries my tears before they fall. My pulse quickens.

That scent belongs to only one man.

“Father!” Damon’s voice rings with boyish excitement as he shoots to his feet.

And just like that, Victor Pierce steps into view. Damon’s father. My mate’s father.

The air in the hall bends around him as though it answers to his presence. He towers over the room, his six-foot-five frame a wall of power and sin. Sleek black hair, iron jaw shadowed with stubble, broad shoulders wrapped in tailored silk. Time has carved him into something sharper, something impossibly magnetic.

And gods help me—his presence does things to me it shouldn’t. My body betrays me every time he’s near, responding with a hunger I can’t control.

“Congratulations, son,” Victor says, clasping Damon’s shoulder. “You’ve done well in just a year. I knew you wouldn’t fail me.”

Damon chuckles, smug, and throws a glare over his shoulder at me. “Fix your smile. It’s revolting.”

Then Victor’s gaze finds me. “Nice to see you again… Anastasia.”

My name on his tongue is a dangerous caress, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring each syllable. My heart stutters. My body flushes.

I bow my head. “Good evening, Sir. I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

His chuckle is low, rough, sending heat down my spine. “Very much so.”

Damon’s phone buzzes again. He glances at it, frowns, then forces a grin. “Excuse me, Father. Urgent matter.” He doesn’t so much as look at me before striding away.

And just like that, I’m alone with Victor.

His storm-gray eyes stay locked on me, unblinking, unreadable. Something smolders in their depths, something I shouldn’t see. Then—finally—he steps back, joining a group of men across the room.

Relief. Distance. Air.

But when I dare to glance at him, he catches me staring. He smirks, lips curving around the rim of his glass as he drinks, his tongue grazing his lower lip in a slow, deliberate sweep.

Heat coils in my belly. A strangled sound escapes me before I bolt, weaving through the crowd, desperate for Damon. For escape.

I can’t find him. Not in the hall, not by the bar. Panic claws at me until I near the restrooms.

Voices spill out from the men’s room. I freeze. Damon’s voice, low and rough, slides through the crack of the door.

“Do I fuck you so damn good you can’t keep your feet steady?”

My stomach twists. Tears sting my eyes. I should leave. I should run before he sees me. But then—

Another voice. Feminine. Breathless. Familiar.

“Oh, yes, baby. You fuck me so good. Oh, gods…”

No.

The world tilts. My chest caves in.

Because that voice—that laugh—that moan—

It belongs to my best friend.