Chapter 2: My husband had sex with my stepmother

Lyra's POV

"I'm your mother. Your biological mother." Something in her voice went soft. "We've been searching for you for so long. We only just found you."

I'd always known I was adopted. My mom—my real mom, the one who raised me—never hid it from me.

And now, on the very day she died, my biological parents had appeared out of nowhere, offering to take me home?

The timing was too perfect, too cruel. The Moon Goddess must have been laughing at me.

"What's your decision, Lyra?" On the phone, my biological mother urged me, as if she knew I was teetering on the edge.

I didn't believe it—was this some elaborate scam?

But even so, a thread of hope still lingered in my heart, the way a drowning person would grasp at any piece of driftwood within reach.

Mom was dead. I couldn't save her.

But Mia was still alive, still fighting, and she needed treatment I couldn't afford on my own.

"Can you give me a hundred thousand dollars?" I asked, my voice steadier now.

If they were scammers, this would end the conversation quickly.

She was silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her tone shifted—became confident, almost superior.

"Of course, but on the condition that you return to our side."

My hand trembled around the phone.

Eighteen years. A lifetime.

And now, at the moment when I had nothing left, someone was telling me I was never truly alone.

I didn't know whether to cry or laugh, because fate had a cruel sense of humor. It waited until I lost the mother who loved me, until the person I trusted most had abandoned me, until I was standing at the edge of my life. Only then did it decide to return something to me.

The choice was obvious. I didn't even need to think about it.

I drew a shuddering breath, my chest so tight I could barely form the words.

"I agree to return to you, but I have conditions."

"It's only a hundred thousand, right? We'll give you a million," she said, as casually as if it were nothing. "The driver will come get you now."

A million dollars.

How ironic. After all these years as Luna of the Moonfire Pack, I had exactly two hundred dollars to my name—yet this woman, who claimed to be my biological mother, could toss out a million dollars like it was nothing.

Love. It turned out it wasn't worth a damn thing.

"Two hours," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I'll send you the address in two hours. I have something I need to do first."

A pause, then a low, knowing hum. "Of course, darling. Take your time. We'll be waiting."

I ended the call and forced my legs to carry me to the emergency wing, where a nurse led me in silence to a small, sterile room. My mother lay still beneath a white sheet. I pressed one last kiss to her forehead, signed the paperwork with a steady hand that surprised even me, and walked out into the cool night air with a single, crystalline thought cutting through the grief:

I want to sever the mate bond. I want to be free.

The drive to the pack house passed in a blur of streetlights and tears.

My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles were white, and Elle was a constant presence in my mind, her grief feeding mine until I couldn't tell where her emotions ended and mine began.

The mate bond pulsed weakly between us and Vern—but now it felt like a noose around my neck.

I wanted it gone.

By the time I pulled into the circular driveway, my tears had dried and something colder had taken their place. I got out and walked toward the entrance with steady steps.

I'd prepared a dozen different opening lines, but when I pushed open the front door, every coherent thought evaporated.

The scent hit me first—sickeningly sweet, unmistakably intimate.

Then I heard it: a woman's voice, breathy and shameless, echoing from upstairs.

"Oh God, Vern, yes—right there—"

Elle howled in my mind.

My legs carried me up the stairs, each step bringing the sounds into sharper focus—her moans, his grunts, the rhythmic creak of the bed.

My mother had just died.

And he was here.

Fucking someone else.

"Your phone keeps buzzing," the woman panted. "Aren't you going to answer?"

"Why would I? I'm busy." Vern's voice was dismissive. "Nothing Lyra does is important enough to interrupt this. She knows better than to bother me unless it's an emergency."

"And if it is?"

"Then she'll figure it out herself. That's what she's supposed to do—handle things so I don't have to be bothered." He laughed, low and cruel. "I married her to cover our tracks, remember? The bond keeps her compliant. Perfect arrangement."

I stood frozen, my hand pressed against the wall.

The mate bond had been nothing but a leash to him.

Through the crack in the door, I saw her—naked, astride Vern's body, moving with practiced ease.

Then she turned her head.

Sylvia O'Brien. Vern's stepmother.

My stomach lurched.

"You know," Sylvia purred, trailing her nails down Vern's chest, "I feel a little bad about earlier. I didn't mean to hit that woman's car so hard. Do you think Lyra will make a fuss?"

Hit that woman's car.

My mother. The hit-and-run.

Time stopped.

Sylvia. Sylvia had killed my mother.

"Don't worry about it," Vern said, his voice lazy. "It's done. Lyra will get over it. She always does."

"I suppose." Sylvia's laugh was light, careless. "I did leave pretty quickly. But really, what else could I do? Couldn't risk anyone getting my plate number."

My mother had been lying in the road, dying, while Sylvia drove away.

And Vern was protecting her, planning how to keep me silent, using my sister's life as leverage.

He knew. He must have known. And he had chosen this—chosen to block my calls, chosen to be here with her while my mother died alone.

Four years of trust—and this was what it had been built on.

Elle's rage exploded through me. "Kill them," she snarled.

I took a deep breath.

Then I kicked the door open.

Sylvia screamed and scrambled for the sheet.

Vern just leaned back against the headboard, watching me with cold amber eyes.

"Who gave you permission to enter?"

His tone carried accusation, not guilt.

"I heard everything," I said. "Every word."

"So what?" He reached for his shirt and draped it over Sylvia's shoulders. "You were going to find out eventually. We're done hiding."

He didn't even ask about my mother, didn't ask why I had called so many times.

Sylvia peered out from behind him. "Oh, Lyra. You look upset. Is this about earlier? The little accident? These things always seem worse than they are."

Little accident. Right.

My mother was dead and this woman was calling it a "little accident."

"It was an accident," Sylvia said, her tone soothing. "I panicked. But I'm sure she's fine—probably just some bruises. You're overreacting, sweetheart."

"Overreacting." I repeated the word.

"Yes." Vern stood up, walking toward me. "You're being dramatic, Lyra. Now, you need to calm down and—"

"I want a divorce," I said.

What was there left to say? I had thought Vern had been deceived, but it was clear now he was no innocent—he was an accomplice, someone who had shielded a murderer. In that moment, four years of love shattered completely. He disgusted me.

Vern's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"I, Lyra Lopez, reject you, Vern Nelson, as my mate and my Alpha."

The formal words of rejection burned on my tongue. "I sever our bond. I renounce my title. I want nothing to do with you."

Genuine shock flashed across his face.

Then his hand shot out and grabbed my throat, slamming me back against the wall.

"You think you can reject me?" His voice dropped to a growl. "You think I'll just let you walk away?"

The pressure was crushing, forcing me to my knees.

My wolf whimpered under the onslaught of his dominance.

But I forced myself to meet his eyes.

"You... don't... own me," I gasped out.

His grip tightened. "Without me, you're nothing. Without me, your sister dies. So you're going to take back those words right now, and we're going to forget this conversation ever happened."

My lungs burned.

"Vern, darling, you're going to hurt her." Sylvia's voice cut through. "Let her go. She's just upset about the accident. She'll calm down."

The pressure vanished.

I collapsed forward, gasping and coughing.

Sylvia crouched beside me and tilted my chin up.

"I know you're upset, sweetheart," she said softly. "But think clearly. If you reject Vern, you lose everything. Your home, your income, your sister's medical care."

Her thumb traced across my cheek. "Be smart, Lyra. Let this go. Nobody has to know about Vern and me. You can keep your title, your comfortable life. All you have to do is stay quiet."

She leaned closer. "But if you fight us, well... accidents keep happening. Your sister's condition is so delicate. It would be such a shame if something went wrong with her treatment. If funding suddenly got cut off."

My blood ran cold.

Elle surged, and before I could stop myself, my hand cracked across Sylvia's face.

The sound echoed like a gunshot.

Sylvia staggered backward, eyes wide with shock.

"You—you hit me!" she gasped.

"So what?" I said. "And I'll do worse. Much worse."

I stood up slowly. "You think I'm weak? You expect me to just accept it?"

I turned to him. "I meant what I said. I reject you. The bond, the title, all of it. I'm done."

"You'll come crawling back," Vern snarled. "When the money runs out, when your sister needs her next treatment, you'll come back and beg. And I'll make you grovel for it."

I met his gaze. "Watch me."

Then I turned and walked out.

My hand throbbed where I had hit Sylvia.

My throat ached where Vern had choked me.

But for the first time in four years, I felt like I could breathe.

I made it to my room and locked the door. Then I leaned against it, pressing my fist against my mouth to muffle the sobs.

Mom was dead. Vern had betrayed me. Mia's treatments couldn't be interrupted.

But I was still standing.

My phone vibrated. The notification from earlier—my biological parents' number, the million dollars they'd promised.

I stared at it for a long moment, then made a decision—I transferred the entire amount to Mia's medical account. She was all I had left.

On my way back, I'd already sent them the address.

Now the driver had texted me—he was here. Without packing a single thing, I splashed cold water on my face and walked out the door without looking back.