The Mark That Alpha Gave His Mistress Became the Painting He Gifted Me

I was the Luna publicly witnessed by the entire Pack, declared to bear his “one and only mark.”

Three years later, I saw another Omega on social media, her pregnant belly cradled in her hands—and the permanent flame mark on her skin was identical to the painting in my living room that he once called “our future.”

He told me it was duty, an alliance, an accidental heat gone out of control.

But when the assembly hall collapsed, he hesitated for a single second between me and the pregnant woman—then ran to her.

The night I formally rejected our bond and walked away carrying the true Alpha heir inside me, he finally realized he had destroyed the only bloodline that truly belonged to him—and by the time he dropped to his knees begging me to return, it was already too late.

……

I saw the photo while scrolling through social media.

An Omega stood in front of a mirror, hand resting on her swollen belly, smiling softly. Across her stomach was a black arc of intertwining flames, the tail end marked by a crescent-shaped split. The caption read: "Thank you to my Alpha for giving me new life."

I stared at that pattern, my finger frozen on the screen.

I'd seen that design before.

Three months ago, Ryan had personally hung a massive abstract painting in the living room of our vacation house. He'd held me from behind and said it symbolized strength and protection, that he'd prepared it for our future.

I'd laughed and asked him, "When did you start studying art?"

He'd reached over to tuck my hair behind my ear and said quietly, "Anything that's ours, I take seriously."

Now, remembering it, my stomach twisted.

In the werewolf world, every Alpha's marking pattern is unique.

They can't match.

I zoomed in on the photo, then compared it to a picture of that painting on my phone. The curves, the angles, the split at the end—all identical.

In that instant, I suddenly understood. That wasn't a decorative painting.

It was the design of the permanent mark he'd left on another woman.

I suddenly realized our so-called vacation house had never been for me.

It was the second home he'd prepared for his pregnant mistress.

I sat in the living room, phone screen still glowing, minutes ticking by.

I could hear my breathing slow.

Ryan was the Alpha of Blackridge Pack, and I was his Luna.

Three years ago at our coming-of-age ceremony, the Moon Goddess witnessed him claiming me as his mate.

He'd marked me in front of everyone, and they'd all cheered. I became what they called the luckiest woman alive.

That day he'd held my hand and told everyone: "She is my only Luna. I will give you only one mark."

The elders had bowed to me. Other Omegas had looked at me with envy.

Those words echoed in my mind now.

I'd thought it was a promise.

Now, he'd given his Alpha mark to another Omega and gotten her pregnant.

I looked down at my wrist.

For three years, I'd attended meetings with him, managed pack affairs, soothed the elders on his behalf.

I'd thought we were sharing the burden.

Turns out I was just part of a performance.

My phone buzzed again.

Someone in the comments asked the Omega: "Is this Blackridge Alpha's mark? It looks familiar."

She replied with a smiley face.

I closed the app and placed my phone face-down on the table.

The keys to the vacation house were still by the entrance. I remembered him saying recently that the place was peaceful and good for rest.

He'd specifically emphasized I shouldn't go there much lately.

Turns out it wasn't prepared for me.

I stood up, still clinging to a shred of hope.

Maybe it was a misunderstanding. Maybe it was the angle. Maybe just a coincidence.

I grabbed the car keys, didn't even change my coat, and drove straight to the vacation house.

The whole way I kept telling myself he'd explain.

He'd say it was just duty.

He'd say it wasn't what I thought.

The car turned onto the familiar mountain road, my hands gripping the steering wheel tight. The vacation house soon came into view.

Every light downstairs was on.

The house blazed bright against the darkness, almost blinding.

The last bit of self-comfort inside me began to crumble.

My phone suddenly vibrated.

That account had updated again.

I stopped the car, fingers trembling as I opened the notification.

A new photo was uploaded.

The image showed her pregnant belly, the black flame mark clearly visible.

In the corner of the frame, that abstract painting hung on the wall behind her.

Her caption read: "Our home."

I stared at the photo, my chest hollow.

All the explanations, all the wishful thinking, all the self-comfort—it all collapsed in that moment.

I sat in the car, staring at that brightly lit house.

The last shred of hope extinguished completely.