His Father's Mistress (18+)
Catherine's Pov
“I could f*ck you better than your husband though.” He smirks, swirling his drink lazily in his hand like he’s already won. “All you need is to say yes.”
I tear my gaze away from the stranger and stare down at the crowd below. The music pulses louder, the bass thrumming through the floorboards, vibrating under my feet. My head is fuzzy from the wine, just enough to blur the edges of the room but not enough to drown out the humiliationa festering in my chest.
It’s stupid, but for a second, I feel like I know him. We’ve been out here for what—twenty minutes? Half an hour? Long enough to share a cigarette, to talk about nothing and everything. Long enough for it to already be more than Evander’s given me in three years of marriage.
Tonight, Evander’s hosting another one of his stupid galas. This time, it’s to celebrate the return of his long-lost adoptive son—some relic from his first wife, the one who actually mattered. The one who left him. And yet, here I am, the replacement no one wanted, shoved into the background like a stain on the wallpaper.
I’m not even supposed to be here. Normally, I’m locked away during public events, too human to be paraded around with the rest of his perfect werewolf court. But tonight, he let me stay,only to spend the entire evening ignoring me while Regina, his precious Luna and second bride, hangs off his arm like she owns him. Maybe she does.
I’m just the debt he collected. The human he married to settle a score with my dead father. Three years of being his trophy, his experiment, his punching bag. Three years of losing pieces of myself every time he looks at me like I’m something he scraped off his shoe.
That’s why I escaped to the balcony. That’s why I was halfway to drunk when this stranger showed up with a bottle of wine and a smirk. I refused at first, but then he started talking about the weather like it mattered, like I mattered, and suddenly I didn’t want to leave.
Now, I blink up at him. He’s handsome—annoyingly so. Sharp jaw, dark eyes, a silver hoop glinting in his ear under the dim balcony light. His white shirt is crisp, tucked neatly into black trousers held up by suspenders that match his messy curls. There’s something familiar about his voice, the way it curls around words like he’s laughing at a joke only he gets.
“It’s not about sex. I hate sex,” I mutter, pushing off the railing and stalking back into the room. The air inside is thick with perfume and sweat, the scent of wolves and wine cloying in my throat.
“Why?” He follows me without hesitation, setting his glass down on a side table with a quiet clink.
I drop onto the couch, exhaustion weighing me down. “It’s painful. I hate pain. Sometimes he uses paddles, cuffs, chains—like I’m some kind of toy he gets to break.” The words spill out before I can stop them. I’ve never said it out loud before. Never admitted how much it hurts.
“So you don’t like BDSM, then?” He tilts his head, that damn smirk still playing on his lips.
“I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed it. The others do, though.” The others. His wives, his concubines, the women who actually want him. “They’re disgusting,” I add with a scoff. “Begging for more, like they’re starving for it.”
“That’s because they enjoy it.” He shrugs like it’s that simple.
“But I don’t. And he doesn’t care. He’s never even said he loves me. I don’t think that’s how marriage is supposed to be.” The words taste bitter.
“I don’t know. I’m not married.” His grin widens as he shrugs.
I kick off my heels with a sigh, running a hand through my hair. It’s long, black, falling over my shoulders in waves. I spent hours trying to look good tonight—picked a dress that hugged my curves, did my makeup just right—only for Evander to take one look at me and call me a slut in front of his friends.
“But I know,” the stranger says, softer now, biting his lower lip like he’s holding back a laugh. “If I had a wife like you, she wouldn’t be able to walk every morning.”
“You’re being nasty. And too soft.” I roll my eyes, tipping my head back against the couch to hide the heat creeping up my neck.
It’s ridiculous. I’m telling him things I’ve never told anyone. Letting out the ugly, festering thoughts I’ve kept locked away because there’s no one else to listen. No friends, no family, no one who gives a damn.
“Maybe it’s because you deserve to be treated softly,” he murmurs.
Softly. The word sticks in my chest. No one’s ever treated me softly. Not my parents, who died before I could remember them. Not the shelter, where I grew up learning how to survive. And definitely not Evander, who took me at eighteen like I was just another transaction.
I don’t even know how to respond.
Slowly, he kneels before me, his broad shoulders swallowing the space between us. His hands glide up my thighs with deliberate, featherlight touches, so slow it’s maddening. Every inch of my skin prickles under his fingers, the rough pads of his calloused hands dragging against my softness, igniting something deep and primal inside me.
I shouldn’t want this. I don’t want this, at least, that’s what I tell myself. But my body betrays me, trembling under his touch like it’s been starved for it.
When I finally meet his gaze, those blue eyes hold me captive, tender yet hungry, like he wants to savor every second of this. My breath hitches as his thumb brushes over the damp fabric of my panties, the lightest touch sending electric shocks straight to my core.
“Has he ever touched you like this?” His voice is gravelly, rough with something that makes my stomach tighten. His fingers hook into the waistband, peeling the fabric down with agonizing patience, like he’s unwrapping something precious.
