The Housewife

The weekend was supposed to be our night—Lucas Howl and I had planned for it.

Like clockwork, he undressed me, his hands moving with precision yet devoid of warmth. Nothing seemed to stir his desire.

I knew how exhausting his days were as the pack's Beta, burdened by duty after duty.

So, I leaned in, hoping a kiss would reassure him. I wanted to tell him we didn't have to do this if he was too tired.

But the moment I touched him, he recoiled—like I was laced with wolfsbane.

He pushed past me as he bolted into the bathroom where the sounds of violent retching echoed. I was left standing, a wave of shame washing over me.

I had planned everything—the red wine, the music, the underwear, the perfume. I had envisioned a perfect night, but Lucas couldn't even bear to touch me.

Why?

I turned to the mirror, searching for an answer in my reflection.

Behind me, the gagging continued, each heave slicing deeper, over and over. It was as if my mate was vomiting out his revulsion for me.

"Grace, the wrinkles at the corners of your eyes could crush a fly. Your stretch marks hang loose and ugly. Your backside is flatter than a pancake. And you smell like a greasy diner."

Lucas, did I truly disgust you that much?

I clutched my robe tighter, but nothing could stop my tears from flowing.

I remembered 20-year-old Lucas, kneeling to kiss my toes, whispering that the moment he saw me, he knew—the Moon Goddess had made me for him.

I remembered 23-year-old Lucas standing before our families as we signed the mate bond contract. He was an untamed warrior that night, lost in his passion, keeping me awake until dawn.

I remembered 25-year-old Lucas, holding our newborn in his arms, swearing we wouldn't have another child—because a year without touching me had nearly driven him insane.

The toilet flushed, the sound jarring me back to the present.

I opened my eyes to see 31-year-old Lucas.

He exited the bathroom, rubbing his nose and avoiding my eyes. The passion we once shared was nothing more than a ghost between us.

He hadn't changed much from the man in my memories. The years as our pack's Beta had changed him, shaping him into a figure of formidable strength, his wildness growing with each passing year.

Women adored him.

And me? Seven years later, I was just a woman past her prime.

I gave up my own path to support him. I turned down the Wolfen Kingdom's offer of service, choosing instead to stay behind—raising our child, tending to the elders, cleaning the house, cooking meals, mowing the lawn…

Somewhere along the way, I lost myself.

Exhausted. Dull. Aging.

Even my mate found me so repulsive he had to vomit just from touching me.

Where was the fierce, radiant she-wolf I used to be—the one the pack once called their goddess?

"I'm sorry, Grace…" Lucas muttered, pressing a hand to his stomach like he could excuse it all away. "I must've eaten something bad."

My head dipped, the tears I refused to shed burning in my throat. Humiliation held my tongue captive.

My silence only made him impatient. "Are you going to cry again? Is that all you know how to do?"

His gaze sharpened, towering over me like a Beta scolding an Omega. "Grace, you're a grown woman, yet all you ever think about is that. Maybe you wouldn't be so desperate if you weren't so idle!

"Doing the same thing with the same person always—don't you ever get bored?"

The words echoed in my head, but the real blow had landed long before tonight. Our neighbor, Amy Reed's voice slithered back into my mind.

"I have a friend who keeps complaining that kissing his mate feels like kissing a slab of dead meat. Just the smell of her kills his mood.

"He told me that doing the same thing with the same person always made him want to die from boredom. If it weren't for the kid, he would've broken the mate bond already."

A violent shudder wracked my body as a ridiculous thought forced its way into my mind.

Was she talking about me? Was I the mate Lucas couldn't stand?