Bittersweet Werewolf-Kurzgeschichten & Love after Marriage-Kurzromane

By the third year of my mate bond with Caesar, the reigning Alpha, the she-wolf who had once abandoned him returned. For the thousand-and-first time, I launched into my well-rehearsed performance—the devoted, desperate mate. "Do you still love me?" I asked. And for the thousand-and-first time, Caesar turned away without a word, his silence a colder rejection than any shout. On the surface, I was the picture of heartbreak. Behind closed doors, I went straight to Caesar's uncle to collect a hefty payment for my performance. "Three years of this acting," I said. "Can I leave now?"

The day before the ceremony, my Alpha Heir mate Lysander brought home an Omega who still bore an old mark — and insisted she become his Luna. The beautiful, fragile-looking Omega leaned against his chest, her eyes red. "I can't. If you keep me, my mate will die without me." Lysander answered lightly, "Then I'll give up my Luna-to-be. We'll trade. I'll order him to break your mark at once." The Omega laughed softly. "That’s for the best. But are you sure you don't mind?" Lysander smiled back. "A dull puppet who spent her whole life waiting to be marked by me. How could she compare to you?" She glanced around the chamber and pouted. "I don't like any of this. It was all prepared for her." Lysander kissed her forehead. "I'll replace all of it. Something better. For you." Their love story became the talk of the realm. And no one cared that I was the "dull puppet" who had been traded away.

After my parents died in battle saving the Alpha, Theron Blackwood, the Blackmane Pack took me in as an orphan. To repay them for saving his life, Alpha Theron laid down a rule: whoever became my mate would be the next Alpha. Growing up, I always believed that person would be Damian Blackwood. He was Alpha Theron's chosen heir and the man who had pulled me away from Redfang's silver blades twelve years earlier. I loved him, loved him enough to believe him without question, no matter what he said or did. But on the night of the blood moon, when the groom who looked exactly like Damian pushed back his hood, I instinctively reached for the mole at the corner of his eye. The ink wasn't dry yet. The mole smeared. I froze, realizing that the man at the altar, the man who had just exchanged vows with me, was not Damian. He was Damian's youngest uncle, Adrian Blackwood, identical to him except for the missing mole at the corner of his eye. Damian had thrown our mating contract, and me, to someone else. He was certain I loved him more than life itself, certain he could switch everything back before long. But this time, I was done bending to his will. So the first thing I did that night was wipe away the painted mole, along with twelve years of love.