After My Alpha Rejected Me for Another Luna

The Luna quarters smelled like lemon oil and old wood. Clean. Impersonal. The kind of room that had been maintained but not lived in, waiting for someone to fill it with the small debris of a life.

I set my single duffel bag on the bed and looked around. High ceilings. A window that faced the forest. A door on the far wall that I knew, from the brief tour Declan had given me, led to an adjoining sitting room that connected to Layton's Alpha suite. Not directly. But close enough that I could hear footsteps if I listened.

I didn't plan to listen.

I was unpacking — three shirts, two pairs of jeans, underwear I'd washed in gas station sinks for the last four months — when I heard the sound. A low huff, followed by the scrape of claws on hardwood.

I turned.

The wolf-dog in the doorway was enormous. Easily a hundred and twenty pounds, maybe more, with a thick gray coat and amber eyes that locked onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. He stood perfectly still, watching me, and for a long moment neither of us moved.

Then he walked into the room, crossed directly to where I stood, and dropped something at my feet.

A chew toy. Rubber. Shaped like a bone. Covered in teeth marks and slobber.

I blinked down at it. Then up at him.

He sat. His tail thumped once against the floor. His eyes didn't leave my face.

"Uh," I said. "Thanks?"

Another thump.

I bent down slowly and picked up the toy. It was warm and disgusting and weirdly touching. He leaned forward and pressed his enormous head against my knee, and something in my chest cracked open just a little.

I sank down onto the floor. He climbed into my lap — all hundred-plus pounds of him — and I let him. I buried my face in his fur and breathed.

He smelled like pine and dirt and something warm underneath. Safe.

I didn't cry. I hadn't cried since the rejection. But I sat there on the floor of a room that wasn't mine, holding a dog I'd just met, and for the first time in months I didn't feel like I was about to disappear.

"You must be Buster," I whispered into his fur.

His tail thumped again.

From the doorway, a voice: "He doesn't usually do that."

I looked up. Layton stood in the threshold, one hand braced against the frame, watching us with an expression I couldn't read.

"Do what?" I asked.

"Trust someone in the first ten minutes."

I looked down at Buster, who had now rolled onto his back in my lap, exposing his belly with zero dignity. "He gave me his toy."

"I saw."

Layton's gaze lingered on us for another beat, then he straightened. "Dinner's at seven. Formal. The pack will want to meet you properly."

"Okay."

He turned to leave, then paused. "Buster sleeps in my suite. If he bothers you—"

"He won't," I said quickly.

Layton nodded once and disappeared down the hall.

Buster looked up at me, tongue lolling, completely unbothered.

"You're a good judge of character, aren't you?" I murmured.

Another thump.

I stayed on the floor until my legs went numb.

---

The formal dining hall was smaller than Ashvale's but no less intimidating. Long table. High-backed chairs. Ranked wolves already seated when I arrived, their conversations dropping to murmurs as I stepped through the door.

I'd chosen the only decent dress I owned — dark green, simple, nothing that would draw attention. I'd left my hair down to cover the mark on my neck. My hands were steady. I'd practiced that.

I scanned the table for Layton. Found him at the head, standing, waiting. The chair to his right — the Luna seat — was empty.

I started toward it.

Then I saw her.

Maren was already seated. Not in the Luna chair, but the one directly to its left. She wore pale gold silk that caught the candlelight, her dark hair swept up, her posture perfect. She smiled at me as I approached.

"Kensley," she said warmly. "We saved you a seat."

She gestured to the chair two places down from Layton. Not beside him. Not in the Luna-adjacent position she currently occupied. Two places down, between a young delta I didn't know and an empty chair.

Every wolf at the table was watching.

I looked at Layton. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were on Maren, and something in his jaw had gone tight.

I could fight this. I could say something. I could claim the seat that was contractually mine.

I didn't.

I smiled at Maren — warm, unbothered, the smile I'd spent years perfecting in a foster home where the wrong tone could cost me dinner — and took the seat she'd indicated.

"Thank you," I said.

Maren's smile widened. "Of course. You must find it so different here, without a pack of your own to draw on. Ironridge has such deep traditions. I imagine the adjustment period must be quite something for someone from your background."

The table went very quiet.

I kept my smile in place. "I'm learning."

"I'm sure Layton appreciates how adaptable you are," Maren continued, her voice honey-sweet. "He has such particular taste. It's wonderful that you're so willing to accommodate."

My hand moved under the table, fingers brushing the scar beneath my collar. I caught myself. Stopped. Folded my hands in my lap instead.

"Ironridge is lucky to have such dedicated members," I said evenly.

Maren's eyes glittered. She opened her mouth to respond.

"Maren." Layton's voice cut across the table. Quiet. Flat. "The Gamma's report. Now."

She blinked. Turned toward him. "Alpha?"

"Your father's report on the northern border. You were going to summarize it for the table."

"Oh. Yes. Of course." She launched into a detailed account of patrol patterns and rogue activity, and the conversation shifted.

I didn't look at Layton. I looked at my plate and breathed and told myself I was fine.

Across the table, Declan caught my eye. He didn't smile. He just nodded once, a small gesture that somehow steadied me.

I made it through dinner. I answered questions when asked. I laughed at appropriate moments. I did not reach for my neck again.

When the meal finally ended and wolves began to disperse, I slipped out before anyone could corner me for conversation. I walked back to my quarters, closed the door, and leaned against it.

Buster was waiting on the other side.

He looked at me. I looked at him.

"Rough night," I said.

He walked over, sat on my feet, and refused to move.

I laughed. It came out shaky. "You're not supposed to be in here, are you?"

He yawned.

I slid down the door and sat on the floor. He climbed into my lap again, and I wrapped my arms around him and closed my eyes.

---

The next morning, Buster refused to walk.

Declan had invited me to join the pack's morning patrol route — observation only, he'd said carefully, since my wolf was still dormant. I'd agreed because sitting alone in my quarters felt worse than being watched by a pack that didn't trust me yet.

Buster had other plans.

He sat down in the middle of the path, ten feet from the pack house door, and stared at me.

"Come on," I coaxed. "We're going to be late."

He didn't move.

I tugged gently on his collar. Nothing. I tried a treat from my pocket. He sniffed it, looked at me, looked back at the pack house, and sat harder.

"Buster, I don't—"

Footsteps behind me. I turned.

Layton stood in the doorway, already dressed for the run, his expression mildly annoyed. "He does this sometimes."

"Does what?"

"Refuses to move until I'm with him." He walked down the steps and stopped beside me. Buster's tail immediately started wagging.

Layton looked at the dog. Then at me. "Apparently now he won't move unless we're both here."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

We stood there for a beat, neither of us moving. Then Layton sighed, gestured toward the path, and started walking. I followed. Buster trotted happily between us.

The pack was waiting at the forest edge. When they saw the three of us approaching together — Layton, me, and the wolf-dog who had appointed himself our chaperone — I saw more than one set of eyebrows rise.

Declan grinned. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.

We ran. I stayed human, kept to the edge of the group, my breath fogging in the cold morning air. Layton shifted and led from the front, a massive dark wolf whose presence commanded every other wolf in the pack. But twice, when the group's pace started to pull ahead, he slowed. Deliberately. Enough that I was never left behind.

I noticed. I didn't say anything.

Buster noticed too. He stayed at my side the entire time, occasionally looking back at Layton's wolf like he was checking to make sure his Alpha was doing his job correctly.

When we returned to the pack house, sweaty and tired and weirdly lighter than I'd felt in months, I found a plate waiting outside my door.

Breakfast. Still warm. No note.

I picked it up, looked down the hall toward Layton's suite, and smiled.

---

That night, I made dinner.

Not for the pack. Just for him. I'd noticed the way he skipped meals when he was buried in pack business, the way Declan sometimes brought him food that went cold on his desk. So I cooked — nothing fancy, just pasta and vegetables and bread I'd bought in town — and at ten PM, when I knew he'd still be working, I carried a plate to his study door.

I set it down quietly. Turned to leave.

The door opened.

Layton stood in the threshold, looking down at the plate, then up at me. His hair was disheveled. His shirt sleeves were rolled up. He looked exhausted.

"You don't have to do this," he said.

"I know."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then he bent down, picked up the plate, and stepped back into his study. The door started to close.

"Kensley."

I turned back.

His eyes were dark and unreadable. "Again tomorrow."

It wasn't a question.

"Okay," I said.

The door closed.

I walked back to my quarters, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling. My hand drifted to the mark on my neck. It was still warm.

I fell asleep like that, my fingers pressed against the place where his teeth had been, and dreamed of cedar and jasmine.