Escaping The Arrogant Dark Moon Alpha

Serena POV:

The Beta's jaw went slack, and the blood drained from his face, leaving behind a waxy, mottled pallor.

He took an involuntary step back, his boots grating harshly upon the flagstones.

"Rejection?" he breathed, the word a profanity in the hallowed silence of the corridor.

To sever the cord woven by the Goddess was an act of profound sacrilege, a self-inflicted wound from which the soul was said to never recover.

"A jest, Lady Serena," he stammered, attempting a laugh that caught in his throat like a shard of glass. "The Alpha merely wishes you to be unburdened. The castle's management is a heavy charge."

"I am not jesting," I said, my voice cutting through his strained courtesy.

I allowed a fraction of my true nature to bleed into the air between us.

I was not merely a spurned mate; the blood of the White Wolves, an ancient and formidable line touched by the moon's first light, ran dormant in my veins.

Even cloaked, its weight was a palpable thing, and the Beta's gaze fell from my face to the dusty tips of his own boots.

I reached out and took the transfer list from his hands.

"The items will be conveyed to the South Tower at first light," I said, the cold finality in my tone precluding any further argument. "Good night."

I shut the heavy oak door before he could say another word.

The definitive clack of the iron latch was the only sound in the room.

I moved not to the desk, but into the adjoining chamber where the soft rhythm of Leo's breathing was a fragile metronome in the darkness.

I sat on the edge of the cot, the crude effigy of the wolf a solid weight in my palm.

My thumb traced the edge of a dark, flaking stain on the wood.

Blood.

I recalled the sight of Leo's hands the day before, held carefully behind his back, his excuse a clumsy fiction about a thorn bush.

He had torn the flesh of his own palms carving this tribute for a sire who did not even recognise his scent.

A knot of cold fury tightened in my stomach, so sharp it felt as if I had swallowed broken glass.

I placed the carving back under his pillow and smoothed his soft hair.

Returning to the outer room, I found the transfer list lying upon the secretaire where I had dropped it.

At the document's foot was a space designated for the Luna's seal of office.

From a drawer, I produced my own personal signet, a simple piece of jade.

I pressed its face into the pool of cooling, dark blue wax, leaving the crisp impression of my given name, Serena, rather than the title of Luna.

From beneath the secretaire, I drew out a heavy iron lockbox.

The heavy silver keys to the vault struck the bottom of the iron box with a deadened thud. They were followed by the worn ledgers, their pages still holding the faint, bitter aroma of the herbs I used to treat the ink. Finally, the Luna's official silver seal was laid atop the pile. The closing of the lid and the turning of the key in the lock felt less like a loss and more like the shedding of a great and cumbersome weight.

I pulled the Rejection contract toward me again.

I read through the standard clauses, my eyes scanning the heavy ink.

I dipped the quill and, with a hand that felt strangely light, added a new stipulation, the nib scratching into the grain of the parchment.

"Upon the severing of this bond, the pup known as Leo shall be stripped of the Dark Moon Pack name. He shall be reduced to the status of a Rogue, belonging to no pack, and shall leave with his mother."

A Rogue was a wolf without a pack, an outcast forced to wander the neutral lands.

It was a life of peril, but it was a life of substance, infinitely preferable to the hollow existence of a ghost in one's own house.

From the South Wing, a sound drifted through the thick stone — the bright, careless peal of Elena's laughter, followed by the deeper, rumbling timbre of Kael's own.

For six years, I had been aware of his instinctual gravitation toward my chambers. He would pace the corridor outside whenever the beast within him grew restless, drawing my scent — that sharp amalgam of cedarwood and wild berries — into his lungs like a tonic before returning to Elena's bed. He had used my very essence to quiet the monster in his soul, while giving his heart to a woman whose scent was as simple and cloying as vanilla sugar.

The sound made my stomach turn.

I closed my eyes, and the memory of Leo's fever resurfaced, unbidden.

He had been convulsing, his small body a furnace against the cold sheets.

I had reached for Kael across the Mind-Link, the telepathic conduit that bound the pack.

Kael, I beg you, *I had projected into the ether. Leo is burning. He requires the Healer.

A void had answered. Then, the link was violently severed. It was not a door slamming shut, but the sensation of a physical cord being cut within my own skull, leaving a profound and ringing silence where his presence had been. He had blocked me, I learned later, because Elena's slumber had been disturbed by a nightmare and she required absolute quiet.

I opened my eyes, the memory transmuting the last dregs of sorrow into a cold, unyielding resolve.

I folded the Rejection contract and placed it inside my dress pocket.

*Tomorrow, I would not merely hand over keys. I would make Kael choose — and live with what he chose. *