His Luna's Rage Will Break His Empire

Alessia POV: Valentina was a master of her craft. In the days that followed, she spun a narrative of tragedy and helplessness for the entire pack. She would sit in the common areas, her hand always resting on her belly, and speak in a soft, sorrowful voice about her beloved Marco. She painted herself as a broken-hearted widow, a saint carrying a hero’s legacy. The pack, grieving for their lost Beta, drank it all in. Her “discomfort” became a public spectacle. During a pack meeting about border patrols, she would suddenly gasp and press a hand to her forehead. “Alpha, I feel faint,” she’d murmur. And Santino, in the middle of giving a critical order, would bring the entire meeting to a halt. He would rush to her side, his voice a low, soothing rumble, and personally escort her back to her room. The pack warriors would look on, their respect for their Alpha at war with their growing unease. I began to notice a subtle shift in the pack's behavior. When I would enter a room, conversations would die down. Warriors who once greeted me with a respectful “Luna” would now avert their eyes. They started asking Santino about Valentina’s “health” and the “pup’s” needs, bypassing me entirely, as if I, their Luna, had become irrelevant. My role was being eroded, piece by piece. The most cutting insult came in the form of imitation. Valentina began wearing dresses in vibrant shades of red and gold—my colors. She was trying to wear my old skin, to replace the memory of the fiery, passionate woman I used to be with her own pale, manipulative version. She was stealing my past to build her future. I finally cornered Santino in his study, the one place she hadn't yet infiltrated. “We need to talk about Valentina,” I said, my voice tight with a restraint I could barely muster. “Her behavior is inappropriate.” He didn't even look up from the map he was studying. “She is grieving, Alessia. You're being emotional.” “She's undermining my position as Luna,” I insisted, my voice rising. “You're being intolerant,” he snapped, finally looking at me. His eyes were cold steel. “I expected more from you.” Then, his voice dropped, taking on the chilling undertone of the Alpha's Command. “You will see to it that Valentina's emotional needs are met. Do you understand me?” The Command wrapped around my soul, a cold, heavy chain. It didn't force my limbs, but it crushed my will. It was a violation, using the sacred power of the Alpha to control his own mate's feelings. It was a wound deeper than any blade could inflict, a betrayal that poisoned the very air I breathed. My connection to the forest, my one secret comfort, began to fade. I stopped my morning meditations. Sitting in silence only amplified the feeling of abandonment, the raw, gaping wound left by my mate's neglect. The trees' whispers now sounded like accusations. I retreated into myself, a ghost in my own home. I avoided the great hall during meals, taking my food in my study. I focused on the pack ledgers, the endless lists of supplies and patrols, burying my pain in the mundane. During one of his patrols, Gamma Damien found me in the training yard. I was working through combat forms, my movements sharp and filled with a rage I couldn't voice. I struck the wooden dummy again and again, imagining Santino's cold face, Valentina's smug smile. He watched me for a long moment before speaking. “The patrols on the northern ridge are secure, Luna,” he said, his voice a calm anchor in my storm. He then added, his gaze softening, “Is there anything you require? Anything at all?” I shook my head, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. But his quiet, unwavering support was like a cool balm on a raw burn. It was a simple respect that my own mate no longer offered me. The pack Healer, an old wolf named Elara, visited Valentina daily. I saw Elara leaving Valentina's room one afternoon, a deep frown creasing her brow. Her eyes held a flicker of doubt, of confusion, that she quickly masked when she saw me watching. It was a small thing, but it planted a seed of suspicion in my mind. At the next full moon gathering, a celebration of pack unity, Valentina made her boldest move yet. As I passed by her, she stumbled, “accidentally” spilling a full goblet of dark red wine all over the front of my cream-colored ceremonial gown. “Oh, Luna, I am so, so sorry!” she cried, her eyes wide with fake horror. Santino was at her side in a heartbeat. He glanced at my stained dress, then back at a “distraught” Valentina. “It's fine,” he said, his voice dismissive. He gestured to a servant. “Take the Luna to get changed.” His attention was already back on Valentina, his hand on her arm, murmuring reassurances. He wasn't just comforting her; he was shielding her, absolving her of any blame. Upstairs, in my chambers, I stared at my reflection. My face was pale, my eyes hollow. The woman staring back at me was a stranger. I was disappearing, fading into the background of my own life. A memory of my father, Alpha Marcello, rose unbidden, his powerful presence a mountain of strength. He had told me stories of our ancestors, the legendary White Wolves, direct descendants of the Moon Goddess. He spoke of their honor, their power, their unbreakable spirit. And here I was, a broken, forgotten Luna. The degradation became public policy when Santino began bringing Valentina to important pack ceremonies. He would have her stand near him, at the Alpha's side, while I, the true Luna, was relegated to a position slightly further away, among the other high-ranking members. He was publicly replacing me. The sacred bond between us, the Mind-Link that was the very essence of being mates, grew dangerously thin—a fraying rope covered in a thick layer of frost, poised to snap. Late at night, when the house was silent and the ache in my chest was unbearable, I would take out my mother's moonstone necklace. I would clutch it in my hand, its cool surface a small comfort against my skin, and pray to the Moon Goddess for a strength I no longer possessed. But as I held it one night, I felt my inner wolf, long dormant and suppressed, stir within me. It let out a low, guttural growl. A promise. This could not go on. Something had to break.