My Alpha Chose His Luna Over Me

The rabbit was small. Still warm. Blood matted the fur at its neck where Finnley's teeth had found the kill spot.

I was scrubbing the corridor floor outside the great hall when he came through the front doors. His face was flushed from the cold, his eyes bright with pride. He held the rabbit by its hind legs, the way Ellis had taught him.

My brush went still in the bucket. I looked up.

Finnley walked straight past me. Didn't even glance down. His boots tracked mud across the stones I'd just cleaned. He was heading for the sitting room, where Vienna took her afternoon tea.

"Luna Mom!" His voice rang clear down the corridor. Excited. Eager. "Luna Mom, look!"

I stood. Slowly. Water dripped from the brush in my hand onto the floor. My legs felt distant. Numb.

Vienna's voice drifted from the sitting room, warm and delighted. "Finnley! Oh, sweetheart, did you catch that yourself?"

"All by myself!" Finnley's words tumbled over each other. "I tracked it from the north ridge, just like you said. I stayed downwind. I waited until it stopped to eat, and then—"

"You were perfect." Vienna's voice was soft now. Tender. "I'm so proud of you."

Luna Mom.

The words echoed in my skull. Not Mother. Not Mom. Luna Mom.

I set the brush down. My hand was shaking. I pressed it flat against my chest—the cold was still there, the rot still spreading, but now something else pressed up beneath it. Not my wolf. Something sharper.

I walked toward the sitting room.

Finnley stood in the center of the room, the rabbit at his feet, beaming up at Vienna. She sat in the high-backed chair near the fireplace, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. She wore a soft blue dress. Her hair was loose. She looked like every picture of maternal warmth I'd ever seen.

I stopped in the doorway.

"Finnley," I said quietly.

He turned. His smile faltered. Just for a second. Then his face went carefully neutral—the expression of a child who'd been taught what to do when an inconvenient adult appeared.

"Emily," Vienna said smoothly. Not unkindly. Just—acknowledging my presence the way one might acknowledge a servant who'd entered at the wrong time. "We're having a private moment."

I ignored her. I looked at my son.

"That's a good kill," I said. My voice was steady. I made sure of it. "You tracked well."

Finnley shifted his weight. His hand moved toward Vienna's skirt. Not quite touching. Just—close.

"Vienna taught me," he said. His voice was small now. Defensive.

"I taught you too." The words came out softer than I'd intended. "Last summer. Remember? By the creek."

His face flickered. I saw it—the memory, brief and bright, before Vienna's hand tightened on his shoulder.

"Finnley's been working very hard," Vienna said. Her voice was still warm. Still kind. "He deserves to enjoy his success without—" She paused delicately. "—complications."

I took one step into the room. Just one.

"Finnley—"

Vienna stood.

She moved toward the sitting room door—toward the stairs just beyond it—with a grace that looked effortless. Her hand trailed along the doorframe. She glanced back at Finnley, her expression concerned.

"Sweetheart, why don't you take your trophy to the kitchen? Cook will want to prepare it for—"

Her foot caught the threshold.

She stumbled. Her hands flew out. Her body pitched forward toward the stairs with a sharp, breathless cry.

She fell.

Not a tumble. A fall. Down four steps, her body twisting, her hands scrabbling for the railing. She landed at the base of the stairs with a sickening thud, curled on her side, clutching her ribs.

Finnley screamed.

I stood frozen in the doorway. My hand was still pressed to my chest. I hadn't moved. I was three feet from the threshold. Nowhere near the stairs.

Footsteps thundered from the hall. Ellis appeared at a dead run, his face white. He saw Vienna crumpled at the base of the stairs. He saw me standing in the doorway above.

He didn't ask.

He crossed the distance between us in two strides. His hand closed around my upper arm—hard enough to bruise. He hauled me toward the front door.

"Ellis—" I started.

"Don't." His voice was flat. Cold. "Don't say a word."

He shoved the door open. Rain poured down outside—freezing, relentless. He pushed me through.

I stumbled onto the front steps. The rain hit me like a fist. No coat. No shoes. My dress soaked through in seconds.

Ellis stood in the doorway. His eyes were hard. Empty.

"You're done," he said.

Then I felt it. The mind-link command, sharp and absolute, cutting through every wolf in the pack house.

*Seal the house against Emily Voss.*

I heard the locks click. Every door. Every window. The lights in the upper floors went dark one by one.

Finnley's face appeared in the sitting room window. Pale. Frightened. Vienna's hand on his shoulder, pulling him back.

Ellis stepped inside. The door closed.

I stood in the rain. Shaking. The cold sank into my bones. My wolf was silent. The mark on my neck throbbed—a dull, rotting ache.

I pressed my hand to my chest.

I didn't cry.

I turned and walked into the rain.

---

I don't know how long I walked. Time felt strange. Distant. The rain was so cold it stopped feeling like cold and started feeling like nothing.

I ended up at the back garden wall. I don't remember deciding to go there. My body just—went.

A figure stepped out from the shadow of the wall.

Grandma Smith. She held a coat and boots. Her face wasn't soft. It was sharp. Furious.

"I saw," she said.

She draped the coat over my shoulders. She knelt and helped me into the boots. Her hands were steady. Efficient.

"Come," she said.

She led me through the garden, past the training grounds, to the healer's cabin at the edge of the territory. Calla was waiting. The Dowager must have sent word ahead.

Calla pulled me inside. Sat me by the fire. Wrapped blankets around me. Checked my hands, my feet, my core temperature. She worked in silence.

The Dowager stood by the window, her arms crossed, her jaw tight.

When Calla finished, she stepped back. "She'll be fine. No permanent damage."

I looked at the Dowager. My voice came out hoarse. "How long before you have enough?"

She turned from the window. Her eyes met mine—steady, unflinching.

"I already have the blade," she said quietly. "I need the salve. Give me two more weeks."

Two weeks.

I nodded.

The Dowager's expression softened. Just slightly. "Can you hold on that long?"

I pressed my hand to my chest. The cold was still there. The rot was still spreading. My wolf was still silent.

But underneath it all, something else was stirring.

Not rage. Not grief.

Clarity.

"Yes," I said.

The Dowager nodded once. "Then we wait."