My Alpha Tried to Kill Our Pup for Power

The pack gathering hummed with energy, wolves mingling under the silver glow of the full moon. I stood near the edge of the clearing, watching the festivities with calculated detachment. My fingers traced the rim of my wine glass, the ruby liquid catching the moonlight as I waited for the perfect moment.

Wells approached, his tall frame moving with that quiet confidence I'd always admired. Unlike Thatcher's performative swagger, Wells's presence felt like still water—steady, reliable, and somehow deeper than anyone gave him credit for.

'You look like you're plotting something,' he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear. The corner of his mouth twitched in that half-smile that always made my wolf stir with interest.

'Just enjoying the evening,' I replied, allowing a small, genuine smile to surface. 'Though I could use a distraction from all this forced celebration.'

Without missing a beat, Wells offered his arm. 'Then allow me to provide one, Luna.'

I took his arm, feeling the solid strength beneath his jacket. We moved away from the main gathering, toward a quieter spot near the edge of the forest. The pack noticed—I could feel their eyes following us, their curiosity a palpable thing in the night air.

'So,' Wells said, his voice carrying just enough for those nearby to hear, 'tell me something true.'

I blinked, surprised by the question. 'What do you mean?'

'Something real, Amaia. Not the performance.'

The sound of my name on his lips—my actual name, not 'Luna' or 'darling'—felt like a breath of fresh air. I found myself laughing, a genuine laugh that bubbled up from somewhere I thought had gone dormant.

'The stew he brought yesterday?' I said, my voice warm with amusement. 'It tasted like he added too much sage. I never told him I hate sage.'

Wells's eyes crinkled as he laughed with me, the sound rich and honest. 'A culinary failing worthy of note.'

Our laughter mingled in the night air, and I felt it—the shift in the atmosphere, the sudden spike of rage from across the clearing. My wolf sensed him before I saw him, her hackles rising in anticipation.

Thatcher appeared at the edge of the gathering, his face a mask of controlled fury. His eyes locked on Wells's hand, still resting lightly at the small of my back. The possessiveness in his gaze was almost tangible, a living thing that crackled between us.

'What is this?' he demanded, his Alpha tone vibrating through the clearing. Several younger wolves flinched, their eyes dropping instinctively. But Wells didn't move, didn't cower. He simply stood taller, his own Beta authority a steady counterpoint to Thatcher's aggression.

'Just a conversation,' Wells replied evenly. 'Nothing that concerns you.'

Thatcher's aura flared, pressing down on Wells with the full weight of his Alpha dominance. 'You dare touch what's mine?'

Before Wells could respond, I stepped forward, placing myself between them. My own aura—the Luna's power I'd inherited and cultivated—rose to meet Thatcher's, pushing back against his oppressive energy.

'Stand down, Alpha,' I commanded, my voice carrying the unmistakable authority of a Luna. The pack froze, watching as I held Thatcher's gaze without wavering. 'You're making a scene.'

For a moment, I saw the shock in his eyes—the realization that I was no longer the grieving, vulnerable Luna he could manipulate. The elders watching from the sidelines exchanged glances, their expressions troubled. This was not the behavior of a stable Alpha.

Thatcher's face contorted with rage and humiliation. He backed down, but the damage was done. The whispers had already started, spreading through the pack like wildfire.

Later that night, as the gathering wound down, I felt the shift in the air—the unmistakable scent of Gwen's perfume wafting through the pack house corridors. She was here, on Black Moon territory, risking everything to confront her lover.

I followed the scent, my footsteps silent on the marble floors. Through the crack of a storage room door, I watched as Gwen cornered Thatcher, her voice high with hysteria.

'What are you doing?' she hissed, grabbing his arm. 'Humiliating yourself for that bitch? The plan was to take her money, not grovel at her feet!'

Thatcher's eyes darted down the corridor, checking for witnesses. 'Lower your voice,' he snapped. 'It's working. She's confused, vulnerable—'

'She's playing you!' Gwen's voice rose again, cracking with desperation. 'I can't pay my bills! My father's asking questions! We need to finish this now!'

I smiled coldly as I slipped away, already formulating my next move. The trap was set—now I just needed to spring it.