Rejecting Fated Alpha Mate

The morning after the Moon Festival, I walked through the main corridor of the Silvermoon Pack house with my eyes fixed on the polished stone floor. Every step felt like walking through quicksand, my body weighed down by the events of last night. Blake's emergency pack meeting had been worse than I could have imagined. To protect Aria, he had—

I couldn't even complete the thought without feeling physically ill.

"There she is," a harsh whisper cut through the silence, followed by poorly concealed snickers.

I kept my head down, clutching my folder of Luna duties closer to my chest like a shield. The Delta warriors lounging against the wall made no effort to lower their voices as I passed.

"Did you see the video? Who knew our almost-Luna was such a performer," one of them said, his voice dripping with mockery.

Another replied, "Alpha Blake must have gotten bored if he's passing around the footage."

Lyra growled within me. *Let me out. Let me tear their throats.*

*No,* I responded silently. *That's exactly what they want. A reaction.*

But my wolf was right about one thing—they were enjoying this. The entire pack had seen the video Blake had shared through the mind-link network. The most intimate moments between us, moments I had believed were sacred, broadcast to everyone as "proof" that the photos of him and Aria were manipulated. His defense: he would never betray his mate.

The irony was suffocating.

"Hey, Sophia!" called a female Delta, her voice falsely sweet. "My brother from the Redclaw Pack wants your contact info. Says he's interested in a... private showing."

Laughter erupted behind me. I quickened my pace, blood rushing to my face. Six years of serving this pack, of preparing to be their Luna, reduced to this—a walking joke, an object of ridicule.

I pushed through the side exit, desperate for fresh air. The training grounds stretched before me, mercifully empty at this hour. I leaned against the stone wall, trying to steady my breathing.

"Your scent is different today," came a rough voice from my left.

I spun around to find a wolf I didn't recognize leaning against a tree. His clothes were worn, his hair unkempt—a rogue. His eyes gleamed with predatory interest as he pushed off the tree and took a step toward me.

"Sweeter," he continued, inhaling deeply. "Like fear mixed with... shame. It's intoxicating."

My heart hammered against my ribs. Since Blake's video, rogues had been appearing near our territory borders, drawn by the story of an Alpha who had publicly degraded his own mate.

"This is pack land," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "You're trespassing."

He laughed, a harsh sound that made my skin crawl. "Am I? Word is, you're fair game now. Alpha Blake made that pretty clear."

He moved closer, backing me against the wall. "We've all seen what you can do," he whispered, his breath hot against my neck. "I just want my turn."

Lyra snarled, pushing against my consciousness. *Fight!*

I was about to shift when a commanding voice cut through the air.

"Step away from her. Now."

Ethan, Blake's Beta, stood at the edge of the training grounds, his posture rigid with authority.

The rogue hesitated, sizing up the Beta before backing away with his hands raised in mock surrender.

"No harm intended," he said with a smirk. "Just paying my respects to our famous almost-Luna."

Ethan's eyes flashed dangerously. "Get off our land before I make you regret it."

With one last leering glance at me, the rogue slipped away into the forest.

Ethan approached, his expression unreadable. "Are you hurt?"

"No," I replied, my voice hollow. "Thank you."

He nodded stiffly. "You shouldn't be out alone. There have been more rogues near the borders since..."

Since Blake shared our most intimate moments with the entire werewolf community.

"I need to get home," I said, stepping away from him.

Back in my family's den, I collapsed onto my bed, reaching for my comm-scent box—a device that allowed werewolves to send scent-messages across distances. It was glowing, indicating new messages.

I hesitated before opening it. The box erupted with a cacophony of unfamiliar scents, each carrying a message more vulgar than the last. Werewolves from neighboring packs, rogues from distant territories—all leaving their mark, their intentions crystal clear in the primal language of scent.

One message stood out—not by its content, but by its sender. Blake's cedar scent, wrapped around three simple words: "We need to talk."

I slammed the box shut, my hands trembling. Lyra's voice was ice in my mind.

*He hasn't seen anything yet. This is just the beginning of what he's going to lose.*