She Called Me His Whore—I Was His Luna

I stood before the mirror in my small apartment, my fingers tracing the delicate silver chain around my neck. The Luna necklace caught the morning light, its ancient sapphire gleaming like captured starlight. Seven generations of Blackwood Lunas had worn this piece—each one a testament to power, legacy, and belonging.

Three years ago, on that secret mating night hidden from the pack's eyes, Sterling had fastened this very clasp behind my neck with trembling fingers. His breath had been warm against my ear as he whispered promises that felt eternal in the darkness. But I'd never worn it publicly. Our relationship existed in shadows, in stolen moments, in whispered conversations that no one else could hear.

Today felt different. Today I was going to sign the papers for the house—our first real step toward something permanent. Sterling had bought it for us, a modest two-story in the quiet part of town where we could finally stop hiding. My hand drifted unconsciously to my stomach, where a secret even more precious than our mating bond was growing. Four months along, and Sterling still didn't know.

The Target dress I'd chosen was simple—navy blue with small white flowers, nothing that would draw attention. I'd learned to dress down, to blend in, to never give anyone reason to question why Sterling Blackwood might notice me. But today, I wanted to wear something that was truly mine. Something that proved I belonged in his world, even if that world wasn't ready to see it.

The elevator in Blackwood Holdings carried the scent of expensive cologne and power. I'd been here dozens of times, but always through service entrances, always careful to avoid the main floors where Sterling conducted his Alpha business. The legal department was on the fifteenth floor—neutral territory where a nobody like me could handle paperwork without raising eyebrows.

The elevator hummed upward, passing floor after floor of Sterling's empire. My reflection caught in the polished steel doors, and for a moment, I almost looked like I belonged here. The necklace transformed everything—my posture, my confidence, the way the light hit my face.

Then the elevator lurched to a stop on the twenty-third floor.

The administrative level. Sterling's floor.

My heart hammered against my ribs as the doors slid open. This wasn't my stop. I pressed myself against the back wall, hoping whoever entered wouldn't notice me, wouldn't ask questions I couldn't answer.

A woman stepped in, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

She was everything I wasn't—tall, commanding, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and her green eyes swept the elevator with predatory efficiency. When her gaze landed on me, it stopped. Specifically, it stopped at my throat.

At the necklace.

"Interesting," she said, her voice carrying the crisp authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the sapphire pendant. "That's quite a piece of jewelry for someone of your... station."

Heat flooded my cheeks. I could feel her dissecting everything about me—my drugstore makeup, my discount dress, my nervous fidgeting. "Thank you," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

She stepped closer, and I caught her scent—expensive perfume layered over something sharper, more dangerous. Power. Dominance. The kind of confidence that came from never being told no.

"That necklace," she said, each word precisely enunciated. "Where did you get it?"

My fingers instinctively closed around the pendant, as if I could hide it from her penetrating stare. "It was... it's a gift."

Her laugh was like breaking glass. "A gift." She repeated the words as if they were a particularly amusing joke. "Do you have any idea what you're wearing?"

The elevator continued its ascent, but it felt like we were suspended in space, trapped in this moment of scrutiny. "I... what do you mean?"

"That," she said, pointing one perfectly manicured finger at my throat, "is the Blackwood family Luna necklace. Seven generations of pack leaders have worn that exact piece. It's been in their family for over two hundred years."

My mouth went dry. "I know what it is."

"Do you?" Her green eyes glittered with something between amusement and contempt. "Because that necklace was reported stolen five years ago. The insurance payout was substantial. And here you are, wearing priceless stolen property like it's some trinket from a jewelry store."

"It's not stolen," I said, finding my voice. "Sterling gave it to me."

The silence that followed was deafening. She stared at me for a long moment, then threw back her head and laughed—a sound devoid of any warmth or humor.

"Sterling Blackwood," she said, savoring each syllable, "gave the Blackwood family Luna necklace to you? A woman shopping at Target?" Her eyes raked over me again, cataloging every flaw, every sign of my ordinary life. "You expect me to believe that the Alpha heir would hand over his family's most precious heirloom to someone like you?"

The elevator dinged softly as we passed another floor, but she reached out and pressed the emergency stop button. The car lurched to a halt between floors, and suddenly the small space felt suffocating.

"I think we need to have a proper conversation," she said, extending her hand with mock politeness. "Ivy Castellan, Chief Beta of Blackwood Holdings. And you are?"

I didn't take her hand. "Harper."

"Harper." She rolled my name around like she was tasting something unpleasant. "Well, Harper, I think you and I need to discuss exactly how you came into possession of stolen property. And what you plan to do about returning it."

Panic clawed at my chest. "I told you, it's not stolen. Sterling and I—"

"Are what?" Ivy's voice cut through my protest like a blade. "Dating? Engaged? Mated?" She studied my face with clinical precision. "Because I handle all of Sterling's personal affairs, and I can assure you, there's no Harper anywhere in his life."

The words hit me like physical blows. No Harper anywhere in his life. Three years of secret meetings, whispered promises, stolen moments—and to his Chief Beta, I simply didn't exist.

Ivy reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew a small spray bottle. The label was clinical, professional: "Wolfsbane Concentrate - Interrogation Grade."

"We have very effective methods for dealing with thieves and con artists," she said, her voice taking on a dangerous edge. "This will help ensure you tell me the truth about how you really got that necklace. And trust me, Harper—until I'm satisfied with your answers, you're not going anywhere."

She raised the bottle toward my face, and I saw my reflection in her cold green eyes—small, trapped, and utterly alone.