The Broken Luna's Crimson Revenge

Elara Thorne POV:

Lyra’s voice was a saccharine buzz in my ears, but her words faded into the background noise of the party. My gaze was fixed on her and Ryker, standing so close, a united front of familial devotion. The present blurred, and the painful edges of the past bled through, superimposing themselves over the scene.

The memory was a year old, sharp and clear. I’d just found out I was pregnant. My heart had been a frantic bird in my chest, fluttering with a joy so pure it was almost painful. I’d found Ryker in his study, poring over pack ledgers.

“Ryker,” I’d whispered, barely able to contain my excitement. “We’re going to have a baby.”

He’d looked up, his steel-grey eyes distracted. A beat of silence, and then, “Good.” Just that one word. He’d given a curt nod and then gestured to the papers. “I’m busy, Elara. Close the door on your way out.”

The joy had shriveled inside me, doused by his indifference. I’d told myself he was just stressed, that the weight of being an Alpha was immense. I’d made excuses for him, as I always did.

Snapping back to the present, I watched that same man now leaning in, his face alight with genuine interest as Lyra described every little gurgle and hiccup her newborn son made. The pride in his eyes, the focused attention… it was a gift he had never once given me. Or our daughter.

“Elara.” Ryker’s voice was sharp, laced with annoyance, pulling me from my reverie. “Stop daydreaming. Give Lyra the gift.”

My arms tightened around the wooden box, a reflexive, protective gesture. I shook my head, a small, almost imperceptible movement. But he saw it.

His jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed. I was embarrassing him. I was ruining his perfect family moment.

Another memory surfaced, this one more recent, more raw. Six months ago. Cora had been burning with fever, her little body limp and frighteningly hot. I’d called Ryker, my voice shaking with panic. He’d been on a border patrol.

“It’s just a pup’s fever, Elara,” he’d said, his tone dismissive. “Let Dr. Vance handle it. Don’t bother me with these small matters.” Then he’d hung up.

I spent that night alone in the sterile white hospital room, holding Cora’s hand, feeling a loneliness so profound it felt like a physical entity sitting in the chair beside me.

Just then, a small commotion broke the party’s hum. Lyra’s five-year-old daughter, Freya, had tripped over a rug and fallen. It was nothing, a clumsy tumble that resulted in a scraped knee.

But Ryker reacted as if the world was ending. He was across the room in a flash, scooping the crying girl into his arms. He cradled her gently, his large hands surprisingly tender as he examined the minor injury. I watched, my breath caught in my throat, as he murmured soft, soothing words and a faint, silvery glow emanated from his palm—his Alpha healing ability, used to soothe a simple scrape.

The sight was a physical blow. The tenderness, the immediate concern, the use of his precious Alpha power… all for his niece’s scraped knee. While our own daughter had fought for her life, he hadn’t even bothered to call back.

The last of my carefully constructed excuses crumbled into dust. It wasn’t about him being a busy Alpha. It wasn’t about his duties to the pack.

It was about priority.

And I, and the child we had created, were never his. In his heart, Lyra and her children held the throne. We were just… obligations. A Luna to stand by his side, an heir to secure his lineage. We were props in his life, not participants.

*He never loved us, you fool,* Ivy, my wolf, whispered, her voice laced with a cold, bitter certainty. *We were a title and a vessel. Nothing more.*

The pain was no longer a sharp stab, but a dull, grinding agony, the slow, methodical work of a blunt blade sawing through my soul. The love I’d held for him, a stubborn, resilient thing that had survived years of neglect, finally withered and died in the harsh glare of that one, simple truth.

Lyra, seeing my continued stillness, pouted prettily at her brother. “See, Ryker?” she cooed, her voice dripping with mock sadness. “I don’t think she likes my little Kian.”

Her words were the flick of a match on a trail of gasoline.

Ryker’s face hardened, his patience gone. He turned his full attention to me, and I felt the oppressive weight of his power settle over the room. His voice was low, but it held the unmistakable, unbreakable command of the Alpha.

“Elara. I am ordering you. Give her the gift. Now.”

The force of his command made me tremble, a primal response I couldn’t control. But the hands clutching the box didn’t loosen. They couldn’t.

I lifted my head, and the eyes that met his were no longer filled with love or hurt. They were cold, empty pools of disappointment and resolve.

“It’s not a gift,” I said, each word a small, hard stone dropped into the sudden silence.

The air in the room went still.

Lyra’s other son, six-year-old Zane, had been eyeing the box with a child’s greedy curiosity. Hearing my defiance, he clearly thought it was a game.

“It is a gift!” he shouted, his voice high and piercing. “It’s for Kian! I want to see!”

Before anyone could react, he launched himself forward, his small hands reaching, grabbing for the box in my arms. The innocent, childish action was the spark that lit the fuse on a bomb that had been waiting to explode.