When My Alpha Chose His Fake Luna Over Me

The shed door was still open when Sienna came through it, and her face did the whole play in one clean beat—hand to mouth, gasped inhale, eyes wide on the rogues as they let go of me and slipped past her like she wasn't there. She caught my elbow on the way down. She said my name in the soft voice, the one for the pack. She held me up in a way that would look, to any wolf coming down the road behind her, exactly like rescue.

My wolf inside me went so still I could feel her breathing.

---

Cal did not stand when I came into the study. He sat with his hands laid flat on the desk and Elise arranged in her window chair and Sienna already on the couch with a fresh cup of tea, and I understood before he opened his mouth that the sentence had been passed before I crossed the threshold.

"This is the second incident in ten days," he said. His pen was not in his hand. He had already made up his mind. "Twice now the pack's peace has been broken by your presence outside the walls. Twice the Luna has had to intervene at risk to herself."

"Elder—"

"Reparation," he said. "Something to steady the pack's confidence. Something visible."

His eyes touched my throat.

I felt the chain against my collarbone the way you feel a hand on your neck. My fingers went to the clasp on their own. They did not shake yet. They did not shake until I felt the small warm weight of the moonstone come loose in my palm, and then they shook so badly the stone tapped twice against my own knuckle before I could still it.

I walked the three steps to the couch. Sienna held out her hand cupped, the way you hold a hand out for a wounded bird.

"I'll keep it safe," she said softly. "Truly, Lara. Until things are better."

I laid it in her palm.

Her fingers closed. Her mouth made the small, sorrowful shape.

Inside my chest my wolf did not grieve. She did not even growl. She turned a page.

*Ledger,* she said. *Written.*

---

I found it on her vanity that night.

I was carrying a folded stack of the Luna's laundry down the corridor, head lowered, and the door to her dressing room was open a hand's width, and the moonstone was lying on the glass tray between her perfumes like a coin someone had set down and forgotten. Not in a box. Not hidden. Displayed.

I stood in the doorway a full breath. Two. Then I closed the door with the flat of my foot and kept walking.

I passed Kayson's room on the way back.

His door was cracked. The carved wolf figurine sat on the sill in the moonlight, the one Sienna gave him the week I lost my quarters. Beside it, in Kayson's small careful handwriting on a torn page from his exercise book: *for luna sienna, thank you for the soup.*

He was already asleep. Curled on his side with the scrap of cloth that smelled like my old soap tucked under his cheek—the one he thought I didn't know about.

I sat down on the edge of his bed. Very slowly, so the mattress did not shift. I laid my hand on his hair. It was still damp at the roots from the bath Elise must have run him. He made a small sound in his sleep and turned his face into my palm, and my throat closed so hard I could not swallow.

He had taken it to her. Not to me. To her.

I understood why. He was six years old and cold and someone had brought him warm soup and called him a name I had once whispered against his forehead in a hospital room. I understood exactly why, and the understanding did not make the inside of my ribs any less like broken glass.

I sat there in the dark and I stroked his hair until his breathing lengthened, and I did not cry, and I did not move, and inside my chest my wolf pressed up against the back of my sternum like a second heartbeat and stayed with me.

*Not him,* I told her. *When it comes down, not him. He does not pay.*

*No,* she said. *Not him.*

---

The first night, I saw her pour it.

Green night-vision on the little receiver. The corridor camera at the perfect angle through the hairline seam. Sienna at Dillon's sideboard in a silk robe, the hollowed compact open in her left hand, the little glass vial tipped into the bourbon tumbler with the practiced wrist of a woman who had done it a hundred times. She swirled the glass once. She carried it into the bedroom. The door closed.

Twelve minutes later she came out again, took the empty glass back to the sideboard, rinsed it in the bar sink, and returned to the bedroom, and this time she did not come out.

The second night, she poured a heavier measure. I could see the difference in the shake of her wrist.

The third night, I recorded it all the way through. Pour. Wait. Enter. The muffled thing that came through the door forty minutes later that was not lovemaking, because lovemaking has two voices in it and this had one. Hers. Low. Businesslike. The third voice, the one I had learned through the basement wall.

I watched to the end. I did not look away.

When the recording stopped I sat on the cot with the receiver dark in my lap and Barnaby's ribs rising and falling against my thigh, and inside me the wolf that had been slamming against her cage for weeks stopped slamming.

She sat down.

She folded her paws.

She waited.

*Now,* she said. *Now we build the room.*

I turned the receiver off. I laid it under the cot. I closed my eyes in the dark and I did not sleep, and I was not tired.