When My Alpha Chose My Sister as Luna

That night, the silence in my room felt heavier than iron.

My knees still throbbed from slamming into the Great Hall floor. The memory of Jonathan’s voice—cold, booming, using his Alpha command to force me down—echoed behind my eyes. I sat on the edge of the bed in the dark, shivering in cold sweat.

Then it happened.

Deep inside my chest, something slammed outward. It wasn't a flutter. It wasn't the fragile life in my womb. It felt like a heavy fist striking a stone wall from the inside out—a furious, muffled snarl that shook my ribcage.

My breath seized. For two seconds, pure heat surged through my blood.

Then the heavy, chemical fog of wolfsbane rushed back in, smothering the spark like a wet blanket thrown over a fire. The warmth died. Silence returned.

I pressed both hands flat against my sternum, gasping into the darkness.

My wolf was there.

She wasn't absent. She hadn't failed to awaken because of bad blood or human weakness. Jonathan had buried her alive. For three years, he had kept her chained in the dark with every meal he brought me with a smile.

A strange, freezing calm washed over me. I wasn't just surviving anymore.

I knelt by the rug and lifted the loose floorboard. I lined up all seven jars on the carpet. Seven glass jars, each sealed with red wax. I took out a small bottle of black ink and a fine-point pen. In tiny, neat letters, I began writing on the back of each label.

*Oct 2: Morning oatmeal. Dizziness, numb fingertips, bitter almond taste.*

*Oct 9: Beef stew. Severe abdominal cramping, frost sensation along mate mark.*

*Oct 14: Jonathan overheard confirming dosage increase with Charlotte.*

I wrote down every date, every symptom, every meal. When the time came, I wouldn't just accuse him. I would have an exact ledger of his crimes to lay before the elders.

By morning, my life as Jonathan’s secret mate was officially dead.

They stripped me of my clothes and gave me two coarse, rough gray tunics. The uniform of an Omega.

Charlotte took charge of my duties immediately. She stood on the front porch with a mug of hot coffee, watching me carry heavy boxes of designer clothes up the gravel driveway from her town car. She had me down on my hands and knees before noon, scrubbing dried mud off the pine floors of the warrior training hall.

"Make sure you get into the seams, Maya," Charlotte called out, leaning against the doorframe in her cashmere sweater. "The warriors track in so much dirt. We wouldn't want Jonathan to walk through a mess, would we?"

I didn't answer. I kept my head down, dipping the bristle brush into the bucket of lye water until my knuckles bled.

That evening, I was ordered to serve the high table.

The dining room smelled of roasted garlic and red wine. Jonathan sat at the head of the long oak table, leaning toward Beta Miller to discuss border patrols. He didn't look at me once as I filled the water goblets. To him, I was invisible now. Just another pair of hands in gray wool.

Charlotte sat right beside him. When I approached with the heavy silver tureen of vegetable broth, she turned to me with an innocent smile.

"I'd like some soup, please," she said sweetly.

I stepped forward, scooped the silver ladle full of steaming broth, and held the bowl steady. Just as the liquid hovered over her plate, Charlotte’s elbow jerked outward.

She didn't hit the bowl. She knocked the ladle directly toward my chest.

Boiling liquid splashed straight across the backs of both my hands.

The heat seared through my skin instantly. Blisters rose in seconds, red and vicious. A sharp hiss escaped through my teeth, but I didn't drop the tureen. I didn't scream.

Across the table, Jonathan paused mid-sentence, glancing over.

Charlotte let out a soft, dramatic gasp, dabbing her pristine napkin against the dry tablecloth. "Oh, goodness! Clumsy girl. You have to be more careful with hot food, Maya."

She looked up at Jonathan with wide, apologetic eyes. "She’s just tired, Jonathan. Don't be too hard on her."

Jonathan looked at my scalded hands for half a second. His thumb rubbed his right wrist—his quiet tell. Then he looked back at the Beta. "As I was saying, Miller, double the watch on the eastern ridge."

He didn't care if I burned.

I set the ladle down on the linen tray. Slowly, I folded the hem of my apron over my blistering hands, hiding the burns from view.

"Pardon me, Luna," I said, my voice dead and quiet.

Charlotte smiled, glowing under the title. I stepped back into the shadows of the pantry, memorizing the look on her face. Another entry for the ledger.

By midnight, my body was giving up.

The burn pain throbbed up my forearms, but worse was the dull, dragging ache in my lower belly. The wolfsbane was attacking my womb. I felt weak, dizzy, and hollowed out.

At one in the morning, I dragged myself down to the pack laundry to collect clean towels. The basement was damp, smelling of steam and bleach.

My mother was there, pulling hot sheets from the dryer.

She stopped when I walked in. Her sharp eyes scanned my pale face, the dark purple bruises beneath my eyes, and the way my left hand hovered protectively over my stomach.

She didn't ask what happened. She stepped toward me, holding a folded white laundry cloth.

As she handed it over, her fingers pressed something hard and flat into my palms. It was a tight pouch wrapped in cheesecloth, smelling of dried shepherd’s purse and bitter bark.

A natural clotting tonic. A folk remedy to protect the womb and slow the bleeding. It wouldn't awaken my wolf, but it would keep my baby alive for a few more weeks.

The exchange took four seconds.

Madeline looked directly into my eyes, her fingers gripping my wrists with iron strength. Her jaw was set, hard as granite.

*Hold on,* her eyes said. *Just hold on.*

I tucked the packet deep into my apron pocket, took a quiet breath, and nodded.

I had my medicine. I had my proof. And I was going to last long enough to watch them both burn.