The Stolen Luna

Layleen I press my cold hand against my throbbing forehead, lowering my silver eyes as if this small gesture could shield me from the intense scrutiny of those around me. The dinner party at our pack's estate has been in full swing for hours, yet I still feel like a fish out of water. No matter how many times I attend these events, I can never quite get used to them. I don't belong here. And yet, here I am—draped in the luxury reserved only for the highest-ranking wolves. I carefully scan the vast dining hall, ensuring my gaze doesn't linger too long or accidentally settle on anyone in particular. I don't know most of these people. They are all men. Tonight's gathering celebrates a major political deal between the alphas of neighboring packs. That explains why only the male members of both packs are present. To my right, several beta males lounge on leather couches, cigars in one hand and whiskey in the other, downing glass after glass as if it were nothing more than water. One of them has an omega maid perched on his lap, his large, calloused hand sliding slowly up and down her lifted skirt, his thick fingers grazing the smooth skin between her thighs. His companions remain engrossed in their conversation, but every so often, they steal glances at her exposed skin, their eyes gleaming with predatory hunger. It's nothing unusual in the Dark Wood Pack—Alpha Dion knows exactly what the men want, and he uses that knowledge to his advantage. I hear another maid squeak and snap my head in her direction, my silver eyes narrowing as I take in the scene. A gamma warrior playfully slaps her on the butt as she tries to wriggle away from him, the large, round tray trembling in her unsteady hands. She forces a flirtatious smile, but I can see right through it. It's fake. I turn my head to the right, and my heart sinks—just for a moment. My Alpha, Dion Windthorne, sits in the farthest corner of the hall, yet another omega girl at his feet, her delicate arms draped over his knees. Dion is gorgeous. Tall and powerful, he looks especially striking tonight in dark blue pants and a white dress shirt peeking from beneath his loose vest. White is definitely his color. So is silver. It complements his slightly tanned skin, and the way he always leaves a few buttons undone draws every gaze to his strong neck and the sharp cut of his collarbones. When he shifts, the fabric moves with him, revealing the defined line between his chest muscles—an invitation, a temptation. It makes every woman's hands itch to undo those remaining buttons. Even in his thirties, the vigor coursing through his veins burns like scorching lava. I sigh and take a sip from the champagne flute I've been holding for so long that the alcohol has gone warm and flat. I barely notice as I finish it in one big gulp. I am jealous. It should have been me at his feet. Lifting the empty flute back to my lips in a feigned sip, I mask my curiosity as I discreetly shift my gaze to the man seated beside my Alpha. Something deep in my chest tightens, and a swarm of invisible insects seems to crawl at the pit of my stomach. Alpha Robert Arcanis of the Golden Lake Pack. Just looking at him sends an unpleasant shiver down my spine. He is despicable. No, he isn't ugly or overweight, nor does he have any repulsive skin abnormalities that make you cringe at the thought of touching him. It's his presence alone that unsettles me, that makes my skin itch. He is not a good man. A known abuser, he treats female wolves like dirt. Like Alpha Dion, he takes multiple mates, regardless of their rank or status. But unlike Dion, he treats them not as lovers, but as possessions—his personal playthings. The irony isn't lost on me. Lately, male wolves have been reporting an alarmingly low rate of successful mate bonds. I once overheard Dion discussing it—how, in recent years, finding one's fated mate has become strangely rare. Many have resorted to choosing mates instead. One would think such an unfortunate shift would make them treasure the few female wolves available. Instead, it seems to have done the opposite. Dion is no saint either, of course. But his lawful Luna, Katarine—his wife and chosen mate—doesn't allow him to indulge as freely as he'd like. I understand. It's only natural. After all, I'm jealous too. Nevertheless, Dion has taken two other mates besides her. One of them is me. And despite all my flaws, I am his favorite. The moment Robert's dark brown eyes land on me, I flinch and look away, instinctively shrinking into myself. I always do when someone watches me with this much curiosity. I know that look. He likes what he sees. I fascinate him. And that is yet another reason why he makes me sick. Here, in the Dark Woods Pack, I am a freak. My hair is gray, streaked with a subtle blue shimmer visible only under the sun or moonlight. My eyes are an unnatural shade of silver—Dion likes to say they sparkle like twin stars. But my greatest "flaw" is my scars. Etched into my skin like winding rivulets, thin white lines stretch across my back, stomach, and limbs. I can easily hide them beneath my clothes, but everyone knows they're there. And sometimes, when I'm particularly angry or scared, they shimmer—faintly glowing silver, like rivers catching the light of a distant moon. I don't know why I look like this. No one seems to know. Dion keeps telling me I am special, but I know the truth. I'm not. I'm just an orphaned omega who can't even shift. No matter how intriguing I might appear, I am a nobody. But men don't want me for who I am. It's a twisted blend of curiosity and greed that fuels their desire. Because I am Alpha Dion's favorite. And no one can have me. No one but him. My ears catch fragments of conversation between the two alphas. I can't make out specific words, but judging by the sharp glances Robert keeps throwing my way, I know they're talking about me. I don't like it. I don't like being discussed. Suddenly, the entire atmosphere shifts as the large double doors swing open. The sharp clack of heels against marble cuts through the noise, drawing every gaze toward the entrance. I turn as well—and instantly, my body tenses. Katarine.