Rejected Bloodmoon Luna

Two

The Rejection

I didn't clean up the wine.

I ran.

I don't remember deciding to do it. One moment I was on my knees, blood dripping from my hands, and the next I was on my feet, pushing through the crowd, the door, the dark. My mother's dress was ruined. My palms were stinging. And the bond in my chest was screaming.

He rejected me. He rejected me before he even knew my name.

The night air hit my face like a slap. I stumbled down the stone steps of the Great Hall, past the torches, past the guards who didn't bother to stop me—why would they? I was just an omega. I was nothing. I was no one.

Behind me, the pack howled. They were celebrating. They were happy.

I was dying.

I made it to the edge of the forest before I fell. My knees hit the dirt and I doubled over, clutching my chest, gasping for air that wouldn't come. The bond was still there—still burning—but it was wrong. It was one-sided. A bridge to nowhere. I could feel Kade on the other end, feel his wolf, feel the cold, indifferent pulse of his heart—and it was killing me.

Why? I thought. Why wasn't I enough?

I knew why.

I was an omega. I was nothing. I was the girl who scrubbed floors and served wine and slept in a closet. I was the girl with the dead mother and the cruel stepmother and the hands that were always raw and red.

Of course he didn't want me. Who would?

I pressed my forehead to the ground and let the tears come. They were hot and ugly and they tasted like salt and wine. I cried for my mother. I cried for the girl I'd been. I cried for the mate I'd dreamed of and the life I'd imagined and the love I would never have.

I don't know how long I stayed there. Long enough for the howls to fade. Long enough for the moon to rise above the trees. Long enough for the cold to seep into my bones and settle there like a second skin.

When I finally lifted my head, the world had changed.

The forest was darker than it should have been. The trees seemed taller, their branches reaching toward me like fingers. The air was thick and heavy, and it smelled wrong—like rot and iron and something ancient. I could hear things I shouldn't have been able to hear: the heartbeat of a rabbit a hundred yards away, the rustle of leaves beneath tiny feet, the slow, patient breathing of something large and hungry.

And then I heard the growl.

It came from the trees.

Low. Deep. Wrong.

I scrambled to my feet. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. I knew I should run—I knew—but my legs wouldn't move. The eyes were holding me in place. Red. Glowing. Watching me.

A rogue.

Rogues were outcasts. Killers. They lived outside the pack, hunting and scavenging and preying on the weak. They were the reason omegas weren't allowed to leave the territory alone. They were the reason I'd been told, a hundred times, to stay inside after dark.

And I had walked right into one.

"Please," I whispered. "Please, I—"

The rogue lunged.

I didn't have time to scream. Its teeth sank into my shoulder, and the pain was so bright, so sharp, that the world went white. I felt my body hit the ground. I felt the blood pour down my arm. I felt the rogue's hot breath on my face, its growl vibrating through my bones.

And then—something else.

Something inside me.

A voice. Low. Fierce. Mine.

The rogue jerked back. Its red eyes widened. It looked at me, not at my body, but at me, and for a moment, I saw something like fear flicker across its face.

Then it turned and ran.

I lay on the ground, bleeding, shaking, staring up at the sky. The clouds had parted. The moon was full and silver and beautiful.

And I heard a second growl, this one from inside my own chest.

Get up, my wolf said. We are not done yet.