The Alpha's Switched Mate: I'm Not Your Luna

The sheets were too soft. That was Lena's first thought when she woke, her fingers instinctively clutching fabric that felt like water against her skin. Her cot had rough cotton that scratched on cold nights. This was silk. She opened her eyes to sunlight streaming through windows twice her height. Her room didn't have windows like that. Her room barely had a window at all. Her heart kicked against her ribs as she sat up. The bed was massive, easily fitting four people. Dark wood posts stretched toward a ceiling painted with stars. She'd seen this room before, but only in glimpses when delivering medicine, never daring to look too long. This was the Luna's bedroom. Panic clawed up her throat. She'd sleepwalked. She must have sleepwalked straight into the pack house and climbed into Aria Silvermoon's bed like a complete lunatic. They'd exile her for this. Or worse. She threw off the covers, ready to bolt, and froze. Her hands were wrong. Lena stared at her fingers. They were longer than they should be, elegant and pale. The nails were perfectly shaped, painted a soft pink. Her hands were never like this. Her hands were small, scarred from herb work, the nails perpetually stained with plant matter no matter how hard she scrubbed. These weren't her hands. Her breathing went shallow. She touched her face and felt smooth skin where freckles should be. Her hair fell past her shoulders in a golden curtain instead of her usual brown braid. The room tilted. She stumbled out of bed, her legs too long, her center of gravity all wrong. There was a mirror across the room, ornate and full-length. She'd avoided looking at mirrors most of her life. What was the point? But now she couldn't stop herself from crossing to it. The woman in the reflection had ice-blue eyes. Perfect porcelain skin. Features that belonged on the Luna of the Blackwood Pack. Aria Silvermoon stared back at her. Lena touched the mirror. The reflection moved with her, exact and impossible. She pulled at her hair, pinched her arm hard enough to bruise. The woman in the mirror did the same, wincing at the pain. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real. She'd been Lena Ashwood when she went to sleep last night. Twenty-three, orphaned at eight, the pack's least important healer. She lived in a converted storage room behind the infirmary because no one cared enough to give her better. She was invisible to everyone, especially to him. Especially to Alpha Theron Blackwood, who'd never looked at her once in five years. But she'd looked at him. God, had she looked at him. Every time he came to the infirmary with his warriors, every time she heard his voice in the hallway, every pathetic moment she let herself imagine what it would be like if he saw her as something other than the girl who bandaged his fighters. Now she was wearing his mate's face, and nothing made sense. Lena pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Maybe she'd hit her head. Maybe she was dying in her cot right now, brain bleeding, creating this elaborate fantasy as her consciousness flickered out. That would almost be better than this. She forced herself to breathe, to think. The room was real. She could smell jasmine from somewhere, probably Aria's perfume. Her stomach growled. Dead people didn't get hungry. She needed to figure out what happened. There had to be an explanation. Witches existed. Curses existed. She'd read about transformation spells in the old texts, though she'd never seen one performed. But why would anyone curse her into Aria's body? The room held clues. It had to. She moved to the desk near the window, rifling through papers. A schedule for the week, written in elegant script. Council meetings, social calls, a fitting for a gown. All things Lena had no idea how to do. A jewelry box sat open, filled with pieces that cost more than she'd earn in a lifetime. A closet door stood ajar, revealing dresses in colors she'd never dared wear. This was Aria's life. Perfect, polished, powerful. And somehow, Lena was living it. Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. Heavy, measured, male. Lena's breath caught. She knew those footsteps. She'd memorized the sound of them over years of listening for his approach, always making sure she was busy, invisible, unremarkable whenever he passed. The footsteps stopped outside the door. She should hide. But where? How did you hide in a room you didn't know, in a body that wasn't yours? The door handle turned. Lena stood frozen in the middle of the Luna's chambers, wearing the Luna's face, as Alpha Theron Blackwood walked into the room like he belonged there. Because he did belong there. This was his room too. "You're finally awake," he said, his voice carrying that familiar deep timbre that had haunted her dreams. "I need you at the council meeting this afternoon." He was already dressed for the day, dark shirt emphasizing broad shoulders, his black hair slightly damp from a shower. Silver-grey eyes swept over her with the polite disinterest of a man looking at his mate of two years. No recognition. No alarm. He saw Aria, not the terrified healer trapped inside. Lena's mouth went dry. She should tell him. Right now. Explain that something impossible had happened, that she wasn't his Luna, that she didn't know what was going on. But the words stuck in her throat. Because Theron was standing three feet away from her, looking at her face for the first time in five years. Not through her. Not past her. At her. Even if he thought she was someone else. "Aria?" His brow furrowed slightly. "The meeting. You remember?" She had to say something. Anything. "I remember," she heard herself say, and the voice that came out was wrong too. Melodic and smooth, nothing like her usual rough rasp. Theron's eyes narrowed a fraction. "Are you feeling alright? You seem off." Off. That was one way to put it. "I didn't sleep well," Lena managed. It wasn't a lie. She had no memory of sleeping at all, just going to bed in her cot and waking up here. "The nightmares again?" Nightmares? Aria had nightmares? Lena nodded, grasping at this unexpected lifeline. "Yes." Something flickered across his face. Concern, maybe, but it vanished before she could be sure. He'd never looked at her with concern before. He'd never looked at her at all. "Try to rest before the meeting," he said. "We need to present a united front with the Crescent Pack envoy." He moved toward the door, clearly ready to leave. This was normal for him. Walking into this room, speaking to Aria with distant politeness, walking back out. How many times had they done this? How many conversations that meant nothing? The door started to close behind him. "Theron," she said, testing the feel of his name in this new voice. He paused, half-turned. Waiting. She had no idea what to say. Why had she called him back? "Thank you," she said finally. "For checking on me." His expression shifted to something unreadable. "That's... you're welcome." Then he was gone, the door clicking shut, leaving Lena alone in a room that wasn't hers, in a body that wasn't hers, expected to be someone she'd never been. She sank onto the edge of the bed, her too-long legs shaking. This was real. Somehow, impossibly, this was real. And no one knew about the switch. Which meant she was going to have to pretend to be Luna Aria Silvermoon. And she had absolutely no idea how.