The Cursed Alpha’s Unwanted And Powerless Luna

Given To The Monster

Annabelle woke up to darkness and motion. Her head pounded. Her mouth tasted of copper and salt—blood from where Mrs. Wright had slapped her.

Her world swayed. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know how long she’d been unconscious.

She looked at herself. A cheap white dress—thin fabric, yellowed lace, too big at the waist and too short in the hem.

It smelled of mothballs and dust. It wasn’t her dress. It wasn’t anyone’s dress. It was a costume. A mockery of a wedding gown.

Her left cheek burned. She touched it—the faint mark that had been there since birth. The mark that never faded.

The mark Clara always mocked. “That mark just stays. Forever unwanted.” She flinched at the memory.

Two huge men sat in the front seats—dark suits, broad shoulders, silent as stone. She could scent them even without her wolf.

Wolves. Powerful ones. They didn’t speak to her. They didn’t look at her. She was cargo. Nothing more.

The SUV tore through the rain-soaked night. Trees blurred past the windows. The road was empty. The world was dark.

Annabelle pressed her hand against the cold glass and whispered, “Where are you taking me?” No one answered.

She remembered fragments—Mrs. Wright’s scream, Mr. Wright’s pale face, the men in the doorway, the words, “You’re getting married tonight.”

She remembered Clara’s delighted whisper, “The cursed one and the powerless one. Perfect match.”

She remembered being pulled to the car, barefoot, crying. No one watched her go.

She didn’t know who she’d been given to. She only knew the name. Alpha Jason Thorn. The cursed Alpha.

Everyone knew that name. The most powerful Alpha in the South. Cursed by a witch. Seven Lunas. All gone on the wedding night. With no trace of them. She was the eighth.

The SUV slowed down. She looked up. Through the rain-streaked window, she saw it—a fortress of black stone rising against the blood-red moon.

No lights. No flowers. No warmth. Just cold, dark and the weight of something ancient and cursed.

The door opened. Rough hands pulled her out. Her bare feet sank into the cold mud. The rain soaked her through her thin dress.

She shivered. She didn’t fight. She had no strength left.

The Thorn fortress looked above her—towers, battlements, iron gates. It was not a home. It was a prison. The air itself felt heavy. Wrong. Cursed.

She could feel it pressing against her skin, against her mark, against something deep inside her that had been sleeping for years.

One of the men—the driver—muttered under his breath: “The blood moon is tonight. Pray to the Goddess, girl.”

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t help her. He simply turned and walked back to the car.

The iron gates groaned open. A servant—an old woman with hollow eyes—appeared and beckoned Annabelle forward.

“Come. We must prepare you.” Annabelle followed. She had no choice.

The fortress was silent. No music. No laughter. No life. Just shadows and cold stone and the distant howl of wolves.

Annabelle’s mark burned. Her chest ached. Something was stirring inside her. Something that had been asleep for years.

Silent maids with pity in their eyes led Annabelle to a small chamber. They washed her with cold water. They brushed her hair. They didn’t speak.

They didn’t meet her eyes. They were preparing her for something dangerous—and they knew it.

They dressed her in a plain cotton nightgown.

White. Thin. It didn’t fit. Nothing fits. Nothing ever had. She was the unshifted wolf. The powerless one. The unwanted one.

One maid—a young girl with trembling hands—whispered, “The Blood Moon is tonight. Pray to the Goddess. Pray she hears you.”

Annabelle asked, “What happens on the Blood Moon?” The maid didn’t answer. She simply turned away.

They left her in a huge, cold bedroom. The bed was massive—four posts, dark velvet curtains, sheets that looked like they’d ever been slept in.

The windows were tall and arched, letting in the red light of the Blood Moon.

On the wall, seven old portraits. All turned to face the wall.

She approached one and slowly turned it around. A woman’s face stared back at her—young, beautiful, afraid.

She turned another. Another. Another.

Seven women. Seven Lunas. All gone. All forgotten.

Annabelle’s hands trembled. I am the eighth. She backed from the portraits.

Her breath came in short gasps. She was going to vanish from that room. No one would remember her. No one would mourn her.

She curled against the wall, knees to her chest, her arms wrapped around herself. The blood moon rose higher. The room grew colder. She whispered, “Please. I don’t want to end up like them.”

The door swung open with a groan. He filled the doorway. Alpha Jason Thorn.

Seven feet of pure power. Black cloak.

Black shirt opened at the chest, showing faint dark marks across his skin—marks pulsed like living things.

His face was devastatingly handsome, but shadowed by pain. His eyes were ice blue. Distant. Dead.

The air in the room shifted. Heavy. Electric. Annabelle could barely breathe. Her mark burned. Her chest ached. The thing inside her—the thing that had been sleeping—stirred.

He looked at her as if she was already a memory. “You. You’re the eighth.” His voice was thunder. Deep. Cold. Final.

Annabelle could not speak. She could only stare. Tears streamed down her face. She pressed herself harder against the wall, as if she could disappear into a stone.

He walked closer. Each step made the marks on his skin pulse. Silver light flickered beneath the dark lines.

He stopped a step away. He was so close she could feel the cold radiating from him.

“Listen to me, little wife,” he said. “Every woman who has stayed in this room disappeared before morning. Do you understand?” She sobbed and nodded.

He whispered: “So don’t come close to me. Don’t come close to me if you want to see morning.”

He turned and sat on the far edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t speak again. He simply sat there, a monument to pain and curses and loneliness.

The air crackled. Annabelle felt it before she heard it—a shift in the atmosphere, a pressure, a presence. Something was happening.

A low, pained sound ripped from Jason’s chest. He clutched his marks. They were glowing—not black anymore. Silver. Bright. Burning. He groaned. His body trembled. The curse was waking.

“Don’t come close to me.” He said.