Howl for Me, Not Her

Chapter 2 You Gave Her My Gift and Called Me Dramatic

Our families were tight, so as a pup, I trailed him like a shadow—everyone clocked my crush. We grew into mates, the pack’s golden pair. But a year back, when he kicked off a territory expansion project, the cracks showed.

His Alpha duties piled up, and he tapped my sister, Lila, as his assistant. At first, I didn’t blink—she’s blood, right? Big mistake. This “ordinary” Omega snagged his eye in a way I never did.

He started ragging on me for craving rare meats—called it wasteful.

“Why can’t you be more like your sister? She never questions everything.”“She brings me food when I work late. You just send lists of demands.”

I knew exactly who he meant.But I didn’t think he’d say it so casually.

When I splurged on cloaks, he’d gripe about the cost, saying one could feed a den of Omegas for a month. Turns out, he was stacking me up against Lila. She clawed her way up from a family that prized male pups, earning her spot through grit. Even now, she funnels half her earnings home. Marcus pitied her, and that pity morphed into resentment toward me—the “spoiled Luna.”

Last month, I swung by his office with a lunchbox, worried his stress was wrecking his health. I’d hired a chef to keep him fed right. But when I got there, he’d already eaten. My gaze snagged on a wolf-themed lunchbox on his desk—cute, feminine, and not mine. My gut twisted.

Forcing a grin, I asked, “Pack handing out meals now? What about the lunches I sent?” Right then, the lounge door creaked open. Lila stood there, clutching a matching lunchbox—a couple’s set. Crystal clear.

I snorted, tossed my lunchbox in the trash, and glared at her. “Looks like your assistant’s got your diet locked down, Marcus. I’m done playing chef.” She paled, dodging my eyes, while I stormed out, tears burning but unshed.

After that, I quit bringing him food. Mention it, and he’d call me crazy, praising Lila’s “understanding” vibe. I got sick of it—stopped checking if he was home, started sending him lists of my needs instead.

A few days ago, a packmate dished over dinner, “Elena, heard any good news?” I frowned as she spilled, “Marcus ordered a moonstone necklace from my family’s shop—big bucks. I’m jealous!” Knowing her kin ran the pack’s jewelry gig, I bought it. Hope flickered. But at the Mating Ceremony, I got wolfsbane instead—the necklace gleamed on Lila’s neck.

Two decades of us, and it meant squat next to his year with her. I laughed at my own delusion. After he left, I crumpled onto the sofa, spent, hands over my eyes to trap the tears. My heart cracked loud enough to hear.

I was done.