Reborn As His Luna

Chapter 3

The water in the Bluetooth jacuzzi pulsed around me in a warm embrace that whispered promises of power and indulgence. I sank deeper until it lapped at my chin, trying to let the heat loosen the knot in my chest. It did not work.

Maids moved silently around the expansive bathroom, heads bowed in deference as they bathed me. Their hands were gentle, reverent, almost worshipful. Every touch felt like theft. This skin was not mine. These curves, this smoothness, they belonged to a woman who had never known hunger or shame. I closed my eyes so I would not have to see their lowered gazes. I remembered bowing like that in Bloomfield, scrubbing floors while the Luna watched with contempt. Now the roles were reversed. The thought should have felt good. Instead it turned my stomach.

The room was larger than my entire cottage back home. In the adjoining bedroom a wide plush bed waited like a soft cloud promising luxurious sleep. I could not look at it for long. It felt too much like someone else’s life waiting to swallow me.

I stepped out of the jacuzzi naked and tried to stand unashamed. The maids averted their eyes even further. I looked around taking in the gleaming marble, the crystal fixtures, the soft glow of hidden lights. At Bloomfield I had been a slave. Now the Luna of Bloomfield, the woman who once looked down on me, would bow before me if she ever saw this.

A sharp pang pierced my conscience. Was this selfish? To revel in this glory while my former life, my own family, possibly lay in ruins? The old Anya, meek and powerless, had cared about everything. Samantha, the Lunatic Luna, cared less. That was the transformation, the true rebirth. To keep my identity hidden, to wield this power, I had to become Samantha. I had to make decisions, give orders, embrace the lunatic prowess that now coursed through my veins.

But the thought made me feel sick. I was not her. I was still Anya underneath, small and scared and clinging to the edges of someone else’s life.

I walked toward the colossal wardrobe and opened one door with a flick of my wrist. Inside a kaleidoscope of fabrics and designs waited, a wardrobe fit for royalty.

A wide predatory smile tried to stretch across my lips. I forced it down. This was not a treasure trove. This was a disguise I had to wear.

The maids rushed forward, eyes eager to serve. “Which one, Your Grace?” one asked.

My gaze swept the collection. I pointed to a vibrant purple suit, shoulders sharply defined, cut daringly to hint at generous curves. Samantha’s breasts. Not Anya’s modest offerings. These were plump and luscious, defining audacious elegance. She had a reputation for being chic, sexy, undeniably naughty.

The maids dressed me with practiced efficiency. Each movement was silent choreography. The luxurious material slid over my skin molding to this new physique. The sharp shoulders gave an imposing silhouette. The cut hinted at cleavage, a tantalizing glimpse of power.

From delicate diamond-studded earrings to sleek high-heeled shoes every accessory was chosen with meticulous care. I looked in the full-length mirror. Samantha Wood-Ashford, the She-Alpha, stared back, imperious and magnificent.

I hated how right she looked. I hated how much I wanted to keep looking at her.

The Rolls-Royces glided out of the Ash Paw gates followed by a convoy of black SUVs.

Zeke sat beside me, hand in mine, caressing my fingers. I prayed he would not ask why I needed to see Bloomfield. Every gentle stroke felt like a reminder of the lie. He thought he held Samantha. If he knew the scared omega underneath was still screaming, would he pull away?

As we neared Bloomfield the air grew thick with faint acrid scent, the bitter perfume of burning wood and despair. Smoke hung low over dilapidated houses, a grim shroud hiding the familiar landscape.

The small town that had once been my modest haven now bore scars of siege. Walls pockmarked. Spirit broken. The realization hit like a physical blow. No one would dare help them. This was the work of the two biggest packs, Ash Paw and Wood Drift, Samantha’s and Zeke’s, a ruthless display of dominance.

I began to understand why Zeke could not take other wives, could not take me, could not take Anya. They formed a mutual power couple. Could Samantha have been abusive? The question twisted inside me.

My eyes scanned the destruction. A silent prayer escaped my lips, but it was for my mother alone. My father, the man who had given Anya away like a bargaining chip, held no claim on my grief. I had already accepted that Anya was gone, a casualty of a larger game.

Zeke’s voice, a low rumble, cut through the silence. “Are you leading us to where you were attacked, Sam?”

I turned to him, expression carefully blank. “No.” I could not risk him knowing the truth. I could not risk him seeing Anya’s life or the utter insignificance of it.

Then I saw it. My old house. A humble bungalow, modest facade now marred by charred wall. A painful tug pulled at my chest, a ghost of Anya’s heartache. I quickly looked away, pretending distraction by distant smoke. I could not let him see the flicker of recognition, the pain for a house that was no longer mine.

“May I check this house?” I asked, pointing to the damaged bungalow.

My Beta responded immediately. “Sure, my Queen.” He gestured. Three guards moved with practiced efficiency.

The interior was a somber canvas of ash and shattered dreams. My father and mother stood as I entered, faces etched with weariness and fear. Their eyes, dull and vacant, suddenly widened when they saw me.

“Your Grace! Luna Samantha!” My mother’s voice was barely a whisper. My father, usually stoic, lowered his head in profound respect. The sight of them broken and vulnerable twisted something inside me. A strange unfamiliar ache. These were my parents, Anya’s parents, now bowing to Samantha. My parents bowed to me.

I looked around the small familiar living room. It was my house yet it was not. Chipped paint, worn rug, scent of stale air and faint smoke, echoes of a past life that no longer belonged to me. This was Anya’s house, not Samantha’s.

My gaze swept the room again, frantic search, desperate yearning. I was looking for her. For Anya’s body. The morbid curiosity overwhelmed me. I needed to see the physical proof of my transformation.

“Just the two of you?” I asked, forcing words past the tremor in my voice, struggling to swallow tears that threatened my emerald eyes.

“No, Your Grace,” my mother sobbed, voice cracking. “My sweet girl… Anya. She was cut in the neck. She’s in a coma.”

A coma. Not dead. Not gone. The news hit with conflicting waves of relief and dread. Relief that she was not completely gone. Dread that she could still return. I nodded, detached almost scientific acceptance. I had suspected as much.

“I need to see her,” I commanded.

My Beta stepped forward, hesitant. “Your Grace, it’s… not suitable. It’s quite dirty.”

I ignored him. I walked past toward the closed door he guarded. I pushed it open.

And there she was. Anya. Myself. Lying helpless on a small cot-like bed. Stark white bandage wrapped around her neck.

Her face, my old face, was gaunt almost ethereal. A ghost of who I once was. Conflicting emotions warred inside me. Strange unsettling ache of pity for the fragile shell. Longing to reach out, to touch her, to comfort my mother.

I stepped closer. My hand reached out before I could stop it. I touched her cheek. Cold. Fragile. Still breathing.

Tears stung my eyes, Samantha’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whispered so low no one heard. “I’m so sorry.”

Then fear crashed in. If she woke up I would vanish. This body, Zeke, the power, all gone. I jerked my hand back. My chest ached with something too big to name. Pity? Love? Terror?

I did not know. I just knew I could not let her wake up. Not yet.

I stepped out of the room, face a mask of carefully constructed indifference. My decision was made.

“Remove the siege,” I stated. “It wasn’t Bloomfield.”

Zeke, who had observed me with unsettling intensity, pulled out his phone without a word. He made a quick call, voice low and authoritative, relaying orders. The siege would be lifted. Bloomfield would be free.

Zeke reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek black smartphone. He handed it to me. Samantha’s phone. The thought had not occurred to me. Another piece of the puzzle. Another tool in my new arsenal.

“Oh,” I said, taking it. The cool metal felt like a comforting weight in my palm. I nodded. This would be crucial to discovering Samantha’s past and understanding my own.

Back in the Rolls-Royce the engine hummed gently as I turned on the phone. Security check. Screen glowed, displaying sensor panel. I placed my thumb. A faint surge of power ran through as the device recognized its owner. It opened.

Messages flooded in, torrent of notifications from vast contact list.

Alpha Lucian. Rogue Alpha Corbin. Councilman Tate. Halo!

The names prominent and powerful flashed across the screen. These were not Anya’s humble contacts. These were titans of the supernatural world. Did I know them? No. Samantha did. I was merely borrowing her memories, her connections.

One message caught my attention, pulling me deeper into Samantha’s enigmatic world. From Smoke ‘Da’ Henchman.

“Welcome back, Queen. I thought I would be jobless for life.”

I paused. A curious smile played on my lips. Smoke ‘Da’ Henchman. The name oozed nefariousness. I tapped a reply, fingers surprisingly nimble on the touchscreen.

“Who are you?”

His reply was instant. “Don’t forget me, Queen. I’m Smoke. I do the dirty jobs for you. Please relaunch me.”

A genuine smile wide and wicked curved my lips. Of course. Samantha, the Lunatic Luna, would have someone like Smoke. This was the embrace of her infamous persona.

My fingers shook as I typed. “How about some lunatic moves? Go to Bloomfield, house number 56A west of it. Send the man out and wire all that is in your account to the woman. Tell the woman to release Anya’s body to you, that the Lunatic Luna wants to take care of her.”

I stared at the screen after sending. I had just ordered someone to take my own body. To steal it from my parents.

The thrill came sharp and sickening, but it tasted like ash. I felt like I was drowning in Samantha’s perfume.

I told myself it was survival.

But deep down Anya was still screaming.

“I know there’s a lot of catching up you need to do,” Zeke said.

He placed his hand on my lap, fingers warm, comforting weight. I shivered, mixture of surprise and strange burgeoning excitement. Zeke was touching me. Not Anya, but Samantha.

“There’s catching up with my c**k too,” he murmured. “Please, my Queen, I have been waiting for a week.” His hand moved up my inner thigh, slow deliberate caress sending jolt of heat through me.

I shivered again, delicious tremor. Of course I would sleep with Zeke. I had always wanted him, desire that had burned fiercely in Anya’s heart. But why was he begging?

The thought struck like revelation. The Lunatic Luna must have neglected her husband.

After a pause I spoke. “No problem, babe,” I said. Quick adoption of familiarity I hoped matched Samantha’s style. Zeke’s teeth flashed in triumphant smile, confirming my guess.

I glanced at my screen. Smoke had messaged again. “I’ve gotten the body.”

What? So fast? A startled laugh escaped my lips. This was a lunatic move. Getting Anya’s body as first step. The sheer audacity.

Then another thought hit. Could it have been an exchange? Anya’s soul in Samantha’s body, Samantha’s soul in Anya’s body.

Fuck.

“Sorry, Anya,” I whispered to myself. “You can’t ruin my fantasy. You can’t wake up.”

But the words felt hollow. I was not sure who I was apologizing to anymore.