Reborn As His Luna

Chapter 2

A slow, incredulous smile spread across my face, stretching muscles I had not realized were so tense. Then it grew into a giggle that showed me my teeth. Samantha’s teeth.

The reflection in the mirror, Grand Luna Samantha Wood-Ashford, smiled back. Her emerald eyes were bright with dangerous glee.

For a moment the joy felt perfect. Then a quiet voice — Anya’s voice — whispered from somewhere deep. If I am here in this body, what is happening to mine? Is it still lying in Bloomfield, breathing weakly while my parents watch over it? Or has someone already given up and let it slip away?

I pushed the thought down hard. It tasted bitter. Not today. Not when the mirror finally showed me everything I had begged the Moon Goddess for.

There were no questions, no frantic searches for answers. Just pure triumph. The universe, in its twisted wisdom, had delivered. But how? I kept wondering.

I did not just have the man I wanted, the one whose rejection had carved an abyss in my soul. I had the body I craved, a vessel of power and undeniable beauty. I had the life I wanted, a throne instead of a forgotten corner. I was no longer Anya, the pitiable omega drifting through life on the edges. I was Samantha, the Luna. No, not just the Luna. The Lunatic Luna, as the faint whispers in the deepest corners of my new memories began to form.

Why Lunatic Luna? What dark reputation came before this stunning face? And what had happened to Samantha? More urgent, what had happened to me, to Anya?

Was my old body still somewhere, broken and forgotten, or worse, already slipping away? The questions buzzed like angry bees at the edges of my rising euphoria, but for now I brushed them aside. The mirror held me captive, reflecting a dream made flesh.

I swayed slightly as I stepped out of the restroom, still adjusting to the unexpected strength in these new limbs. The matron, who had waited patiently, offered her arm. I waved it away and nearly lost balance from how easily the motion happened. This arm did not tremble. It did not ache from old beatings or long hours scrubbing floors. It felt like borrowing someone else’s strength, beautiful and terrifying.

I took a step on my own anyway, because stopping would mean admitting I did not belong in this skin.

Just then the infirmary door opened again, and Zeke filled the doorway. His eyes, those deep forest-green pools, widened a fraction. A spark of surprise flickered inside them. A slow, breathtaking smile spread across his face, turning his strong features soft and tender.

“My Goddess, you are walking.” His voice carried genuine amusement and deep relief. It was like watching a mountain drop its stone mask to reveal blooming fields.

He moved toward me, not with the predatory grace I had seen earlier, but with an eagerness almost boyish.

Before I could react, he was there. His hands, warm and possessive, cupped my face. Then he kissed me. A soft, tender press of lips slowly deepened, blooming into fervent promise. The kiss stole the air from my lungs, tasting of pine and frost and raw longing. I stood stunned.

Zeke kissed me. Not in a dream, not in desperate fantasy, but right here. His strong arms held me. His scent filled every sense. The kiss swallowed my lingering doubts, a powerful current washing away the remnants of Anya’s heartache.

Almost. Because even as my new lips moved against his, a small frantic part of me screamed. He thinks he is kissing Samantha. If he knew the truth — that the girl he rejected is wearing her like a mask — would he still hold me like this?

I kissed him harder to drown the thought.

He pulled back, thumbs stroking my cheekbones, gaze steady. “My beautiful Luna.”

He guided me gently back to the bed, helping me settle onto crisp white sheets. The matron and nurse retreated to the corner, then stepped outside.

Zeke’s expression changed. The tender lines around his eyes hardened just enough. The playful amusement vanished, replaced by focused intensity that tightened my stomach. “Sam,” he began, voice dropping to serious whisper, “who was it? You were attacked. Who did this to you?”

The question hung heavy. One mystery solved. Samantha had been attacked. But by whom? The incident the matron mentioned. The coma. Pieces clicked into place, a puzzle I had only begun to assemble.

He waited, eyes boring into mine, expecting an answer. Then realization hit me with a jolt that made me tremble. I had no answer. I had no memories of Samantha. How could Anya know who attacked Samantha?

Cold sweat broke across my back. If I could not answer basic questions about Samantha’s life — her attack, her enemies, her marriage — how long before Zeke or the pack noticed the cracks? How long before someone asked about a memory I did not have, and the whole illusion shattered?

I forced my face calm. My voice — her voice — came out steady. “I don’t know.”

Another realization struck like shield and warning at once. The voice emerging from my throat was not Anya’s soft hesitant murmur. It was deeper, richer, carrying undeniable authority. This was the key to hiding my identity. If my voice was hers, who would ever suspect?

I lifted my gaze to his lips, still faintly swollen from our kiss. Full, firm, promising untamed passion. A spark ignited inside me, dangerous curiosity.

This man, who had once been my tormentor, was now mine. My alpha. My husband. And he believed I was his Luna. I leaned in, surrendering to the bold impulse.

Our lips met again, a soft tentative touch that quickly deepened into something fervent. I was no longer an omega, shy and hesitant. This was Samantha, the Luna, staking her claim. The kiss was proof of rebirth, a defiant embrace of stolen destiny.

The words felt wrong in my mouth, too bold, too sure. Old Anya would have blushed and looked away. But this body did not blush. It leaned in. It took. And I let it. Because stopping would mean giving up the only thing that had ever felt like winning.

When we finally parted, he murmured, thumb tracing my jaw. “I know you missed me, Sam. Let’s go home. Since you can walk now.”

Home. The word carried unfamiliar weight, a strange melody on a familiar string. As Anya, home had been a small crumbling cottage on the edge of a pack that barely noticed me. Now home was the Ash Paw mansion, a fortress of power and luxury.

The journey passed in a blur: soft leather interior faintly scented with Zeke’s pine and frost, rhythmic hum of the Rolls Royce engine, and my mind still wrestling with the massive shift in reality.

As Anya, I had only glimpsed the towering gates of Ash Paw from afar. A wrought-iron giant guarded by stoic warriors in suits, it had always seemed the entrance to a forbidden kingdom. Now those same gates swung open with deep respect, welcoming me.

The long winding driveway showed manicured lawns stretching like emerald carpets, ancient oak trees standing as silent guards. The mansion rose from the landscape like a colossal obsidian jewel, its architecture proof of grandeur and ancient strength. A fortress of wealth and power, each stone whispering stories of generations of Ash Paw alphas. A shiver — part awe, part fear — traced down my spine. This was my home now.

When the car stopped at the grand entrance, vast polished stone, I saw them. The pack. Hundreds gathered on the wide front lawn, a sea of formal clothing. Men in sharp suits, women in elegant gowns, faces bright with anticipation. Afternoon sun cast long dramatic shadows.

Zeke helped me out, hand warm and firm at the small of my back. He raised his voice, Alpha command slicing the air like honed blade. “Ash Paw! Wood Drift! Your Luna and Alpha is back!”

A roar erupted.

Ash Paw belonged to Zeke, his ancestral land, his pack. And I, as Luna, was his consort, his queen. But Wood Drift was my pack, Samantha’s pack, her legacy. I was not just Luna of Ash Paw. I was Alpha of Wood Drift. The She-Alpha.

A tall man impeccably suited stepped forward from the Wood Drift group. He must be her Beta, I thought.

“Alpha,” he began, voice rough with emotion, “your pack has been in uproar, my queen. They attacked Bloomfield pack and hurt them badly.”

Bloomfield. The name struck like physical blow, stripping away thin layer of composure. My heart leaped into throat, hammering like trapped bird. Bloomfield. My home pack. Anya’s pack. My former pack.

“Their territory is now a prison for them,” the Beta continued, unaware of the earthquake inside me. “They have been under siege while those who fought back were killed.”

“Why?” I asked.

“We have news they may have been involved in your attack,” my Beta explained.

Killed. My mind spun. My parents. My old pack. The place where my real body might still lie, comatose, forgotten, or worse. Had Samantha’s wolves attacked while I was trapped in her coma? Had they hurt the only people who ever cared about Anya?

Nausea rose sharp. I swallowed it down.

“Can I see them?” The words came out calmer than I felt. The need to know, to confirm the horrible suspicion, burned urgent.

Zeke, sensing the change in me, looked down, brow furrowed with concern. “Sure, my love,” he said, voice surprisingly gentle. “But first get dressed, eat something. Then we will go.”

Yes. I needed to see. I needed to see what had happened to my father, my mother, and the shell that had once been Anya.

The pieces were starting to fit, forming a mosaic of tragedy and impossible new beginnings. And I, wearing Samantha’s face and her crown, was about to walk into a collision between the life I had lost and the one I had stolen.

I just did not know yet which part of me would break first.