Chasing His Multi-identity Luna

4

Grace's POV

The chandelier above the dining room table cast a harsh, sterile light that made the polished mahogany glow like a tombstone.

Amy’s knife clinked against her plate with every angry stab into her steak, her wolf’s growl a low vibration in the air.

‘She’s unraveling’, Sia noted, amused. ’Good! Let her taste her own venom’.

I propped my chin on one hand, the cool marble biting into my elbow. Across from me, Amy seethed—her scent a storm of burnt coffee and steel, her wolf pacing like a caged panther.

‘Pathetic display’, Sia sneered. ’All teeth, no bite’.

“You know,” Amy snapped, voice sharp as broken glass, “we paid for your music lessons every damn year. Professor Robert said you had talent. And now you tell me—what, it was all a waste?”

“Oh, that.” I dragged a piece of overcooked broccoli through my sauce, savoring her irritation. Sia’s laughter rumbled in my head. ’Tell her about little Bobby’s broken nose. Let her choke on it’.

“Turns out Professor Robert’s son liked calling people names. ‘Mudbloods,’ specifically. So I corrected him. Just... gently.” I smiled, baring teeth. Like you’d bare fangs to a pup, Sia purred. “His nose bled for a week. Professor stopped taking my calls after that.”

Silence. Grandma Mia coughed into her napkin, her wolf’s scent warm with dry humor. ’Atta girl’, Sia approved.

James pushed his chair back with a sigh. “The Alpha summit starts in ten minutes,” he muttered, not looking at me. “Davis will deal with Grace’s… situation.”

‘Situation’. Sia scoffed. ’We’re a hurricane, not a leak’.

Davis lingered, eyes flicking between us. “Want a tour tomorrow?” he asked, scent curious.

’He’s fishing’, Sia noted. ’Testing how much you’ll bite’.

“Pass.” I shoved my plate away. “I’d rather dumpster-dive behind the Game Bar.”

His lips twitched. ’Challenge accepted’, Sia purred.

“Rebel chic. Noted.” He sauntered out, trailing cedarwood and a hint of—interest.

Amy waited until the door clicked shut to explode. “Do you enjoy humiliating me? In front of James? In front of Davis?” Her wolf’s claws scraped the edge of her control.

I stared at her. “Sacrifice? You left me with Grandma for twelve years and sent checks like I was charity. Now you want a medal for a guest room?”

“Relax, Amy. I’m not here to stay.” The words were bitter, but Sia’s voice was soft. ’You’re not a pet they can discard’.

Her expression cracked. “Fine. Don’t expect us to help when your grandmother—”

“Mom!” Emma’s voice, sickly sweet. She glided in, violin case in hand, her wolf preening. ’Look at me, the perfect doll’, Sia mocked.

Amy melted. “Of course, darling. Grace, pay attention. Learn dedication.”

Emma positioned her violin, gaze locking with mine—smug, victorious. The first note screeched. I winced. Sia snarled. ’She butchers it’.

“Beautiful, Emma!” Amy cooed.

’Liar’, Sia snapped.

“Thanks, Mom,” she said, and her wolf purred, preening under the praise. Look at me. I’m the daughter who matters.

I pushed my chair back, the screech of wood against tile slicing through the air. “I’m going back room.”

I sprawled across the velvet couch in my room, eyes fixed on the ornate ceiling medallion above—a ridiculous flourish of plaster roses that seemed to smirk down at me, as if the Browns needed yet another symbol of their suffocating wealth.

My mind raced with the day’s chaos, but beneath the noise hummed the familiar itch to tinker, to dismantle the mansion’s security system just to prove I could. Old habits, as they say, die hard—especially when they’re the only things keeping you sane in a den of wolves.

Growing up, I always knew I was the anomaly.

Not just because I preferred soldering wires to playing house, or because the sound of childish laughter grated on me like a rusty blade. No—there was a deeper disconnect. In a world where worth is measured by the power of your wolf, I was the girl who felt nothing but static when others described the “bond.”

Amy would wrinkle her nose at me, as if my very existence smelled of decay. Eric tried to hide his unease, but even he couldn’t mask the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. They fought over Emma, the golden child whose wolf would surely glow like a damn nightlight. Me? I was the glitch in their perfect genetic algorithm, a line of code that refused to compile.

But I weaponized that glitch. At eight, I built my first laptop from scrap in Grandma’s garage. At nine, I hacked a “secure” werewolf forum and exposed the bullies preying on new shifters. By twelve, I could out-code most adults in Blue Moon Pack, all while teaching myself Krav Maga in Grandma’s backyard. If I couldn’t rely on a wolf, I’d rely on my hands—and the cold, unflinching logic of a keyboard.

My backpack buzzed, yanking me from my thoughts. I sat up and pulled out my beat-up flip phone—no GPS, no tracking, just a burner for emergencies.

A text blinked: Matthew calling. Secure line.