Bound to the Silvermoon Goddess

Chapter 8

Red Moon Pack

Hailey

"You really shouldn't let them talk to you like that."

The voice comes from beside me just as I round the corner toward Advanced English.

Rowan.

Son of Beta Garrick. Future Beta of Ironclaw Pack. Fated mate to Lila of Red Moon.

He falls into step beside me as though we've walked this route together a hundred times before, hands tucked casually into his pockets, posture relaxed, expression carefully neutral. Rowan carries himself with the quiet confidence of someone born into responsibility, someone raised knowing leadership would one day rest on his shoulders. There is steadiness in him, an unspoken weight of duty that mirrors his father's, though where Garrick is openly warm, Rowan guards his emotions carefully, revealing little of what he truly thinks.

Rowan has never been openly cruel to me, but he has never exactly been kind either.

I've always suspected there's a small part of him that resents me.

Resents the time his father spent training me.

Resents the praise Garrick gives me.

Resents the fact that I earned my place instead of being born into it.

"Your class is in the other direction," I say flatly, not slowing my pace.

A small smirk tugs at his lips.

"You know my schedule now?"

"I know everyone's schedule," I reply. "Helps me avoid unnecessary interactions."

"Unnecessary interactions," he repeats with amusement. "Is that what we are?"

"Yes."

He laughs quietly.

"Well... small update," he says. "Jaxon and I are in Advanced classes this year. Alpha Darius wants us prepared to

graduate early if necessary."

Of course they are.

Because apparently my peaceful academic space has now been invaded by testosterone and entitlement.

"Oh," I mutter.

"Great."

We round the final corner and there he is.

Jaxon, eldest son of Alpha Darius.

Future Alpha of Ironclaw Pack.

Professional headache.

He leans against the classroom wall like he's posing for a dramatic painting titled Arrogance in Motion.

Arms folded.

One ankle crossed over the other.

That irritating smirk permanently attached to his face.

He pushes off the wall when he sees us approaching, greeting Rowan with one of those ridiculous chest-bump

handshakes males seem genetically programmed to perform.

"Did you tell the little warrior?" Jaxon asks casually, glancing at me like I'm not standing right here.

"Nah," Rowan replies. "Thought you'd want the honour."

They both turn toward me.

I focus intensely on the classroom door, silently begging the Moon Goddess for Mrs Parker to appear immediately.

She does not answer.

Jaxon steps directly into my path.

He's taller than me by nearly a head, shoulders broad and out weights me by far too much, and unfortunately very

aware of both facts.

"You're going to tutor us," he announces.

"Absolutely not."

"I'm the future Alpha," he reminds me, tone smooth with confidence.

I tilt my head.

"You said future. Meaning not yet. Meaning I don't have to do anything you say."

His eyes narrow slightly, clearly unused to people not immediately agreeing with him.

"How about I speak to my father then?"

I roll my eyes so hard I briefly consider sucker punching him in the throat.

"Alpha Darius will tell you that my schedule is already full. I have obligations outside the pack every afternoon

from now on."

"So when exactly are you planning to study little warrior?" he presses.

"Late."

"Perfect," he says instantly. "We'll meet you at your room every day, late."

He winks at me with a smirk on his face.

Infuriating.

Absolutely infuriating.

Mrs Parker finally arrives, keys jingling as she unlocks the classroom door.

I make a point of entering last, choosing the seat with the furthest possible distance from both of them.

The lesson drags.

Every second feels longer with them present in my class.

By lunchtime, I have already decided that if this continues, I will absolutely be graduating early and escaping this

place as quickly as possible.

After school, I head straight back to the pack house.

Shower, change, prepare.

I pull on clean training clothes that will fit comfortably beneath my riding leathers and pause briefly in front of

the mirror.

I'm not insecure.

Not really.

But this is my first time entering another pack as an invited guest.

My long black hair, threaded with natural strands of silver that catch the light like frost, is braided tightly down

my back, each section woven with care to keep it out of my face during training. The darker strands fall smooth

and heavy, but the silver glints through like winter hidden beneath midnight, something rare and not entirely ordinary.

My skin carries a warm golden tone earned from years spent outdoors, the sun painting subtle highlights along my shoulders and collarbones. It gives me a glow that never quite fades, as if heat and light have settled permanently beneath the surface.

My eyes are difficult to place, hazel at first glance, but when the light hits them just right, flecks of gold burn beneath the surface with a sharp intensity. There is something unsettled in them, something restless, like a storm waiting for permission to break.

I am not delicate like many of the girls in my classes.

I am built for movement, for survival, for endurance.

Strength sits naturally in my body, not bulky, not exaggerated, but undeniable. My arms are defined from years of

holding weapons steady, muscles shaped by repetition and discipline rather than vanity.

My waist curves into hips built for balance and precision, my body trained to shift weight effortlessly, whether

bracing for impact or striking without hesitation.

My legs are powerful from endless drills, capable of speed when needed and stability when everything else

falters. There is a grounded strength in the way I stand, the kind learned from falling and rising again more times than I can count.

I am feminine.

I am capable.

I am dangerous.

There is nothing fragile about me, though I know how to move quietly when needed. Strength does not have to be

loud to be real.

Enough muscle for certain girls to whisper about behind their hands, their voices dipped in judgement they try to

disguise as curiosity.

I actually like how I look.

I look like someone who can survive.

That should be enough.

And yet, sometimes, when the light catches the silver in my hair or the gold in my eyes, I see something else

staring back at me...

Something older than I understand.

Something that does not quite belong to only one place.

Something that feels... unfinished.

Still, something twists quietly in my chest.

Is it nerves?

Maybe hope?

A little uncertainty?

A new pack.

New people.

Possibly a place where I am not introduced as the little warrior orphan who was found at the border, before

anything else.

"I hope they like me," I murmur softly to my reflection.

Then I grab my helmet and leave.