The Alpha's Disposable Luna

Estela POV The weight of Killian’s body pins me to the mattress, a chain forged from years of duty and despair. His breath is hot and ragged, a low growl vibrating against my skin as he fists my hair, yanking my head back until pain sparks across my scalp. "Focus, Estela," he snarls, his voice sharp enough to slice through the fog clouding my mind. "If I wanted a lifeless body, I’d dig a grave." His hips grind against mine, each thrust a punishment, as if he could force me to forget the chasm between us. But my mind isn’t here. It’s with her. Mia. The woman who’s stolen what little remains of the man I vowed to love. I see them in flashes that burn: tangled sheets that were once mine, her laughter echoing where my cries have faded, his hands—hands that once held me with reverence—now worshipping her curves. He adores her. Not me. "What’s wrong with you?" Killian’s voice is a blade, his dark eyes glinting with fury as he tightens his grip. "Can’t you feel me inside you? Or do I need to f**k you harder to remind you who I am?" I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat burns with a scream I swallow, a sob I refuse to let break free. My body, traitor that it is, still responds to him, to this cursed mate bond that chains me to him. But my soul? It’s crumbling, piece by shattered piece. He doesn’t know I know. He thinks he’s hidden his affair with Mia, tucked it away in the shadows of his lies. But Eve, with her venom cloaked in pity, told me everything: how Killian devours Mia, how they mock me behind closed doors, how I’m nothing but a burden he bears out of obligation. "Speak, Estela." He grabs my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his. "Tell me how much you love this." Silence is my only weapon. His growl deepens, frustration etched in the lines of his face, and he moves faster, each thrust more brutal than the last. I stare at the ceiling, cold and unyielding, as he finishes with a low grunt and collapses beside me. Then, he leans in to kiss me, as if this were love, as if this were enough. I turn my face away. "No." His fingers tighten in my hair again, a dangerous warning. "No?" His voice is a low rumble, laced with menace. I meet his gaze, my own eyes burning with a fire I thought I’d lost. "Do you kiss her after, too?" The words slip out, sharp and reckless. "Or does Mia get something… softer?" The air thickens, heavy with the weight of my accusation. His eyes widen, a flicker of guilt buried beneath the rage. But then he laughs, a cold, hollow sound that chills my bones. "You’re delusional," he spits, rolling off the bed and standing, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over me. I curl into myself, hugging my knees to my chest, the ache between my thighs nothing compared to the one in my heart. "Am I?" My voice is steady, though it trembles at the edges. "Or are you just too weak to admit it?" He freezes, his back to me, the muscles in his shoulders tensing. For a moment, I think he might turn, might say something to bridge the void between us. But he doesn’t. He grabs his shirt from the floor and strides toward the door. "Pathetic," I whisper, loud enough for him to hear. "You think this—" I gesture to the rumpled bed, to the space where love used to live—"is enough? You think I’ll stay for this?" He stops, his hand on the doorknob, and for the first time, I see something c***k in his facade. Not regret, not yet, but something close. Confusion. A flicker of the man I thought I married. "You don’t get to decide what’s enough," he says, his voice low, dangerous. "You’re mine, Estela. My mate. My omega. You don’t walk away from that." I force myself to stand, ignoring the tremble in my legs, the way my body screams in protest. I cross the room to the dresser, my hands steady as I pull open the second drawer. The envelope is there, crisp and final, its weight heavier than the years I’ve spent in this prison of a marriage. I hold it out to him. "Sign it, Killian," I say, my voice cutting through the silence. "End this." He stares at the papers, his jaw tight, his eyes narrowing as if the words themselves are an insult. Divorce. A word no alpha hears without bristling, without the instinct to dominate, to control. His hand twitches, and for a moment, I think he might rip the papers to shreds. Instead, he snatches them from me, flipping through the pages with a scowl. "You think you can leave me?" His voice is a growl, his lobo simmering beneath the surface, its presence a pressure in the air. "You think I’ll let you?" "I’m not asking for your permission," I say, stepping closer, my voice steady despite the storm in my chest. "I’m done being your disposable luna. Sign the papers, or I’ll drag this through every pack court in the territory. Let them see what kind of alpha you are." His eyes flash, the gold of his wolf bleeding through, and I feel the weight of his power pressing against me, urging me to submit. My own wolf, small and fragile, cowers within me, but I force myself to stand tall. I’ve bowed to him for too long. "You’re making a mistake," he says, his voice low, almost a whisper. "You’ll regret this." "Maybe," I reply, my heart pounding. "But staying here? That’s the real mistake." He flips to the financial section of the papers, his lips curling into a bitter sneer. "So this is it, huh? All this time, you were after my money. They were right about you." The words sting, a knife twisting in an old wound. I think of the pack, the whispers that followed me from the moment I became his luna. Gold-digger. Weak. Unworthy. I’ve fought those lies for years, and now he throws them in my face like truth. "You believe them," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "You always did." He steps closer, towering over me, his scent—pine and smoke—overwhelming. "You’re nothing without me," he says, his voice dripping with venom. "You think you can survive out there? An omega, alone? You’ll crawl back, Estela. And when you do, I’ll remind you exactly where you belong." I meet his gaze, unflinching. "I’d rather die than crawl back to you." His hand shoots out, and I flinch, expecting a blow. But he only grabs the pen from the dresser, his movements sharp, deliberate. He signs the papers with a flourish, the scratch of the pen like a gunshot in the quiet room. Then he throws them at my feet, the pages scattering across the floor. "Get out," he says, his voice cold, final. "And don’t expect a dime more than what’s in there." I kneel to gather the papers, my hands shaking but my resolve unbroken. As I stand, I meet his gaze one last time. "I never wanted your money, Killian. I wanted you. But you gave that to her." He doesn’t respond, doesn’t move, but I see it—the flicker of something in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or shame. It doesn’t matter. It’s too late. I turn to leave, but his voice stops me at the door. "Estela." His tone is softer now, almost human. "This isn’t over." I don’t look back. "Yes, it is." As I step into the hallway, the sound of his growl follows me, low and menacing, like the echo of a storm. My heart races, my wolf trembling, but I keep walking. Freedom is close, but it comes with a price. And as I hear the faint scrape of claws against wood behind me, I know Killian’s wolf isn’t ready to let me go. Will Killian’s wolf let Estela walk away, or will his rage pull her back into his grip?