The Alpha's Disposable Luna

Chapter 2: Freedom’s Bitter Price

The papers are signed, crumpled at the edges where Killian’s rage left its mark. They sit in my lap, heavy as iron, as I clutch them in the dim light of our—my—bedroom. The air still carries his scent, pine and smoke, a ghost that lingers even as his footsteps fade down the hall. My hands tremble, not from fear but from the weight of what I’ve done. I’m free. Or as free as an omega can be in a world ruled by alphas like him.

I rise from the bed, my legs unsteady, the ache in my body a reminder of his touch—brutal, possessive, empty. The mirror across the room catches my reflection: pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, hair tangled from his fists. I look like a woman who’s survived a war, and maybe I have. But the battle isn’t over. Not yet.

I pack quickly, shoving clothes into a worn duffel bag. A few dresses, a pair of boots, the locket my mother gave me before she fell ill. Each item feels like a tether to a life I’m leaving behind, but I can’t afford to linger. Not with Killian’s growl still echoing in my ears, a warning that his wolf is closer to the surface than I’d like.

As I zip the bag, the bedroom door creaks open. My heart lurches, expecting him, but it’s worse. Mia stands there, her silhouette sharp against the hallway light. She’s holding a coffee mug, steam curling from it like a taunt, her lips curved in a smile that’s all teeth and no warmth.

“Well, well,” she says, leaning against the doorframe, her voice dripping with mock pity. “He finally kicked you to the curb. Took him long enough.”

I force myself to meet her gaze, my fingers tightening around the bag’s strap. Mia’s beauty is a weapon—flawless skin, auburn hair cascading in waves, eyes that glitter with malice. She’s everything I’m not: bold, unyielding, the kind of woman an alpha like Killian craves. And she knows it.

“Get out,” I say, my voice low, steady, despite the storm raging inside me.

She laughs, a sharp, cutting sound, and takes a slow sip of her coffee. “Oh, Estela. You’re so predictable. Clinging to your scraps of pride while Killian and I…” She trails off, her smile widening. “Let’s just say he was insatiable last night. Three times, right against the door. Couldn’t even make it to the bed.”

The words hit like a fist, each one a calculated blow. I see it in my mind—her body pressed against the oak door downstairs, Killian’s hands on her, his growls filling the air. My stomach churns, but I refuse to let her see me break.

“Sounds like you’re proud of being his w***e,” I say, stepping closer, my voice cold as ice. “But that’s all you’ll ever be, Mia. A distraction. A toy.”

Her smile falters, just for a second, and I seize the moment. I snatch the mug from her hand and fling the scalding coffee over her head. She shrieks, stumbling back, the liquid soaking her silk blouse, staining it dark and ugly.

“You b***h!” she screams, clawing at her face as if the coffee were acid.

Before I can savor the moment, Killian bursts into the room, his presence a thunderclap. His eyes dart to Mia, then to me, narrowing with fury. He rushes to her, his hands gentle as he checks her face, her hair, her trembling shoulders. The tenderness in his touch is a knife in my chest, sharper than any blow he’s ever dealt.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Estela?” he roars, his voice shaking the walls.

I tilt my chin, meeting his glare. “Ask your mistress.”

Mia sobs, clinging to him, but her eyes flick to me, gleaming with triumph. She’s playing the victim, and he’s eating it up. My heart twists, but I refuse to look away.

“You’re pathetic,” Killian says, his voice low, venomous. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash, tossing it into my open duffel bag. “There. Payment for the years you spent on your back. Take it and get out of my sight.”

The bills flutter like dead leaves, each one a slap to my dignity. But I think of my mother, her frail body wasting away in a hospital bed, the surgery she needs costing more than I could ever earn. Pride is a luxury I can’t afford.

“As you wish, Alpha,” I say, zipping the bag shut with hands that shake but don’t falter. I sling it over my shoulder and walk past them, my head high, even as Mia’s sobs follow me down the hall.

“Estela,” Killian calls, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. I pause, but I don’t turn. “You’ll regret this.”

I don’t answer. I keep walking, each step a rebellion, each breath a promise to myself. I’m done being his luna, his possession, his punching bag. The front door slams behind me, the sound final, like a coffin lid closing.

One Month Later



The hospital room smells of antiseptic and despair, a sterile cage that traps me as I wake. My head throbs, my vision swimming under the harsh fluorescent lights. The last thing I remember is sitting by my mother’s bedside, her hand cold in mine, the beep of the heart monitor slowing, slowing, stopping.

“Estela?” A doctor’s voice, gentle but urgent, pulls me from the haze. He’s standing over me, his face lined with concern. “You fainted. Went into shock.”

My chest tightens, a vise squeezing my heart. “My mother?” I whisper, already knowing the answer.

He hesitates, and it’s enough. The world tilts, and I grip the bedrails to keep from falling into the void opening inside me.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice heavy. “She didn’t make it.”

The words are a physical thing, crushing me, stealing the air from my lungs. I want to scream, to rage, to tear the room apart, but I’m too hollow, too broken. My mother—my anchor, my reason for fighting—is gone.

The doctor clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “That’s not all.”

I look up, my vision blurred with tears. “What do you mean?”

He offers a small, cautious smile, like he’s trying to soften the blow of whatever comes next. “You’re pregnant.”

The word hangs in the air, impossible, absurd. Pregnant? My mind reels, grasping for sense in the chaos. Killian. It has to be his. The mate bond, that cruel tether, ensured I’d carry a piece of him even after I walked away. My hands drift to my stomach, trembling, as if I could feel the life there, fragile and unasked for.

“How far along?” I ask, my voice barely audible.

“About six weeks,” he says, glancing at his chart. “We’ll need to run more tests, but—”

“Tests?” I cut him off, panic rising. “What kind of tests?”

He hesitates again, and I hate how his silences carry more weight than his words. “The ultrasound showed… unusual activity. Multiple heartbeats.”

My breath catches. “Multiple?”

He nods, his expression a mix of awe and concern. “You’re carrying quadruplets, Estela. Two boys, two girls.”

The room spins, and I grip the bedrails tighter, my knuckles white. Four. Four lives, four hearts, all tied to me—and to Killian. My mind races, conjuring images of tiny hands, tiny faces, a future I never imagined. But with it comes fear, sharp and cold. Killian is an alpha, a king in his pack. If he finds out, he’ll claim them. He’ll claim me. And I’ll be back in that house, under his thumb, my freedom a distant dream.

“I can’t keep them,” I whisper, the words tearing at me. But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. I’d burn the world to protect them, to keep them from him.

“You don’t have to decide now,” the doctor says, his voice gentle. “But you’ll need to take care of yourself. This pregnancy… it’s high-risk.”

High-risk. The term echoes in my mind, a warning bell. I think of my mother, her body failing, her life slipping through my fingers. I can’t lose them too. Not these babies. Not this piece of me that’s still alive, still fighting.

“What do I need to do?” I ask, my voice steadier now, fueled by a resolve I didn’t know I had.

“Rest, for starters,” he says, scribbling something on his chart. “We’ll set you up with a specialist. And you’ll need to avoid stress.”

I almost laugh. Avoid stress? I’m an omega, alone, pregnant with an alpha’s children, with no money, no home, and a pack that would tear me apart if they knew I’d left their leader. Stress is my shadow, my constant companion.

But I nod, because what else can I do? “Thank you,” I say, my voice hollow.

He leaves, and I’m alone with my thoughts, my hand resting on my stomach. Four heartbeats. Four futures. I close my eyes, and for the first time in weeks, I let myself cry—not for my mother, not for Killian, but for the lives I’m carrying, the ones I’ll fight for, no matter the cost.

As the tears fall, I hear footsteps outside the door, heavy and deliberate. My heart stutters. It’s not the doctor. It’s not a nurse. The scent hits me first—pine and smoke, unmistakable, inescapable.

Killian.

The door creaks open, and his shadow fills the frame.

How did Killian find Estela? And what will he do when he learns she’s carrying his children?