His Rogue Luna

Selene --- The forest was too quiet. I crouched behind a thick oak tree, my stomach growling like a trapped animal. Three days. Three days since my last meal. The scent of roasted meat from the Bloodmoon Pack’s kitchens had led me here, right to the edge of their territory. Stupid. So stupid. But hunger makes you reckless. I darted across the open field, my bare feet silent against the damp grass. The pack’s storage hut was just ahead, its wooden door slightly ajar. My fingers twitched. Just one loaf of bread. One piece of dried meat. That’s all I needed. I slipped inside. The smell hit me first—spices, smoked venison, fresh bread. My mouth watered. I grabbed a loaf, tearing into it before I could stop myself. Then I heard it. A growl. I froze. Slowly, I turned. Two massive wolves stood in the doorway, their teeth bared. "Pathetic," one snarled. "A rogue stealing scraps like a rat." I dropped the bread. "I wasn’t—" The second wolf lunged. I ducked, but his claws caught my arm. Pain burned through me. I stumbled back, knocking over a shelf. Jars shattered. Oil spilled. "Get her!" I bolted for the door, but a third wolf appeared, blocking my escape. "Please," I gasped. "I just needed food." The first wolf shifted into a man—tall, broad, with a scar running down his cheek. He grabbed my wrist, twisting it until I cried out. "Alpha’s going to love this," he sneered. They dragged me through the pack grounds, past staring eyes and whispered insults. "Rogue." "Thief." "Kill her." My heart pounded. I’d heard stories about Bloodmoon’s Alpha—Draven. Ruthless. Unforgiving. The warriors threw me at his feet. I didn’t look up. "Well," a deep voice said. "What do we have here?" I forced myself to lift my head. Gold eyes stared down at me, colder than winter. Alpha Draven. He was bigger than I expected. Taller. His dark hair was tied back, his arms crossed over his chest. A scar ran from his eyebrow to his jaw. I swallowed. "Speak," he ordered. "I was hungry," I said. His lip curled. "You stole from my pack." "I didn’t take much." "That’s not the point." A woman beside him—beautiful, with sharp features—laughed. "Just execute her and be done with it." Draven didn’t answer. He stepped closer, tilting my chin up with one finger. I flinched. His eyes narrowed. "You’re alone?" "Yes." "No pack?" "No." He studied me for a long moment. Then he let go. "Work for your food," he said. "Serve my pack for a month. Then I’ll decide if you live." The woman—Livia—snarled. "Alpha, you can’t—" "I can," he cut her off. "Take her away." The warriors grabbed me again. As they hauled me off, I caught Draven watching me. And for the first time in years, I felt something worse than fear. Hope. --- They threw me into a cell. Cold stone bit into my knees. The iron door clanged shut behind me, echoing through the dark. I pressed a hand to my bleeding arm—where that warrior's claws had ripped me. Stupid. So stupid to get caught. Footsteps approached. I scrambled back as a key turned in the lock. "Get up." A female warrior stood in the doorway, tossing a bundle of cloth at my feet. "Put these on. You reek of rogue filth." The clothes were rough-spun—a gray tunic and pants too big for me. Better than my torn dress. I changed quickly, back turned. "Move." She grabbed my arm, nails digging in. "Where are you—" "The kitchens. You'll work until your fingers bleed." She dragged me through torch-lit tunnels, up narrow stairs, into a roaring kitchen. Heat slapped my face. Dozens of pack members chopped, stirred, carried. None looked at me. A stout woman with flour-dusted arms pointed to a mountain of potatoes. "Peel. Now." I picked up the knife. My hands shook. The female warrior leaned close. "Try to run, and I'll enjoy hunting you down." Then she left. I started peeling. Blisters formed within an hour. My fingers burned. The knife slipped, slicing my thumb. Blood dripped onto the potato. "Disgusting." A kitchen boy snatched it away. "We don't eat rogue blood here." I kept peeling. The sun set. My back ached. The pile never seemed to shrink. Then—commotion at the door. Everyone stopped working. Alpha Draven walked in. The room bowed. I didn't. His golden eyes found me immediately. "Still alive." I said nothing. He picked up a peeled potato, examined it. "Slow." "My knife is dull." A gasp went through the kitchen. No one spoke to the Alpha like that. Draven's mouth twitched. He pulled a dagger from his belt—gleaming silver—and stabbed it into the table between my fingers. "Try this one." Then he left. The kitchen exploded in whispers. I pulled the dagger free. Its edge caught the firelight. Sharp enough to kill. I kept peeling. --- They locked me in a storage closet that night. No bed. Just sacks of grain and the dagger still hidden in my boot, though I knew was supposed to leave the dagger in the kitchen. Moonlight leaked through a high window. I climbed the shelves, straining to see outside. The Bloodmoon compound sprawled below—training yards, the Alpha's stone tower, the glittering Moonstone Altar where they did their ceremonies. A shadow moved near the altar. Two figures. Arguing. Livia—the beautiful Gamma who'd wanted me dead—and a broad-shouldered man. Torin, the Beta. "You promised," Livia hissed, loud enough to carry. "He was supposed to kill her today!" Torin grabbed her arm. "Patience. The Alpha's testing her. But she's just a rogue. She'll slip up." "And if she doesn't?" His smile glinted in the dark. "Then we'll make her." I dropped down, heart pounding. They didn't know I'd heard. They didn't know I had a weapon. And they definitely didn't know— I wasn't going down without a fight.