His Missing Luna

CHAPTER 91

AMERIE

AUNT RISSI

“This is beautiful,” I murmur, taking in the serene splendor of Cravers Cot as I alight from the car with my father.

Water cascades from a fountain shaped like crescent moons, each arching a gentle stream into the basin below. The fountain sits at the center of a courtyard framed by towering, silver-white pillars entwined with ivy, giving the place a mystical, ethereal quality.

Statues of ancient wolves, their eyes glowing faintly, guard the entrance, and the air hums with a quiet, magical energy.

The scent of jasmine and roses fills the air, stirring memories of my own garden at the Thunderstorm Pack.

I remember Nathan there, his warm laugh echoing as we worked side by side. I’d tease him about his terrible pruning skills, then show him how to gently trim the roses without harming the buds.

I can still see him kneeling in the soft dirt, hands covered in soil, his hair catching the sunlight. We’d sit on the grass for hours, sharing stories and dreams for our future, his eyes always sparkling with a longing and affection I thought would never waver.

I wonder who tends to the garden now that I’m gone—and if Nathan ever visits it, thinking of me.

“It’s the Cravers Cot,” my father says, stepping up beside me. I turn to study his face, searching for traces of familiarity in this enigma of a man I’m still trying to accept as my father.

His eyes meet mine, and he smiles—a soft, almost hesitant expression. “Are you anxious?”

I shake my head, forcing a smile. “No. I’m just… trying to take it all in. It still feels like a dream. Like when—”

“When what?” he prompts gently, leaning closer.

“When I was at Kizziah’s pack, I only had two prayers: to find my real parents and to somehow avoid mating with Saul,” I say, my voice catching. “When Nathan rescued me, it felt like a dream too, but he always told me it was real.” I glance away, blinking back tears. “Is this real? Or am I going to wake up and—”

He cuts me off by taking my hand, pressing my palm against his. “Close your eyes,” he instructs, his voice steady. “Relax your mind, and tell me what you feel.”

I take a deep breath, letting the tension slip from my shoulders. Warmth blooms between our joined hands, moves up my arms, and a tiny spark of electricity. I try to pull away, but my hand stays fixed in place, as if bound by an invisible force.

His smile widens at my surprise. “It’s the Shakuna bond,” he explains softly. “Only the alpha and his children share this kind of connection in our pack.”

I look down, watching a thin wisp of white smoke curl from between our palms. “I didn’t need to perform this test to know you’re my daughter. I’ve known since the moment you appeared,” he says, finally releasing my hand. “This is real, Amerie. No more dreams.”

He pulls me into a firm embrace, his broad chest solid and reassuring. I wrap my arms around his waist, feeling the now familiar pull towards him.

“That alpha doesn’t deserve you. I swear he will pay for deceiving you,” he murmurs into my hair, voice tight with anger.

I pull back, my brows knitting in concern. “Are you going to hurt Nathan?” Despite everything, a part of me still cares for him.

“He must be punished for what he did to you,” my father replies, his tone resolute. “No one wrongs the princess of the Silvercrest Pack without consequences.”

Before I can respond, the doors of the building swing open, and a group of elderly men in long, red robes shuffle out, their garments covered in faded symbols.

This must be the Cravers—the mystical elders of the Silvercrest Pack.

“Alpha King,” they say in unison, bowing low. The leader pauses, his eyes flickering with surprise when they land on me.

“We’ll discuss this later,” my father says, squeezing my shoulder as he guides me forward. “I want the royal ritual prepared immediately.”

The leader hesitates. “Alpha Malachai… those rites haven’t been performed in years. The princess is—”

“—is back,” my father interjects sharply, baring his teeth in a smile that sends the men recoiling.

Their gazes shift to me, a mix of awe and suspicion.

“But… how?” the leader stammers, his confusion plain.

“I don’t owe you explanations. I expect the ritual to begin without delay,” my father commands, striding past them. I struggle to keep up with his long strides as he pulls me down a wide corridor lined with tall windows. The Cot feels alive around us, the air thick with unspoken history and the distant echo of ancient chants that once filled these halls.

“They are the Cravers?” I ask, glancing back at the robed figures who now whisper among themselves.

“Relics of a past that no longer serves us,” my father answers curtly. “Once, they were trusted by the goddess to guide our pack, but time and greed have tarnished their purpose.”

We ascend a grand staircase, the steps echoing underfoot. At the top, my father veers right, leading us through a narrow passage that opens into a spacious chamber with a massive stone in its center. The rock has a large indentation in its middle, filled with clear water that glimmers under the light.

“What is this place?” I ask, feeling a shiver of unease despite my father’s reassuring presence.

“This is where the ritual will be performed,” he says, his voice reverent.

“What ritual?” a female voice cuts in, sharp and cold.

My father and I turn simultaneously to see a woman standing in the doorway. I feel his aura change the same time my instincts flare; she feels wrong, her presence triggering a deep, visceral distrust. I remember her face from my visions—a woman glaring at my mother with murderous intent.

The woman’s eyes widen, recognition flitting across her features before her expression hardens. “Who is she?” she demands, addressing my father without taking her eyes off me.

My father’s glare intensifies. “That’s none of your concern, Rissi. What are you doing here at the Cot?”

Rissi’s composure wavers. “I… I came to pray,” she says, her voice strained.

“Since when do you pray, Rissi?” my father challenges, his tone dripping with disdain. “Spare me your lies.”

Rissi’s expression falters, but she quickly masks it with a forced smile. “You never noticed all these years, my king,” she says, voice laced with something bitter. “Too busy—”

“Don’t. Speak. Her. Name,” my father growls, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that reverberates through the chamber. “And do not call me ‘my king.’ That’s reserved for my mate—your sister.”

Rissi flinches at his words but manages to steady herself. “Yes, Alpha King,” she murmurs, her voice subdued. “May I at least greet my niece?”

“No,” he snaps, his arm tightening protectively around my shoulders. “Now leave us.”

Rissi lingers for a moment, her gaze lingering on me before she turns and walks away, her steps heavy with unspoken words.

As the door closes behind her, I turn to my father, my heart heavy with questions. “Who is she, really?” I ask, the unease from before now a full knot in my stomach.

Malachai’s expression darkens, the warmth he showed me moments ago replaced by a shadow of old wounds. “Rissi is your aunt, Amerie,” he says, voice edged with bitterness. “Stay away from her as much as you can.”

I nod, the weight of his warning settling over me. A part of me wants to ask more, to understand why he spoke to her like that, but I sense that my father isn’t ready to share those details.

For now, I cling to his side, feeling the growing sense of a world far more complex and perilous than I had ever imagined