My Rouge Luna

Chapter 10

W.T.F.

Christa’s P.O.V.

We piled into the black trucks under a sky the color of bruised metal. I made myself last, wanting the extra second to breathe before walking into whatever performance my “family” had staged. The door wouldn’t close — a security guard had jammed his foot in the gap, eyes bland and unreadable.

My patience snapped. “Excuse me — can I help you?” I barked, loud enough to cut through the hum of the engine.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t answer. He just watched.

I stepped out, slammed the door, and leaned a shoulder against the steel. “Listen,” I told him, voice low and hot. “Give us a moment. We’ll come out when we’re done talking. Back off — or I will put you on the ground and you’ll never stand up again.”

He took two slow steps back. It was the barest victory, but I welcomed it.

Back inside the truck, my sisters sat like coiled springs. Aaliyah’s expression was guarded; Serenity’s jaw worked as if chewing on a worry; Normani wasn’t there. The empty seat between us was heavier than any weapon.

“So,” Aaliyah said first, dry as old paper. “What’s the tea, sis?”

I studied my hands for a breath, trying to thread a story out of chaos. “I have family. My father’s sister—an aunt I never knew—invited me to dinner. She says she’ll explain that night. I know you both have questions. I know you don’t trust this. I—” I looked up at them. “But I need you to ride this out with me. This is the last ride.”

Serenity snorted. “Not like my calendar’s full, but sure.” A brittle laugh broke the tension for a second, and we all eased just enough that the truck lurched forward.

Outside, I caught sight of him at the pack house entrance — Carlos, leaning against a pillar while a short-haired she-wolf jabbered at his ear. I felt nothing warm about the sight. I filed it away as a promise: I would remember the short-haired one’s name when I could snap her neck.

The house they brought us to was smaller than the compound but just as deliberate about wealth: cedar siding, soft lights woven through a manicured garden, a long table set for an evening that smelled like roasted meat and spice. Children ran between legs; horses were being led to stables. Strings of lanterns made the yard look like a small, well-tended village.

A woman in the garden crossed the lawn toward us. She extended a hand. “Hi. I’m María,” she said, bright, practiced hospitality on her face. “Ricardo’s wife — welcome. We heard we’d be having company.”

I stepped forward and offered what I could of a smile. “Christa. These are Aaliyah, Serenity… and Normani.” The name hit me like a stone; I swallowed it back as the memory of her absence tightened in my chest. My voice went small. A child tugged at María’s skirt.

“Oh!” María’s face softened as she scooped up the girl. “This is Navi, and that’s her twin, Navito.” She introduced the children with easy warmth and then turned back to me. “You’ll be shown to your rooms. The help will take care of you. Dinner is at seven.”

I levelled my gaze at her. “We will not be attending dinner as a group. Send clothes in the morning. We’ll dine in our rooms. And tell your — hosts — I want my gun.”

The smile slipped from María’s face so fast it looked staged. For an instant she was all hospitality and then she folded inward, cold as slate. She leaned forward, close enough that I could smell the citrus on her breath, and whispered with a smirk: “Listen, chica. I see your whole lone-wolf act. Cute. But you’re not the only b***h who can bark.”

She straightened and, loud enough for the yard to hear, said with perfunctory politeness, “Clothing has already been arranged. You will be down for dinner. You will not disrespect my mother-in-law’s home, nor this family. And as for that gun—forget it. I can be pleasant, but that is an act. I’m glad to drop it. See you at seven.”

Aaliyah planted herself at my side and, deadpan, observed, “If that’s family, I want whatever she’s selling.”

I snorted a laugh that tasted like metal and walked into the house with them.

⸻

They dressed me like a promise I didn’t mean to make. The help handed me a fitted silk dress — black, simple, sharp — and a pair of black leather heels. My ponytail was sleek, and when María knocked at my door moments later I almost decided not to let her in.

She entered with a small makeup kit and the ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times. “I come in peace,” she said, setting out brushes and palettes as if arranging a dinner plate.

She worked in silence at first, focused and professional. I watched her hands while my head tried to click facts into place: guards who hadn’t flinched, a man who had ordered my release, cousins who squeezed me like they’d never met me. When she angled the compact so I could see my face, something in the mirror looked familiar and foreign all at once.

“You’re not from this pack, are you?” I asked, because the question had been gnawing at me since the truck.

She smiled without looking up. “No. I’m not.” She dabbed at my cheekbone with practiced fingers. “I’m Yazoo — last of the native packs in the Southeast. Mississippi.” There was a steady pride in the way she said it, like a name she’d inherited and polished.

I watched her from the glass, trying to catch whatever it was she wouldn’t say. “How did you end up here?” I asked.

She paused, putting the brush down, and sat on the edge of the bed. “Carlos and the twins came to my people after the last Alpha nearly wiped us out. They made a deal — peace, protection, alliance. I married one of the twins. This marriage — this connection — brought me here. Some things are survival. Some things are family.”

Her brown skin caught the lamplight; a tattoo curled along her arm in patterns I didn’t immediately understand. She was beautiful in an honest way, not the curated perfection of those who polish themselves into armor, but the real, lived-in kind. She met my eyes squarely in the mirror. “I know you,” she said softly. “I know who you are.”

The room tightened around that line. I wanted to ask how — whether she’d read my file, watched me grow, or if there had been whispers through old alliances — but my sisters were waiting, and dinner would be the battlefield where answers or wounds would be served.

María packed away the kit, standing with the ease of someone who’d crossed lines and come back whole. “Seven,” she said simply, then pressed a hand to my shoulder with something that read like both warning and sympathy. “We will feed you.”

I left the room with my face arranged and my throat full of questions. The house smelled like rosemary and roasting meat. Lanterns winked. Laughter rose and fell in the hallways, and behind the smiles I felt the blade-edge of hospitality: warm, yes — but edged for a reason.