My Rouge Luna

Chapter 4

⸻

Chapter Four

Mission Impossible

Aaliyah’s P.O.V.

The moment the wheels touched down in Houston, dread coiled in my stomach like a venomous snake. The air itself felt heavier here, weighted with a past that wasn’t mine but pressed on me all the same.

I glanced at Christa from across the aisle. She hadn’t spoken a word since boarding. Her silence worried me more than her sharp tongue ever could. When Enrique had outlined this mission, the unease had been immediate. Too close to her past. Too close to the kind of pain that didn’t fade with time.

And now, as the cabin lights dimmed and the passengers shuffled to disembark, I knew with a certainty that made my chest ache: this mission would break something in her. The only question was what — or who — we would lose in the process.

⸻

Christa’s P.O.V.

The flight was mercifully short, but the silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Each of us was locked inside our own thoughts, preparing for what we could not yet name.

Down in the parking garage, the concrete smelled of oil and steel. My fingers itched for handlebars instead of a steering wheel; I hated the feeling of being caged inside a car.

“What about this one?” Serenity gestured toward a black Mercedes Benz SUV, its paint gleaming under the fluorescents.

I gave her a grin sharp enough to cut glass. “Perfect.”

She had it hotwired in under five minutes, her hands moving quick and sure. When she slid into the driver’s seat, I pressed a hand against her shoulder.

“I’ll drive. I know where we’re going.”

Her brow furrowed, but she moved. I didn’t explain. Some places you didn’t describe — you felt them in your bones. And this one had been mine once, in a different lifetime: the farmhouse outside Fort Worth where my father had brought us after walking away from his pack.

We loaded up and drove, music filling the silence. Normani’s playlist was a chaotic mix — Megan Thee Stallion, Selena, Guns N’ Roses — but it kept us breathing, kept us from drowning in the weight pressing down.

Halfway there, hunger dragged us off the road to a diner called Big Mike’s Backyard BBQ. The scent of smoked brisket and fried cornbread hit like a punch. For a little while, laughter replaced tension.

Then I heard it.

The low, familiar purr of a motorcycle engine.

My head snapped to the window. Outside, a bald man climbed off a black 1976 Shovelhead Harley, its chrome glinting like a blade. Immaculate condition. A masterpiece.

A slow, dangerous smile spread across my face. My girls saw it, and instantly, they knew.

Normani slammed a hundred-dollar bill onto the table. “Let’s move.”

We waited until the man disappeared into the restroom. Bags flew into the Mercedes. My legs carried me straight to that Harley like it had been waiting just for me. Keys in the ignition. Rookie mistake.

“Like taking candy from a bald-headed baby,” I muttered.

The engine roared to life under me. The diner doors slammed open behind me.

“You b***h!” the bald man screamed, a gun flashing in his hand. “Get off my bike!”

Too late. I tore out of the lot, gravel spitting into his face. My sisters followed close in the SUV.

The Harley was freedom. The wind ripped through my braids, the sunset painted the sky in fire, and the growl of that machine drowned out every memory, every regret. For a fleeting moment, I remembered what it felt like to breathe.

By nightfall, we reached the farmhouse. Three stories, weathered wood, and twelve acres of nothing but isolation. The safe house my father had left behind — and the place I had once called home.

“Pick a room. Rest up,” I told the girls as I killed the engine. “Tomorrow, the real work begins.”

⸻

The master bedroom still carried whispers of the past. My parents’ wedding photos lined the walls, smiles frozen in time. My mother — radiant, alive. My father, before grief hollowed him out.

I curled into bed clutching a photo frame. For the first time in years, I let myself wish for things I could never have: her arms around me, her voice, her love.

Sleep came hard, jagged.

Until Serenity’s voice tore me from it.

“CHRISTA! Wake the f**k up!”

Her panic was contagious. My wolf surged forward, instincts bristling.

“What is it?” I demanded.

Normani and Aaliyah stood at the window, pale-faced.

“I picked up a scent,” Serenity said, words spilling fast. “Tracked it through the woods. Wolves. At least ten. They’re closing in.”

My stomach dropped. “Are you sure?”

Her glare could’ve cut steel. “Positive.”

“Follow me.”

We stormed into the basement. At the back wall, I punched in the code: 081096. Steel doors hissed open to reveal my father’s safe room.

Monitors flickered on. Twelve cameras across the property showed shadows moving through the treeline. Wolves. Huge ones.

“Fuck.” My hands shook as I tore open a glass case. Rows of weapons gleamed under the light. “Take one. Load it. Navy SEAL issue — don’t miss.”

Serenity whistled low, gripping her rifle. “Your dad wasn’t playing.”

“No. He wasn’t.”

We loaded quickly, but Aaliyah stepped forward, voice calm against the chaos. “Wait. Let me bless the rounds.”

She chanted in Latin, her hands glowing faintly. One by one, our magazines shimmered — bullets turning from brass to silver.

Boots laced. Holsters strapped. Glocks locked and ready. I scanned their faces. No fear. Only fire. My sisters.

“Y’all ready?”

Nods all around.

Normani grabbed a sniper. “Roof’s mine,” she said with a wink. “Te amo, chicas.” And she was gone.

I killed the breaker. Darkness swallowed the house. For wolves like us, the night was no enemy. For them, it was blindness.

Positions taken: me at the front door, Aaliyah at the dining room, Serenity at the living room.

And then they came.

A massive black wolf tore from the trees, five more at his heels.

Normani fired first. The Alpha dodged, surging faster.

Gunfire erupted, silver rounds screaming into fur and flesh. Wolves dropped, but the black beast kept coming. My rifle clicked empty. I drew my Glock, shots hammering into his leg, his shoulder. He barely flinched.

He hit the porch.

Normani dropped from the roof mid-shift, slamming into him in a storm of claws and teeth. She raked his chest, went for his eyes. For a moment, she had him.

And then he threw her.

He was on her before she hit the ground. His jaws clamped down. The sound of her throat tearing open was louder than any gunshot. Blood sprayed, hot and thick.

“NOOO! NORMANI!” The scream ripped from my soul.

I shifted, rage and grief fueling me, and launched at him. My teeth sank into his neck, deep enough to feel his pulse. I shook him like a rag doll, blood flooding my mouth, and hurled him through the window.

Agony ripped through me as claws tore into my back, teeth sank into my legs. Two wolves, pinning me down. My cry split the night. Then gunfire cracked, and they dropped, smoking holes in their skulls.

The yard was a battlefield. Bodies everywhere.

Serenity stalked among them, finishing each with a clean headshot.

I shifted back, naked, bloody, shaking. My gaze landed on Normani. She was already human again, her body limp, eyes glassy. My baby sister. Gone.

Aaliyah wrapped me in a blanket as I collapsed, sobbing into the dirt. Serenity joined us, her howl breaking the night, my own voice joining hers, raw and broken.

Part of me died with her.

But then Aaliyah stiffened. “He’s not dead,” she whispered, eyes locked on the house. “The Alpha. The one who killed her. He’s inside.”

We stormed back in.

There he was. Unconscious. Human.

When Serenity rolled him over, my world tilted.

Xavier Rivera.

The man we had come to Houston for.

I looked at my sisters, grief and fury colliding in my chest. “We leave. Now.”

Weapons. Bags. Normani’s body. And Xavier — bound and shoved into the trunk.

As I laced my sneakers and threw on sweats, my hands shook for the first time in years.

I had faced death before, stared it down with a smile. But tonight… tonight I felt it.

For the first time in a long time, I was truly afraid.