Coming Back as Enemy's Luna

27. Conceal

= Amara =

I dab the last layer of concealer beneath my eye and lean closer to the mirror, tilting my face until the light catches every angle. Too pale. I add a hint of warmth to my cheeks, just enough to look alive, just enough to look untouched. The bruise along my jaw is stubborn, a ghostly yellow-purple that refuses to fade no matter how gently I blend. It reminds me of how close I came to not standing here at all.

There are other marks too—thin, half-healed lines along my ribs, a fading handprint on my upper arm, memories pressed into my skin by hands that were never meant to touch me. I cover them carefully, methodically, as if each stroke of makeup is a small act of defiance.

This is not vanity. This is armor.

I stare at my reflection, at the girl who looks calm and composed, her eyes steady, her lips neutral. Anyone else would think I am simply preparing for a celebration. No one would guess that my hands are trembling just slightly, that my heartbeat has been erratic since dawn.

This was my choice.

That’s the lie I repeat to myself as I smooth powder across my collarbone. Or maybe it’s not a lie. Maybe it’s just a truth that hurts too much to hold comfortably.

I chose to push through with the plan. I chose to stand beside Mikael. I chose to stay.

But choice is a complicated thing when every path behind you is already burning.

I straighten slowly, meeting my own gaze. There is a moment—brief, dangerous—where I imagine turning back. Slipping out through the corridor. Vanishing into the trees beyond the territory border. Starting over somewhere no one knows my name or what I’m supposed to become.

But that version of me died the night I was betrayed.

I swallow and reach for the white dress laid out on the bed.

It’s soft, flowing, deceptively gentle. The fabric slides over my skin like moonlight made tangible, clinging at the waist before cascading down to my ankles. White—because purity is expected. Because symbolism matters here. Because they want to see something untouched standing beside their Alpha.

As I fasten the last clasp, my reflection changes. Not softer—sharper. The girl in the mirror looks like she’s made a decision she won’t survive unchanged.

“If Mikael’s people thought abducting me and hurting me would scare me into changing my mind,” I murmur quietly, “they were wrong.”

My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

If they thought breaking me would make me refuse the title of Veyrath’s Luna, they underestimated what broken things can become when they decide to endure.

I lift my chin.

I was betrayed once. I nearly died for trusting the wrong people. I will not let that be the end of my story.

If they want a Luna, I will become one.

But not the kind they can control.

The door opens softly behind me. I don’t jump—I sensed him before the handle even turned.

Mikael stands there, filling the doorway like he belongs everywhere he steps. His presence is a weight in the room, not oppressive, but undeniable. Alpha energy coils around him like a living thing, restrained but alert. His dark attire contrasts sharply with my white, shadow to my light, night to my carefully crafted illusion of innocence.

His gaze flickers over me, sharp and assessing, then softens in a way that almost feels dangerous.

“You’re ready,” he says.

It’s not a question.

I nod. “So are you.”

For a moment, neither of us moves. There’s a thousand unspoken things between us—plans, suspicions, an alliance built on necessity and something far more complicated. I don’t fully trust him. I don’t fully distrust him either. And that imbalance keeps me awake at night.

He offers his arm.

I hesitate only a second before taking it.

His warmth seeps through the thin fabric of my sleeve, grounding and unsettling all at once.

It took us a while before we arrived at the venue. And as we walked through the crowd, I feel eyes on us from every shadowed corner. Whispers follow like echoes that never quite form words.

They are watching.

They are judging.

Let them.

Tonight, I am standing beside the Alpha of Veyrath, walking openly into a room full of people who would gladly see me fail.

The doors to the courtyard open, and sound rushes toward us—music, laughter, the low murmur of a crowd waiting.

The moon hangs above us, a pale crescent carved into the night sky, sharp and luminous. It feels like an omen. Or a promise.