His Warrior Luna

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

It's been three years.

Three years of wearing this silver collar that burns like hell, three years of serving the wolves who once bowed to me, three years of wondering if I imagined those red eyes in the forest.

I trace the scars on my arms in the dark. The ones from that night in the kitchen never healed right — silver blade, silver collar, no wolf healing. Just another lovely reminder of my place in the pack.

The massive scar across my stomach pulls when I sit up. That was from six months ago, when Eliza decided I needed a “reminder” of my place. The one on my back? Last year's winter solstice, when I accidentally used the wrong fork while serving dinner. The burns on my hands? Last week, when Caroline decided my dishwashing wasn't up to her standards.

My tiny basement room is freezing, but I'm used to it by now. At least the cold numbs the pain. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever feel warm again… if I'll ever feel anything but this hollow ache inside. The thin mattress might as well be concrete. At least the rats keep me company. Sometimes I think they're my only friends in this place.

4 AM. Time for another thrilling day as the pack's punching bag.

I check my reflection in the cracked mirror shard I salvaged from the trash. Dark circles under my eyes, collar burns angry and red, cheekbones sharp from constant hunger. I barely recognize myself anymore.

I limp to the kitchen, trying not to wince. Yesterday's “training session” with Eliza's guards left my ribs screaming. But showing weakness just makes them hit harder.

“You're late, omega.”

I freeze. Caroline lounges against the counter, perfectly manicured nails tapping against her coffee mug. Of course, she's here early. Heaven forbid I get even five minutes of peace. Three years ago, I would have thrown that mug in her face. Now I can barely meet her eyes. When did I become so… broken?

“The floors won't scrub themselves,” she says sweetly. Then dumps her coffee right where I need to clean. The dark liquid spreads across the pristine tiles, and for a moment, I'm transported back to when I would have snarled at such disrespect, when my claws would have already been out. Now, my fingers just curl uselessly at my sides, blunt human nails digging into my palms. The wolf inside me – once so proud, so fierce – whimpers and retreats to that dark corner where I've pushed all my old instincts.

I grab my bucket and rags without a word. Arguing just makes it worse. I've learned that lesson the hard way.

“Oh, and Rebecca wants her shoes polished before the council meeting. All thirty pairs.”

Awesome. Because my ribs weren't broken enough already.

As I polish Rebecca's shoes, I catch myself humming—a melody from before. I stop immediately. Those small comforts, those tiny acts of self, they're dangerous now. Every time I reveal something of who I was, they take it away. I've learned to hide myself so deeply that sometimes I wonder if there's anything left to find. Is that their goal? To erase me so completely that I even forget who I am?

“And Clara?” Caroline's voice drops to a whisper as she walks in. “I heard some younger wolves need practice with their hunting skills. Guess who's playing prey today?”

My stomach drops. “Hunt training” is their newest favorite game. They chase me through the woods, just slow enough to draw it out, before eventually catching me. Last time I ended up with three broken fingers and a dislocated shoulder.

The morning passes in a blur of menial tasks and casual cruelty. Every pack member seems to have their own special way of making my life hell.

The teenage wolves trip me while I'm carrying laundry. The kitchen staff “accidentally” splash boiling water near me. The guards shove me into walls as they pass.

l was scrubbing the main hall floor when Eliza's perfect designer heels stop in front of me.

“Still alive?” she asks, like she's disappointed. “Hm. We'll have to try harder.”

Her new court giggles right on cue. They're basically Caroline and Rebecca 2.0, but with less creativity in their torture methods.

“The east wing needs cleaning before my mating ceremony planning meeting,” Eliza continues. “Try not to bleed on anything important this time.”

Right. The mating ceremony. Like I could forget when they shove it in my face every day. Eliza and Joffrey, the perfect Silver Pack power couple. Makes me want to vomit.

“Speaking of the ceremony,” one of Eliza's new minions pipes up, “isn't it just perfect? The way everything worked out?”

Eliza's smile is pure poison. “Destiny, really. Joffrey and I were meant to be. Unlike some people who thought they could rise above their station.”

Eliza's words hit like a physical blow, but I keep my face carefully blank. I've perfected this mask—this empty, compliant expression that reveals nothing. The real me watches from somewhere deep inside, behind walls built of survival and necessity. Sometimes I wonder if that inner self is just a memory now, a ghost I cling to. Other times, when the pain is particularly sharp or the humiliation too deep, I feel her stirring—that girl with the crown, with the power, with the fury. And it terrifies me how much I've come to fear my own strength.

I sometimes wonder about that stranger in the forest. My wolf still whines for him, even through the silver's suppression. Stupid. He clearly wasn't my mate — a real mate would have come for me. Though sometimes at night, I imagine those red eyes finding me…

“OMEGA!”

The kick catches me in my already broken ribs. I bite back a scream.

“Stop daydreaming and work!” It's one of Eliza's guards. They love using me for target practice.

Another kick. “Maybe if we hit hard enough, the red will bleed out of you.”

They all laugh. Original. Really.

The day drags on in an endless parade of abuse. By noon, I've cleaned every floor in the mansion, polished Rebecca's ridiculous shoe collection, and served breakfast to wolves who once called me princess.

Luna Alice — I can't think of her as mother anymore — passes me in the hallway without a glance. Three years, and she still can't look at me. Still can't acknowledge the child she raised for eighteen years, eighteen years of I love you's and bedtime stories, gone like they never existed. Was any of it real, Mother? Or was I always just the cursed child you were waiting to throw away?

Alpha Jason is worse. He goes out of his way to show his disgust. Orders me to clean things I've already cleaned. Makes me serve at every pack gathering, so everyone can see how far I've fallen.

“Omega!” A young wolf, probably around thirteen, sneers at me. “My room needs cleaning. And try not to get your cursed scent on anything.”

I bite my tongue and follow him. His room is deliberately trashed — they all do this. Make messes just so they can make me clean them.

Hours blur together. Clean this, serve that, yes sir, no ma'am, sorry for existing sir. My body moves on autopilot while my mind drifts.

Then I feel it again. That prickle on the back of my neck. The feeling of being watched.

I spin around. Nothing. Just shadows in the corner of the room.

But lately, the shadows seem to move.

My wolf stirs weakly against the collar's suppression. She's trying to tell me something, but it's like trying to hear underwater. All I get are fragments.

I shake it off and go back to work. But the feeling follows me. Down hallways. Into empty rooms. Even in my basement cell at night.

“Time for hunt training!” Caroline's voice makes me flinch. “Better start running, omega.”

The woods are cold and wet. Perfect for making me miserable as they chase me through the mud. I can hear them behind me, laughing and calling out like I'm actually prey.

A branch catches my face, drawing blood. I stumble but keep running. If I stop, it's worse.

Something moves in the shadows between trees, something big, something that isn't part of the hunting party.

My wolf suddenly perks up, straining against the collar.

“MATE,” she insists. “MATE CLOSE”. No. Don't get your hopes up. It's dangerous. It will get you hurt. But… Why does this feel so different? My wolf suddenly feels so alive?

“Shut up,” I mutter. “He's not coming. No one's coming.”

The hunt ends like it always does — with me on the ground, adding new bruises to my collection.

But as they drag me back to the mansion, I swear I hear a growl. Deep, angry, powerful.

The pack feels it too. Guards patrol more often. Wolves travel in groups. They blame me, of course. More beatings, more restrictions, more “random” silver burns.

“The omega must be plotting something,” I hear them whisper.

“Did you see those claw marks on the border trees?”

“Something's out there…”

But even Eliza seems nervous. She's doubled my monitoring, like she thinks I'm somehow responsible. As if I could do anything with this collar, slowly poisoning me.

“If I find out you're involved…” she corners me one day, silver knife pressed to my throat. “I'll finish what I started in that kitchen.”

I find strange signs sometimes. Claw marks on the trees at pack borders. Unfamiliar scents that vanish too quickly to place. Once, I swear I saw red eyes in the forest, but when I looked again, nothing.

My dreams are full of running. Not away from something, but toward someone. Someone important. Someone whose scent makes my wolf howl even in sleep.

“The omega's cursed,” the younger wolves whisper. “Bad things happen around her.”

They're not entirely wrong. Wolves who hurt me seem to have accidents. Nothing serious — just enough to make them nervous. A twisted ankle here, a mysterious scratch there.

The watching continues. Every day, every night. Sometimes I think I'm going crazy.

Then I found things in my room. Small things. A better blanket. Extra food. Medical supplies after particularly bad beatings.

Someone's helping me. Someone's watching over me.

Tonight, exhausted and aching, I curl up on my thin mattress. The collar burns, my ribs scream, but that's nothing new.

What's new is the scratching.

I bolt upright, ignoring my protesting body. There — at my tiny window. Claw marks appearing in the glass.

A message. It says, “Soon.”

My wolf suddenly surges against the collar with more strength than she's shown in years. The familiar scent hits me like a punch to the gut.

“MATE”, my wolf howls.

The shadows are moving again. But this time, I know who's watching.

And I'm not sure if I should be terrified or hopeful.

Because the message scratched into my window isn't a threat.

It's a promise.