Title: The Alpha’s Bone Moon BrideGenre: Paranormal Romance / Werewolf FantasyTrope:● Forced mate bond● Weak-to-strong heroine●

The Bone Moon rose over the mountains like a pale ghost, bleeding silver light across the Highlands. It was wrong—Marin Vale knew it at once. In the Lowlands, the moon was warm and golden, gentle even at its brightest. But here, across the Highland border, it was bone-white, drained of color, as though the gods themselves had stripped it bare. Her mother had once whispered the stories to her by the fire, before illness claimed her. Stories of the Bone Moon Alpha who lost his mind every winter, of brides chosen under its light who never lived to see the spring. But her mother was gone now. And stories didn’t buy food or coal. Marin pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and moved deeper into the trees. Snow crunched under her boots, muffling the pounding of her heart. The forest here felt different—older. The trees rose in pale, skeletal columns, their roots curling like talons around black stone. Shadows lay thick between them, heavy enough that the silver moonlight couldn’t chase them away. She knew she was trespassing. The Highland border wasn’t marked by fences or guards—its warning was in the silence, in the way even the wind seemed to avoid crossing it. But the moon-thread only grew here, and without it, she couldn’t finish the commission that would keep her and her younger brother alive through winter. She spotted the telltale glimmer then—threads of silver light tangled in the roots of a bent ash tree, as if the moon itself had woven them there. She crouched, pulling at the strands. They clung stubbornly to the bark, cool and smooth beneath her fingertips. Somewhere behind her, a twig snapped. Marin’s head whipped up. The forest was still, but not empty. She could feel it—the awareness pressing against her skin, the certainty of being watched. She worked faster, tugging the last stubborn strand free. Another sound, closer now: the slow, deliberate crunch of snow beneath boots… or paws. The silence broke with a howl. It rolled through the trees like thunder, deeper than any wolf she had ever heard. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Then came the other sound—many feet moving in unison, soft and deadly, approaching fast. Her breath caught. She knew the stories of the Bone Moon Hunt, told in the Lowlands as warnings for children who wandered too far north. A night when the Alpha and his warriors swept through the border forests, hunting rogues, trespassers… anyone unlucky enough to cross their path. She had never believed them. Until now. A shape emerged from the shadows. He was tall, broad-shouldered, a dark silhouette against the pale snow. Black hair tangled in the wind framed a face carved from sharp lines and shadow. A heavy fur cloak draped over his shoulders, brushing the ground as he moved. His bare feet left no prints in the snow. And his eyes—gods, his eyes. They glowed molten silver, as though reflecting the very moon above them. Marin froze. Alpha. She didn’t need the stories to tell her who he was. Draven Thorne, ruler of the Highlands. The Bone Moon Alpha. His gaze swept over her, lingering on the moon-thread clutched in her hand. His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes—a flash of recognition, or perhaps disbelief—before he took a single step forward. “You’re far from home, Lowlander,” he said, his voice deep and edged like a drawn blade. Marin’s lips parted, but no words came. He staggered suddenly, catching himself on a tree trunk. Pain twisted his features as his hand went to his forearm. Marin’s eyes followed—and she saw it. Silver light flared across his skin, curling in intricate vine-like patterns from his wrist up his arm, burning brighter with each heartbeat. The glow climbed toward his chest in living lines. She knew the mark from her mother’s stories. The mate mark. Before she could speak, shadows burst from the treeline. Warriors emerged, their eyes glowing like his. They fanned out, surrounding her, the air thickening with the heat of their breaths. “She’s Bone Moon-marked!” one snarled. “Kill her now before it begins!” Marin stumbled back. “I—I don’t know what—” Draven moved in a blur. One moment he was several paces away; the next, his arm was around her waist, yanking her against the hard wall of his chest. “She’s mine,” he growled, the words a command and a warning all at once. “No one touches her.” “You’ll kill her before the snows melt,” another warrior spat. “Like the others.” The others. The word struck ice into Marin’s veins. She looked up at Draven, searching his face for an answer. His silver eyes met hers for a heartbeat, and she saw it—beneath the fury, there was fear. “Lock her in the fortress,” he ordered. “The Bone Moon Bride doesn’t run.” Before she could protest, he swept her off her feet as if she weighed nothing. The silver vines on his arm pulsed hotter where they brushed her skin, sending a strange pull through her chest. The warriors closed in, moving with him as he strode through the forest. The trees thinned, and the fortress rose ahead—a jagged crown of black stone against the ghostly sky. The gates yawned open, and the moment they crossed the threshold, the Bone Moon’s light dimmed, as if even it feared what lay inside. Marin’s mind screamed to fight, to flee, but her body was trapped in the circle of his arms. Every step carried her deeper into the heart of the Highlands, away from the world she knew. Somewhere far off, a howl echoed through the night. It was followed by another sound—low, inhuman, curling like smoke through the air. Laughter. And it sounded like it was waiting for her.