The Broken Luna: Scarred and Unclaimed

The porcelain bowl hit the floor before Ayla could catch it. It shattered across the kitchen tiles, splashing hot broth over her bare feet. She sucked in a breath but didn't cry out. She'd learned better than that. Crying only earned her more punishment. She dropped to her knees, gathering the shards before anyone else could step on them. "I'm sorry. I'll clean it right away." Martha, the head maid, loomed over her. "You're sorry? You were told to serve Alpha's dinner at seven." Ayla glanced at the clock. Seven-fifteen. "I lost track of time. I was scrubbing the east wing." "You always have an excuse." Martha seized her arm and hauled her upright so violently that Ayla's shoulder struck the counter. Pain shot through her. She bit the inside of her cheek. Three years as Luna, and she still hadn't learned how to behave like one, that was what they always said. As if a title could teach a person how to belong. Ayla lowered her eyes. "I'll clean everything." Martha scoffed. "Of course you will." Ayla had learned not to fight back. She was an orphan the old Alpha had taken in out of pity. When her parents died in a rogue attack, she was barely old enough to understand what death meant. The old Alpha had brought her into Bloodmoon, raised her under his roof, and eventually made her his son's wife. On his deathbed, he'd bound Ayla to Brandon with a final decree. A Luna's crown, a servant's life, a noose dressed in gold. The kitchen doors swung open. Every servant straightened. Ayla didn't need to look up. The air changed first. Heavy. Dominant. Pressing against her chest. Brandon. He walked past without a glance. Her husband. Her Alpha. The man she'd been married to for three years. He had never touched her. Not once. He had never kissed her, held her, or looked at her with anything resembling affection. Sometimes Ayla wondered if he even remembered she was his wife when they weren't standing in front of the pack. "Ayla." Martha's voice snapped her back. "Tray now." Ayla gathered the dinner and carried it herself. The Alpha's residence was beautiful in the way a cage could be beautiful. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, silver wolves carved into the walls, everything gleamed. Everything belonged to someone else. She entered the dining room. Brandon sat at the head of the table with several elders. Serena was seated at his right. Of course. Serena, the Beta's daughter. Serena, the strongest young high-wolf in the pack. Serena, the woman everyone had wanted to see wearing the Luna's crown from the beginning. She smiled at Ayla. It was the kind of smile that never reached the eyes. "Ah. Look who finally graced us." Ayla ignored the remark. "Alpha. Elders." She set down the tray and began serving. "Leave," Brandon said. Ayla paused. "I haven't served your plate." "Serena will." Her fingers tightened around the serving spoon. "Of course." She stepped back.Serena lifted the wine bottle. "Since you're standing there, pour this." Ayla looked at Brandon. He didn't object. So she poured. "I do wonder," Serena said, watching her over the rim of her glass, "how a wolf less orphan kept the highest seat in this pack for three years." Ayla set down the bottle. "I'm simply honoring the late Alpha's wishes." One of the elders coughed to hide a laugh. Ayla felt the heat crawl up her neck. "Enough," Brandon said. For one strange second, his jaw tightened, as though the word had cost him something. Ayla almost looked at him. Almost. Then she noticed his eyes were still on Serena. Not her. Never her. Brandon picked up his wine. "She isn't worth the argument. Send her back to the kitchens." The words were quiet. They still cut. Ayla collected the empty trays. She didn't hurry. She didn't stumble. She didn't give Serena the satisfaction of seeing her break. But as she reached the door, Serena's voice followed her. Low. Almost gentle. "She doesn't even realize how temporary her life here is." Ayla's hand tightened around the tray. She didn't turn around. She walked out. Only when the dining room doors closed behind her did she allow herself to breathe. She hated them. No, that wasn't entirely true. She hated what they made her feel. Small. Unwanted. Like she had somehow committed the crime of being born without a wolf. She carried the trays back to the kitchen and began washing them. She worked until the dishes blurred behind the tears in her eyes. Then she blinked them away. No crying, not here, not where anyone could see. She had survived twenty-two years without a wolf. She could survive one more night. What she didn't know was that tomorrow would demand far more than survival.