Unwanted
1562 Words
Tyler.
The thought sits heavy, dragging old memories with it.
I’ve never been close to Tyler. Not really. We grew up in the same house, trained in the same fields, ate at the same table — but it never felt like we were on the same side. Alpha Marcus made sure of that.
Everything was a competition.
El took down that opponent in three minutes, Tyler — why did it take you six?
El shifted first.
El mastered her wolf faster.
El’s instincts are sharper.
I can still see Marcus watching me shift with approval, then turning to Tyler with narrowed eyes.
“Again,” he’d say. “Until you’re as good as her.”
Tyler would grit his teeth and shift over and over until he collapsed. Sometimes I wondered if things might’ve been different between us — if Marcus hadn’t turned our entire childhood into a scoreboard. Maybe we could’ve been friends. Maybe we could’ve understood each other.
But that never happened.
Tyler always had his own circle — his friends, his space. Especially Stephanie. His best friend since they were pups. They’d walk off together after training, laughing, teasing, never inviting me. And when I tried to tag along, Stephanie made sure I knew I wasn’t welcome.
“Here comes the freak.”
“Don’t burn the forest down, El.”
Tyler never stopped her. Never defended me. He just let it happen.
And now I’m betrothed to him.
The Alpha House comes into view, tall and familiar. I slip inside and head straight to my room, the scent of cedar and old books wrapping around me like a warm blanket. I drop my things onto the bed and catch my reflection in the mirror. My eyes look tired — too much truth in them, too much weight.
With a sigh, I pull my hair into a messy bun, twisting the long waves until they’re out of my face. Practical. Controlled. Contained. Everything I’m supposed to be.
I slip my earbuds in and scroll to my favorite 2000s rock playlist. The opening guitar riff hits, loud enough to drown out my thoughts, and I let the music carry me down the hall into the kitchen.
This is my routine. My escape. My role.
I roll up my sleeves and start prepping dinner for our usual guests: Alpha Marcus, Tyler, Marcus’s Beta and his son, and — unfortunately — Stephanie. Always Stephanie.
I pushed the thought aside and focused on the food. A pot roast goes into the oven with potatoes and carrots. Corn simmers on the stove. I slice into the still‑warm loaf of homemade sourdough, the crust crackling under the knife.
The kitchen is filled with the kind of warmth that makes a house feel like a home. But it’s never really felt like mine.
Not with the marriage looming.
Not with Tyler.
Not with Stephanie’s constant glare.
Not with Marcus’s expectations tightening around my throat like a leash.
I turn up the music and keep working. Dinner won’t make itself.
When the roast is nearly done, I start setting the long oak table. I place my spot at the far end, alone — less chance of Stephanie’s comments, less chance of Tyler pretending I don’t exist.
I lay out the wine glasses, set two bottles of red in the center, then head back to the kitchen. The strawberry pie I prepped earlier waits on the counter. I roll out the pastry, fill it with the mixture I made this morning, sprinkle the crumble topping, and slide it into the oven beside the roast.
Once everything is in motion, I clean the kitchen until the counters shine. Then I run upstairs to change. Marcus insists I’m always “presentable,” just in case we have guests. Presentable, in his mind, means perfect.
I pull on a soft sweater and dark jeans — simple, neat — and hurry back downstairs just as my timer goes off. Everyone is already seated. Of course they are.
I serve them first — Marcus, Tyler, the Beta, his son, and Stephanie — before finally filling my own plate. The room hums with conversation, mostly Marcus and his Beta discussing pack business. I tune it out, letting the clink of silverware and low voices fade into background noise.
Until one sentence snaps everything back into sharp focus.
“Did you pick up her ceremony dress?” Marcus asks.
“Yes, Alpha,” the Beta replies. “It was already prepared. Exactly as you requested.”
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth.
Her ceremony dress?
“My dress?” I ask.
Marcus raises a brow. “Yes, yours. You’re the one with a ceremony in two weeks, are you not?”
“I… I thought I would wear my mother’s old dress.”
He snorts. “Don’t be silly. No tarnished old rag is fit to display the next Luna of this pack.”
The words sting more than I expected.
Marcus nods to his Beta. “Go get it.”
A moment later, the Beta returns holding something pale and delicate. He unfolds it, and my stomach drops. It’s barely a dress at all — more like a veil. Completely sheer. My cheeks burn at the thought of the entire pack seeing me in that.
“Um… what would I wear under it?” I manage.
“Nothing, of course,” Marcus says, as if I am stupid. “We’re doing a traditional ceremony.”
“Traditional?” The word tastes wrong.
Marcus leans back, pleased with himself. “Back in the old days, ceremonies were held under moonlight. A rope‑binding ritual in front of the whole pack. Both mates stood as the Moon Goddess made them — nothing to hide. Afterward, they would mate and mark each other before the pack. A display of unity. Of ownership.”
My heart slams against my ribs. Ownership.
“But packs don’t do that anymore,” I whisper.
“Most don’t,” Marcus agrees. “But this pack will. For you.”
I swallow hard. “You don’t mean… we’ll… in front of everyone?”
Marcus meets my eyes, unblinking. “That’s exactly what I mean, El.”
The room goes still.
“Once the pack understands that you are mine,” he continues, “we can begin the real work.”
A hollow ache opens beneath my ribs. “Yours? I thought—Tyler—”
“Tyler is irrelevant,” Marcus snaps. “He is simply the vessel. The ceremony binds you to this pack, and by extension, to me.”
The blood drains from my face.
“When the pack sees who you belong to,” he says, “they will fall in line. And once they do, we can move forward with the plan to overthrow the King.”
Silence drops like a stone.
“The King?” I whisper. “Alpha Ryker?”
Marcus smiles, slow and cruel. “Yes. Ryker has ruled long enough. With your power, I will gain the support of the other packs. They will have no choice but to follow.”
My pulse thunders. “And if I don’t stand with you?”
“That is why the ceremony must be traditional,” Marcus says. “The pack needs to know who you belong to. Once they witness it, there will be no doubt.”
No escape.
Stephanie suddenly shoots up from her chair, her wine glass rattling. Her face drains, then flushes red. Without a word, she bolts from the room, heels pounding down the hall.
Tyler’s shock lingers only a moment before it curdles.
“Mate with her?!” he blurts. “I can’t mate with her — I’ve already chosen Stephanie! I love Stephanie. A real woman.”
His words hang in the air like poison.
“El is nothing more than a lowly maid.”
Marcus’s chair scrapes back — not in my defense, but in irritation.
“You will do this for this pack,” he snaps at Tyler. “Your personal preferences are irrelevant.”
Tyler stiffens.
“After you are mated,” Marcus continues, “you can have whatever woman you want on the side. Stephanie, or anyone else. I don’t care. But the ceremony will happen. The bond will be made. That is your duty.”
Heat and nausea coil low in my belly. Not because of Tyler — but because of how casually Marcus discards me.
As if I’m not a person at all.
Marcus turns his gaze on me, cold and possessive. “With your power,” he says, “I will gain the support of the other packs. But for that to happen, they must know who you belong to.”
Belong.
The word lands like a chain around my throat.
Tyler looks between us, horrified for reasons that have nothing to do with me. “Father, this is insane—”
Marcus slams his hand on the table. “You will obey. Both of you.”
Stephanie’s distant sobs echo down the hall.
Tyler stares at his plate, jaw clenched.
And I sit frozen, realizing the truth:
Marcus doesn’t see me as a Luna.
Or a woman.
Or even a person.
Just a weapon.
A symbol.
A means to his throne.
And he will do anything to claim it.
- Writer
