The Moon Refused My Rejection

Family Heirloom

Three sharp, authoritative knocks rattled my apartment door.

I froze, a damp dish towel in my hand. Nobody knocked like that in this building. The landlord tapped with his knuckles, and the neighbors just leaned on the buzzer. This was a demand.

I walked over and peered through the peephole. My stomach dropped.

Vivian.

She was standing in my dingy, fluorescent-lit hallway wearing a tailored camel trench coat that probably cost more than my entire year’s rent. She looked entirely out of place against the peeling wallpaper and the scuffed linoleum. She never came to the human side of the city. She considered it beneath her.

I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open. "What are you doing here?"

Vivian didn’t answer right away. She stepped inside without an invitation, her heels clicking sharply against my cheap laminate floor. She paused, her gaze sweeping over the cramped studio, the unmade bed, and the small kitchenette. Her nose wrinkled, just a fraction, at the smell of stale coffee and damp drywall.

"I needed to ensure you were actually planning to show up tonight," she said, her voice smooth and perfectly modulated. "Knowing you, I assumed you’d try to slip out the fire escape."

"I'm going," I said, crossing my arms. "You made it very clear what would happen to my tuition if I didn't."

"Good." Vivian reached into the deep pocket of her coat and pulled out a long, narrow box wrapped in black velvet. She set it on my small kitchen counter, right next to my stack of past-due electric bills. "You will wear this with your dress tonight. It is a family heirloom. It signifies your standing as a ward of the Beta's house."

I stared at the box. "I don't need your jewelry, Vivian. And I definitely don't need to advertise that I belong to you."

"It wasn't a request, Aria." She turned to face me, her pale eyes hard and unyielding.

"You are an Omega of this pack. Tonight, you will stand in the hall, you will wear this piece, and you will not draw attention to yourself. Do you understand?"

"I understand that Selene Morva requested I be there," I shot back, my voice rising. "I've heard the whispers. I'm not as blind as you think."

For a split second, Vivian’s mask slipped. Her jaw tightened, and a flash of something ugly and defensive crossed her face. But she recovered instantly, smoothing her expression into one of cold indifference.

"You've been spending too much time listening to gossip," she said dismissively. "Selene Morva is a traditionalist. She wants the ceremony to be perfect. You are there to fulfill a minor ceremonial role. Nothing more."

"Then why the necklace?" I pointed at the black box. "Why the sudden interest in my wardrobe? You haven't bought me a piece of clothing since I was twelve."

"Because you look like a pauper, and I will not have the Elders thinking my husband cannot properly provide for his ward," she snapped. She took a step toward the door, her patience clearly evaporating.

"Put it on before you leave. If you walk into that manor without it, I will have the Alpha's guards physically restrain you and lock it around your neck in front of the entire pack. Your choice."

She didn't wait for a response. She opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, and pulled it shut behind her with a soft, final click.

I stood in the silence of my apartment, my hands shaking with a sudden, violent surge of adrenaline. My heart was hammering against my ribs, and my skin felt too tight. She hadn't denied it. She hadn't told me I was safe. She had just threatened me and walked out.

I needed to move. If I didn't burn off this energy, I was going to shatter.

I walked over to the corner of the room where my heavy leather punching bag hung from a reinforced steel beam.

I grabbed my hand wraps from the nearby shelf and sat on the edge of the bed, quickly and methodically wrapping my wrists and knuckles.

Loop through the thumb, across the palm, around the wrist. Tight. Secure.

I stood up, rolled my shoulders, and stepped up to the bag.

I threw a left jab. The heavy leather slapped loudly in the quiet room. I followed it with a right cross, putting my hips into the strike. The bag swung backward, the chain rattling against the beam.

Thwack. Thwack. Crack.

I settled into a rhythm. Left, right, hook. Left, right, hook. I didn't think about the pack. I didn't think about the Elders, or the Blood Right, or the Alpha King. I just focused on the impact. The sharp sting in my knuckles. The burn building in my shoulders. The sound of my own ragged breathing.

I imagined Vivian’s cold, pale face and drove a right hook deep into the center of the bag. I imagined Selene’s smug, perfect smile and threw a devastating uppercut that made the heavy cylinder jump on its chain.

Sweat stung my eyes and soaked through my t-shirt.

My muscles screamed in protest, flooded with lactic acid, but I didn't stop. I pushed harder, throwing combos until my arms felt like lead and my lungs were burning for oxygen. I hit the bag until my vision blurred at the edges and my legs finally gave out.

I stumbled backward, gasping for air, and collapsed onto the mattress.

I lay there for ten minutes, staring at the ceiling, waiting for my heart rate to drop back to a normal human rhythm.

When I finally caught my breath, I sat up and unwrapped my hands. My knuckles were red and aching, but my head was clear. The blind panic was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp focus.

I walked into the tiny bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, and dried off with a towel. Then I walked back out to the kitchen counter and pulled the black velvet box toward me.

I flipped the lid open.

Inside, resting on a bed of dark satin, was a silver choker. It was thick, about an inch wide, and heavily oxidized to give it an antique, almost gunmetal finish. It was beautiful, in a severe, heavy sort of way.

I lifted it out of the box. It was surprisingly heavy, the dense metal cold against my palm.

I ran my thumb along the smooth outer edge, looking for the clasp. I checked the back, then the sides. I turned it over in my hands, my frown deepening.

There was no clasp.

I looked closer, bringing it right up to the harsh overhead light. The silver was forged into a continuous, unbroken ring.

There was a single, microscopic seam near the front, but no hinge, no latch, and no hook. It was physically impossible to open it wide enough to slip over a human head.

I turned the band over to look at the inside, the part that would sit against my throat.

My breath hitched.

Lining the entire inner circumference of the silver band were dozens of tiny, razor-sharp teeth. They were angled slightly downward, like the inside of a snake's jaw. They weren't decorative. They were designed to dig into flesh, and once they bit down, the angle meant they would never, ever let go.

This wasn't a piece of jewelry.

It was a trap. And once it clicked shut around my neck, it wasn't coming off.