Lost Russian Luna

Chapter Eight

There’s a place in the house where the light comes in sideways. I had to figure out where to stand, one foot past the cracked doorframe, two steps to the right, back to the wall. Here, the windows don’t let the desert sun; it concentrates it, strips it raw, and blanches it bone-pale while it pursues through the scabs of old dust and grease. This is the mess hall, though I’m not sure if the wolves who are renting this place call it that. I only do this because it’s one of the rooms I have wandered into while roaming in the early morning, and it is large enough to hold a pack for the meals.

I find a safe place to stand. The table is long and wide, thick oak, well cared for. Around it are the wolves I know, Tyler, Eric, and George, already locked in a noisy war of words. Their plates are covered in eggs, bacon, various meats, several types of potatoes, and drinks from hot to multi-colored juices. The only sound louder than their voices is the slap of their palms against the oak. It’s certainly not the food they are fighting over, but what’s hanging in the air between them. Something souring the air I can barely sniff, the salty tang of accusations and bitter, insulting wounds.

Tyler, the tallest, is pure sharp angles and came across as having some brain somewhere in that thick blonde head, judging by his sharp tongue. I had to watch him. He seemed observant and calculated his words to cut. Currently, he’s jabbing at his plate with his fork like that eggs had somehow insulted his mother personally, each point punctuating a theory about “what those New England bastards are planning.” Across from him, Eric, the darkest of the wolves I had seen, with skin, hair, and eyes all different shades of brown and shaking with enthusiasm, with his mouth set. The deep fold in his brown face was carved by years of disagreement, ready to pounce into a fight with his loose muscle and thick build. George already seemed bored with the whole debate. He kept shoveling in the eggs, as if he had known starvation before, as I had. He kept eating as a sport. His short, dark hair was cut in a military style, and his eyes had skipped over me, noticing me but not thinking of me as a threat. He continued to eat several piles of eggs and meat, drinking coffee as a lifeline. He just listened like this was normal, the debate.

“You didn’t see the teeth marks, the claws,” Tyler explains with a wave of his hand. “It was a message, crystal clear.”

Eric snorts. “It was a body, not a message. Jesus, Tyler. We’re not in a mob movie.”

“That is the problem,” George pauses between bacon bites. His hand points with the bacon end. “They want us to act like this is the old country. Eye for an eye bull s**t before the summit.”

The summit. The word hangs over the table. I had been to a summit before when I was important and valuable. Something was going down here in Las Vegas; other Alphas were going to be here besides Duncan. Wolves, so many wolves would be here. Flexing, showing off, and it was going to be a nightmare. All of them are pretending to be civilized. But someone or some pack doesn’t want them to make it that far. Every death is a warning.

I hover in my stop, invisible. Only one has noticed me, but I’m not stupid. Every sense is up, the wolf and the girl both prickling at the tension. My fingers find the edge of the wall, nails digging grooves into old paint. I count the exits, the windows, the chairs.

Tyler clicked his fingers against the table. “It’s not enough they killed Natalie…”

Eric cuts in, voice softer with that edge I winced at. “She broke rank. She was still in contact with her old Pack and wouldn’t stop.”

“She was our Luna, our family,” Tyler glares at Eric. “And she’s dead.”

“Dead, gone,” George’s voice flattened. “She’s gone, and Duncan has to continue, and must continue like business is usual. We must support him.”

The word Duncan ricochets through me like a bullet. I brace for the next sound, the next fight.

They start up again, louder. It’s almost a ritual. Three men, same script, same anger, repeat. But this morning it’s riding higher than last night, sparking and climbing, leaping from person to person; it was electric.

I can’t take it.

I can’t leave, either. My body betrays me, legs carrying me into the room entirely. It was the old nature kicking into gear.

They all see me. Tyler is the first to respond. His eyes go cold. “What do you want?” he coldly asks. I felt his icy demeanor shift to protect the others.

I don’t answer. My voice is lost. I had been trained for this once upon a time. But I had lost the ability, even if I was still feeling I had to try, like an i***t. I slide into the seat at the far end of the table, hands flat, arms close. I keep my head down, shoulders close, hunched.

They wait in the silence before they shout about territory lines, about the dead woman Natalie, about what some Alpha might do. They talk about loyalty, traitors, and the correct number of bullets it takes to make a warning stick.

Every word drills into the hollow behind my chest. My throat shrinks until it’s barely a tube. The smell of the juices and coffee hits me, turning my stomach. I want to vanish, to bleach myself out of the room and into the air, but here I am and part of the noise. I can feel my old self, my she-wolf, rising to the surface.

It’s not the argument that’s dangerous. It’s the rhythm of it. The pounding. The escalation. The sense that the next step is clawing out, blood splattered over the table. I have seen it before, been part of it more times than I have fingers. A disagreement that starts with words and ends in bones and blood.

The air vibrates, sharp and shocking. George shoves away from the table, finally done with eating, and his temper flares. His chair screeched at a pitch that cried to our wolves. Erich Lunges up, chest out, and ready to shift. Even Tyler had pushed back, prepared to fight. It had begun. They were ready to go for one another’s throats, and I was ready. I knew and felt the change preparing through them all.

I found my voice; it came, small and soft, working through them all. “Perhaps there’s another way to look at this.”

It isn’t even loud. It’s a nothing voice. But it stops the room cold.

All of them freeze. George’s mouth snaps shut. Tyler lowers his fist. Eric’s arms drop to his sides. The moment cleared, and no one moved, the power I had thought died on that freezing Siberian tundra flared out and calmed the men. I didn’t know it was still there. I was still a Luna. They didn’t think I could only pray to something I didn’t believe in, which could be mistaken for an Omega power because it was so weak. Everything had stopped, and the only sound was the tick of the old wooden clock above the fireplace.

I don’t look up. I don’t have to.

Tyler is the first to recover. He barks a sharp laugh. “What would you know about it, girl? You’re not even Pack.”

I keep my hands folded. My fingers ache from the grip. “I just think maybe… if you look at it another way, we don’t have to kill each other before the New Englanders even get the chance. It is a brutal cycle, and if you continue, so will they. Someone has to stop it.”

It’s nothing special. Not a command, not even a suggestion. Just words. But it works—the tension in the room thins, like a thread cut loose.

Eric and George exchange a glance. George rubs his jaw, shrugs. Eric sits back down, lips pursed.

“She has to be an Omega,” Eric mutters. “That’s why. Damn, finally.”

Tyler tilts his head. “Omega or not, she’s got a point. You wanna die for nothing, go ahead.”

They go silent, as if the conversation had run off a cliff. The energy bleeds out. I let myself breathe. It’s a shallow breath, but I could breathe.

That’s when I notice the figure in the doorway.

Duncan. Alpha. He’s been watching the whole time, arms folded over his chest, bright wolf eyes in the morning glare. I don’t know how long he’s been there, but I can feel his attention like the beam of a laser pointer: steady, dissecting, hard.

For a second, I think he’ll say something. Challenge me, punish me, or laugh. But he doesn’t. He nods once and disappears down the hallway.

The men don’t see it, or if they do, they don’t care.

The table is quiet now. The food is cold, and the coffee has gone bitter. I slide back in my chair, let my shoulders drop.

The fight is over, but the echo of it lives in my bones.

I can’t decide if I’ve won or lost.