Lost Russian Luna

Chapter Eleven

There is a corner of the Bellagio lobby where you can see everything and nothing, the whole performance reduced to little figures in an aquarium. I anchor myself there, next to a glass fountain frozen in the act of spilling, and let the world blur around me. I watch the tourists with their phones, the men in rented tuxes, the women with dead-eyed companions and tighter dresses. I’m invisible, but the feeling is different here. Less prey, more ghost. There is a comfort to it. No one is watching me like that, New England Alpha. I could breathe without judgment.

I keep my hands shoved deep in the hoodie pocket, clutching a single stick of hotel pen, rolling it between my fingers. Thinking hard about everything that had been said, talked over, and debated. Nothing had been figured out, but no one was happy. I do this for as long as I can before the urge to run fades and the air in my lungs stops burning.

When Duncan finds me, he doesn’t say a word. He stands at my side and waits for me to move. There’s no command, but there is: I follow, a step behind, through the maze of gamblers and glass and towards the elevators again. Back to work.

Back on the thirty-fourth floor corridor, the doors to the conference room are closed. Muffled voices leak into the hallway, the cadence already ugly. Duncan puts his hand on the steel handle and waits for my eyes to meet his. He says, “Don’t let them see your fear.” It’s almost kind. I nod, swallow, and try. I take in the last free breath before we have to return to the muddled air of chaos.

Inside, the wolves have returned to form. The Alpha is at the head, but the seating is tighter, the rival bodyguards closer to the action, every one of them radiating heat and threat. The table itself is reset with fresh water and coffee, but no one’s touched the carafe. They had even added a few pastries.

Tyler and Eric are already at their posts, each with their brand of controlled aggression: Tyler with a smirk and a sidelong glance at the opposition, Eric with the fixed, blank expression of a man waiting for a fire alarm. I slide into my chair. Duncan sits last, hands folded and silent.

There’s no small talk this time. The New England Alpha speaks first, his voice cold and flat: “We want the mountain corridor, end of discussion.”

Tyler scoffs, “You never controlled it. Last winter’s incident is enough…”

“Was a setup,” says the Alpha, eyes glinting. “You and I know it.”

Duncan’s reply is quiet, measured, and colder than I expected from him. “You lost the corridor. We’re holding it now.”

The Alpha slams his fist on the table. It’s not for show. My water glass jumps, the sound ricocheting off the walls. I flinch, and the Alpha sees it and smiles darkly. I gave him a sick pleasure from my discomfort. The rival wolves’ eyes flash, some hazel-yellow, some the weird blue-white of arctic breeds. Beneath the table, I see claws emerging, the knuckles straining the skin. The room goes from cold to electric in a heartbeat.

“Don’t make us take it by force,” the Alpha says, and in his mouth, “force” is a sacrament.

Duncan leans forward. “Try it.”

The tension ratchets to the breaking point. I can taste it, coppery and hot, a flavor I know too well. My hands grip the pen so tightly that it nearly snaps. For a second, I wonder if anyone will walk out, or if the carpet will have to be cleaned after.

That’s when the words come out of me, quiet and unplanned, bypassing thought and landing sharp as a needle. The power flickers with the words, the one they will believe is Omega-tinged, this damaged Luna that I am.

“Maybe there’s another way.”

The silence is instant. Every head turns to me, even Duncan’s. The New England Alpha looks stunned, then amused, then skeptical. His lips curl. “The ghost speaks?”

My heart is a jackhammer, but I keep my eyes fixed on the pen. “Neither Pack can hold the corridor without killing half your own. It’s a blood trap.” My voice is steadier than I feel. “But if you share patrol, alternate by the moon, it’s less likely either of you gets stabbed in the back. The corridor stays in play, but nobody owns it outright. It’s bad for pride, better for business.”

The table is motionless. For a moment, even the rival wolves seem confused. Then the Alpha laughs, a short, barked sound, the kind that’s meant to wound. “You think this is about business?”

I shrug, the borrowed hoodie swallowing my neck. “You think it isn’t?”

Duncan is watching me with a new intensity. I feel the heat of his stare, but I don’t look. Tyler is the first to break, muttering, “It’s not the worst idea.” Eric grunts assent, never moving his eyes from the opposition.

The Alpha drums his fingers. “You have a tongue, girl. Careful, it doesn’t get bitten off.”

“I’ve lost worse,” I say, and this time the tremor in my voice is real.

The air shifts. The wolves on both sides are unsettled, some with open scorn, some with interest. The idea is a seed, planted and already sprouting poison. The Alpha steeples his fingers, regards me as if I’m a bug under glass.

“You say alternate by the moon. What if the other side cheats?”

Duncan answers for me, his voice iron. “You’d know. We’d know. If you break the treaty, every other Pack in the West will turn on you. Nobody wants open war.”

A long pause. The Alpha’s eyes flick to each of his bodyguards, gauging their reaction. At last, he grins, teeth flashing.

“Maybe you’re not just a ghost. Maybe you’re a witch.”

“Not a witch,” I say. “Just tired.”

There’s a ripple of laughter, even among the enemy wolves. The pressure in the room drops a notch, just enough to breathe. The Alpha signals one of his men to start taking notes. I watch the claws retract, the teeth disappear behind polite lips.

From there, the negotiations slither forward. The Alpha throws more threats, more bluffs, but now the table is balanced differently. The idea of a shared corridor is on the record, and no one can unsay it. Duncan references it often, each time a little louder, a little more official. The rival wolves keep glancing my way, as if they’re waiting for me to curse them or sprout wings. I keep my head down, but my hands have stopped shaking.

After hours, the session ends. Terms are drafted, not signed. A truce, not a peace. But it is something. The Alpha leaves first, his bodyguards close behind, their eyes still slicing the room. Once the door clicks, Duncan exhales, just a whisper.

He looks at me. There’s no smile, but his voice is almost soft. “You did well.”

I want to say “I didn’t mean to,” but I know it’s a lie. Some part of me is still Luna, and the words come when they are needed.

Tyler nudges me as we leave, his smirk now a thing of actual humor. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Val. Thought you’d piss yourself.”

I glare at him, and he snorts.

In the hallway, Eric falls in step. “They’ll come for you now,” he says, not unkindly.

“Let them,” I say, but my stomach knots anyway.

We take the elevator down. The whole time, Duncan watches me, not like a threat, but like a puzzle.

The doors open to the chaos of the lobby, the river of strangers, and the cold moonlight streaming in through the glass. I feel the eyes on me, from every angle, but I keep walking.

I am a ghost, but I have teeth.

That night, in a motel room with walls so thin I can hear the neighbor snoring, I dream of the corridor. Wolves from both sides patrol it, passing each other without violence, sharing the kill, keeping the peace.

It’s not perfect. But it’s better than war.