Rejected by My Alpha Mate

Silver Light

The pack house doesn’t feel like home after the council.

It feels like a trap.

Even the air is different. Thicker. Edgier. Charged with the kind of tension that makes wolves snap at shadows and omegas move like ghosts.

By the time night falls, everyone has heard some version of what happened in the council chamber.

That Damon refused to exile me.

That the elders wanted a cleansing.

That Elder Rowan almost shouted the word sacrifice.

And that Damon touched my wrist and called the bond his responsibility like he could shoulder the Moon itself.

People don’t look at me much after that.

They look through me.

Like if they focus too hard, I’ll become real enough to blame.

I stay in my room because there’s nowhere else to go. Damon posted a guard outside my door after the council—one of his warriors, expression blank, eyes careful. Like I’m a loaded weapon he’s been assigned to babysit.

I hate it.

I hate that part of me feels safer anyway.

The mark on my wrist is restless all evening. It warms, cools, warms again, like it’s breathing in time with the Moon.

When the first howl rises from the forest, my skin prickles. Full moon, of course. If the universe has a sense of humor, it’s cruel and punctual.

I pace my small room until I feel sick with the need to move. To do something. To not be a waiting room for disaster.

At some point, I stop at the window and press my forehead to the glass.

Beyond the pack house grounds, the forest is a black sea under silver light. The Moon hangs fat and bright in the sky, the clouds around it torn like bruises.

My wristmark pulses.

My wolf stirs.

Not like the flinch and bristle from before. Deeper. More awake. Like she’s been listening all week and finally decided to answer.

I don’t know what to do with that.

Someone knocks on my door.

I jerk back from the window.

The guard outside shifts. “Alpha,” he says, and his voice tightens.

My stomach drops.

The door opens without waiting for my permission.

Damon steps in, and the room immediately feels smaller.

He’s changed. No suit. Dark clothes built for movement. Hair messy like he dragged his hands through it too many times. His eyes are wolf‑gold in the moonlight, but controlled—barely.

He shuts the door behind him. The guard’s footsteps move away.

“We have a problem,” he says.

I laugh without humor. “Do you want a list?”

His gaze snaps to mine. “A child is missing.”

The words hit like ice water.

My mouth goes dry. “What?”

“One of the omegas,” Damon says. “A kid. Eight years old. She slipped out during the chaos after the council. Her mother didn’t notice until curfew. Now she’s gone.”

My throat tightens. Images flood in: tiny hands, wide eyes, hunters in the trees, silver bullets.

“Hunters?” I whisper.

“We don’t know,” Damon says. “But it’s full moon. The forest is active. Rogues move at full moon. Hunters like it too—more noise, more confusion.”

My wristmark warms.

My wolf pushes forward, alert, ears pricked.

“Where was she last seen?” I ask.

Damon’s eyes narrow. “Why.”

“Because I can help,” I say, before fear can talk me out of it. “Because if she’s out there and you waste time arguing—”

“You are not going out,” Damon snaps.

His aura flares, pressing into the room like a stormfront. My wolf bares her teeth at the pressure. My own anger rises to meet his.

“Then why did you come here?” I demand. “To tell me so I can sit here imagining her blood on leaves? To punish me with helplessness?”

His jaw tightens. “I came because you might know something.”

“About a missing kid?” I stare. “Do you think I lured her out there too?”

He flinches—just a fraction—and the guilt in it makes me angrier.

“No,” he says, quieter. “I came because… you sensed the hunters before. You sensed the pressure before the glass shattered. Your mark reacts to threats. If there’s something out there, you might feel it.”

I swallow.

That’s not trust.

It’s weaponizing me.

But a child is missing.

I close my eyes and focus on my wrist. On the slow pulse under my skin. On the way the mark warms when Damon is near, like it recognizes him even when I don’t want to.

There.

A tug.

Not toward Damon. Away. Toward the forest.

My eyes snap open.

“She’s out there,” I whisper.

Damon’s shoulders go rigid. “Where.”

I point without thinking, hand lifting toward the trees beyond the window. My wristmark flares. A line of heat runs up my arm like a compass needle snapping into place.

“North‑east,” I say. “Near the old service road.”

Damon’s face goes hard. “That’s where the patrol was attacked.”

My stomach drops. Of course it is.

“I’m going,” I say.

“No,” Damon says.

I step closer until we’re almost chest to chest. “You need me.”

His eyes flash, wolf‑gold brightening. “That doesn’t mean I let you walk into a trap.”

“Then don’t let me walk,” I snap. “Run with me.”

For a heartbeat, something dangerous and intimate sparks between us at the word run. Like two wolves hearing the same call.

Then Damon’s expression shutters.

“Get dressed,” he says, harsh. “Dark clothes. Shoes. Quiet.”

Relief hits me so hard it’s almost nausea.

I don’t waste time. I pull on jeans, boots, a dark hoodie. My fingers shake as I lace the boots. Damon watches like he’s counting every second and resenting every one.

“If you disobey me out there,” he says, “I will drag you back.”

“Noted.”

He opens the door, and the guard stiffens. Damon barks orders, fast and clipped. Two warriors fall in behind us. The pack house stirs, whispers following us like smoke.

Outside, the night is cold and sharp. The Moon makes everything too bright. Shadows look like teeth.

We hit the tree line and Damon signals silence. The warriors spread out. Damon stays close enough that I can feel him without looking.

My wristmark burns, pulling me deeper into the forest.

I focus on the pull. On the scent of damp earth. On the faint sound of something small moving through leaves.

“There,” I whisper.

Damon’s hand clamps on my shoulder. “Wait.”

I wait.

Ahead, in a shallow dip between roots, a tiny figure crouches—dark hair, small hands clamped over her mouth. Her eyes are huge in the moonlight, shining with terror.

The missing girl.

Relief floods me so hard my knees go weak.

And then I smell it.

Not human.

Not wolf.

Something sour, wrong, like blood left too long in the sun.

Rogue.

The bushes to the left rustle. A low growl rolls through the trees, deep enough to vibrate in my bones.

The child whimpers.

Damon moves before I breathe. He steps forward, silent as death, and the warriors shift into position.

A wolf slides from the shadows—too thin, ribs visible, fur patchy. Its eyes are wild. Not gold, not silver. A sick, pale yellow like old teeth.

It’s not one rogue. Another shape moves behind it. And another — three in total.

My wristmark flares hot. My wolf rises inside me like a wave.

“Back,” Damon orders, voice low.

“The child—” I start.

“Back,” he repeats, and this time the Alpha edge in it makes my bones want to obey.

The rogues creep forward, circling. The child is trapped between them and a fallen log. Her small body shakes.

Damon shifts his stance, ready to lunge.

Then the lead rogue snaps and charges.

Damon meets it with a snarl that isn’t fully human. His fist slams into the wolf’s jaw with a c***k that echoes. The rogue stumbles, but another leaps from the side.

One of Damon’s warriors tackles it. They hit the ground hard.

The third rogue darts toward the child.

I move.

I don’t think. I don’t plan. I just move.

“Evelyn!” Damon roars.

I sprint, boots slipping on wet leaves. The rogue is faster. Too fast.

The child screams, high and sharp.

My wristmark explodes with heat.

Something in me answers.

Silver light erupts from my arm, not like fire, not like lightning, but like moonlight given shape. It lances out in a wide arc between the rogue and the child.

The rogue hits it like a wall.

It yelps—a sound half wolf, half human—and recoils, fur singed where the light touched.

I skid to a stop in front of the child, arms out like I can physically block a predator.

My hands shake. My breath comes in ragged pulls.

The silver light hums around me, faint but present, as if my blood is glowing.

The child stares up at me, eyes round.

“L‑Luna?” she whispers.

“Not now,” I gasp, trying to keep my voice calm. “Stay behind me.”

The rogue snarls, pacing. It wants the child. It wants me. It wants something.

Behind us, Damon is fighting, the sound of fists and growls and snapping teeth cutting through the trees. One warrior shouts. Another cries out in pain.

The rogue lunges again.

My wolf surges.

The silver light flares brighter, pushing outward in a wave. The rogue slams to the ground, thrown back as if the air itself hit it.

For a heartbeat, everything is silent except my breath and the child’s sob.

Then a twig snaps behind us.

Damon’s head whips around. His eyes lock on me.

On the silver light.

On the child tucked behind my legs.

His expression changes—shock, fury, and something else, something that looks dangerously like awe.

“Evelyn,” he says, voice raw. “What did you do?”

I stare at my hands. The light fades slowly, leaving my skin tingling.

“I…” My throat works. “I didn’t know I could.”

The remaining rogue retreats into the trees, limping, eyes still fixed on me like it will remember.

Damon’s warriors drag themselves upright. One is bleeding. Damon’s knuckles are streaked red. He stalks toward me, aura blazing.

He reaches for my wrist.

The moment he touches the mark, it pulses—bright, silver, alive.

“You saved her,” he says, as if the words hurt.

I nod once. The child clings to my hoodie, trembling.

“Good,” Damon says, voice tight. “Now we get back before someone else sees.”

Too late.

A soft click comes from above.

I look up.

On a ridge line between trees, half hidden by branches, a figure stands with a phone raised. The screen glows faintly as it records.

Not one of ours.

The figure turns and runs before Damon can move.

“Hunters,” Damon snarls.

My blood goes cold.

Because I know exactly what that video will show: a girl who never shifted, wrapped in silver light, standing under a full moon like a weapon.