Luna Aurora‘s Second Chane

Aurora's POV We have already waited for four hours. I know he may not come back tonight. The balloons Noah and I spent the afternoon blowing up are starting to sag, their ribbons going limp in the still air of the Alpha suite. His banner reads "HAPPY BIRTHDAY DADDY" above the fireplace in letters he spent an hour cutting out himself, and at the center of the table sits the chocolate hazelnut cake with its ring of unlit candles—still unlit, because Noah made me promise we'd wait. Noah’s on the floor now. He rested his head on his knees, the baby fat face full of fatigue. His eyes were close to closing. "He's not coming home tonight." I've known it for the whole night. I just didn't move. Because a week ago, Noah came tearing into the kitchen before I'd finished my first cup of coffee, already buzzing with it. "Mom, Dad's birthday is next week—can we do a surprise? Can I make the decorations?" He'd already started planning before I could answer. The memory settles behind my sternum and doesn't leave. How do I tell him? I've been trying to work it out since the night of ten days ago, when Logan came back from the alliance banquet with a woman. Eileen Collins—from the Blue Valley, which is the pack larger, stronger, and wealthier than Redmoon Pack. She's the Alpha's daughter, raised as an heir, his fated mate. His fated mate, which is crucial. What he had always wanted but couldn't find, what he had longed for and pursued since his youth, what I desperately wanted to give him but could never do. He'd brought her here, to this pack house, to our family, and I've been watching him move through rooms like he's already living somewhere I can't reach him. Noah doesn't know. He doesn't know that the life we've had here might be over. He doesn't know why I've been quieter than usual, why I've been measuring my face before I walk into rooms. He just knows his dad's birthday is today, that we made a cake, that we're waiting. How do I tell a five-year-old that his father found his fated mate, but it's not your mom? How do I say: "Your father might choose divorce with your mom?" How do I say that without breaking something in him? I've tried the words out a hundred times in my heart and they all land wrong. "Things between Mom and Dad are going to change." "Your father found his true love." "I might have to leave." None of it sounds like something you say to your son. There's one more thing that I can't ignore: Redmoon Pack gave me everything, almost, after that great war. They took me in when they didn't have to. They gave me a title I had no right to claim, made me Luna when the world had already decided I wasn't worth it because I'm wolfless. And our parents are the best friends; Logan has always been kind to me when we were kids. That's real. I don't forget that. But precisely because I know him, I can't help but see he's wanted his fated mate since he was old enough to understand what the bond meant. Some nights, years ago, he'd talk about it the way people talk about something they're afraid to want too loudly. I'd listen. I'd nod. Because what could I say? Werewolves without a fated mate were believed to be unloved by the Moon Goddess. And an Alpha without a fated mate as his Luna was seen as weak. A pack led by such an Alpha was considered vulnerable, even dangerous. The more clearly I understood that, the more I felt he deserved his true fated mate. Not me. Even if I had given everything I had to the role of Luna. If it weren't for Noah, I'd step aside. Quietly, cleanly. It would cost me huge, but I'd do it—because I've always understood I was never supposed to be the one. Except I can't even be rejected. Rejection is for fated mates. It has a ritual, a word, a pain that cuts both ways because the bond is real. What Logan and I have has none of that. We're not fated. There's nothing to sever. I'm just the woman who was here before the right one arrived. You don't reject that. You just replace it. I'm still sitting with that thought when I hear them. Two sets of footsteps in the corridor—Logan's first, that steady, unhurried weight I could pick out anywhere, and then a lighter tread behind him, half a beat off. I catch them before the door opens, the way I always seem to catch things from further away than I should. I've never looked too closely at that. The door opens. Logan stops. Logan stops. His handsome face tightened into a rare frown. His eyes move over the room—the balloons, the banner, the table—and his brow pulls together harder. “Why are you here?” *** Noah's head snaps up. "Dad!" He scrambles to his feet, nearly catching his foot in the ribbon from the gift he wrapped himself. 'Happy birthday! How come you're only just getting home?' Something moves in Logan's face—brief, involuntary. He crosses the room and lifts Noah up, and for a moment he looks like the man I've known since we were children. "Hey, buddy. Thank you." His hand presses to the back of Noah's head. "You're such a good kid, you know that?" Noah lights up like he always does. Then Logan sets him down and straightens. 'I'm exhausted. Going up to shower.' He still doesn't look at me. "Take him back to the Luna suite." He moves toward the stairs. He passes close—close enough that I feel the air shift—and keeps walking. Doesn't spare me a glance. Doesn't look at the table. Doesn't look at the cake. I look at it. Chocolate hazelnut, two layers, the ganache I redid until after midnight. His favorite—the one he asked for every year without fail. I'd told myself making it still meant something. My jaw tightens. I look up. Eileen is still in the doorway, watching me with the quiet certainty of a woman who doesn't need to do anything. "So that's how tonight goes." I think. But that wasn’t the case. Eileen walked in, the sharp click of her heels echoing across the wooden floor. She bent down to Noah, her long golden hair falling forward, and gave him a smile that seemed warm. Noah spots her. His brow scrunches, head tilting with the total seriousness of a five-year-old who needs to understand something. 'Who are you?' Eileen crouches to his level. Her voice softens—confident, naturally. "I'm your new mommy."