The Sacred Luna

Chapter 3

(Sanya's POV)

The mansion looms ahead like something out of a nightmare.

Stone and glass rise three stories high, all sharp edges and cold elegance. Perfectly manicured gardens stretch in every direction, and I count—one, two, three fountains before I stop counting. This isn't a home. It's a monument to power.

The car slows to a stop at the entrance.

"Remember what we talked about," Derek says from beside me. His hand is on my arm, gripping tight enough to bruise through the silk. "You smile. You say your vows. You don't cause a scene."

I don't answer. Haven't spoken since they loaded me into the car this morning.

"Sanya." His grip tightens. "I mean it. You embarrass this family and—"

"And what?" I finally look at him. "You'll lock me in my room again? Force me to marry a stranger? Oh wait. You already did that."

Brandon, sitting in the front seat, flinches.

The car door opens before Derek can respond. A servant in formal livery extends his hand to help me out, and I take it because the alternative is staying in this car with my brothers.

The moment I step onto the gravel driveway, I see him.

Alpha Tyron Stone stands at the mansion entrance, perfectly still, perfectly composed. He's tall—easily over six feet—with sandy blond hair styled to perfection and a suit that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. But it's his eyes that make my breath catch.

Ice blue. Sharp. Predatory.

They lock onto me, and something cold slithers down my spine.

He doesn't smile. Doesn't move. Just watches as I'm escorted up the stone steps, those eyes tracking my every movement like a wolf watching prey.

When I reach him, he extends his hand. Not to help me. To claim me.

I place my hand in his because everyone is watching and I don't have a choice.

His fingers close around mine—cold, firm—and he leans in close enough that only I can hear.

"You're mine now," he says, his breath warm against my ear. "Don't forget that."

Then he straightens, and that controlled mask is back in place.

"Gentlemen." He addresses my brothers with a nod. "Thank you for entrusting me with your sister. I assure you, she'll be well cared for."

The words sound right. Polite. Respectful.

They feel like a threat.

Derek shakes his hand. "We have no doubt, Alpha Stone. Our sister is... fortunate to be joining your pack."

Fortunate. The word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Tyron's hand hasn't left mine. He guides me into the mansion, through hallways lined with portraits of stern-faced Alphas and Lunas, all watching with dead eyes. Servants scurry past, heads down, avoiding eye contact.

We enter a massive ballroom, and my lungs forget how to work.

Hundreds of people. Hundreds. All dressed in formal wear, all turning to look as we appear. The scent hits me like a wall—pack hierarchies layered on top of each other, dominance and submission and barely controlled aggression mixing into something overwhelming.

I've never seen this many wolves in one place.

"Breathe," Tyron says quietly, his hand still imprisoning mine. "And smile. They're watching."

I try. My face feels frozen.

"Better." His tone doesn't change. Still flat. Still controlled. "Stand here. Don't move unless I tell you."

He positions me at the front of the room, beneath an arch woven with white roses and silver ribbon. The scent of the flowers is cloying, mixing with perfume and cologne and sweat until I feel sick.

A priest appears. Elderly, kind-faced, holding a ceremonial book.

This is happening. This is really happening.

The ceremony blurs. Words wash over me—ancient pack traditions, binding vows, the sanctity of the mate bond even though Tyron isn't my mate, will never be my mate. My mate is—

No. I can't think about Aaron. Not now. Not when I'm standing here in a white dress that feels like a shroud, promising to love and honor and obey a man whose eyes make me want to run.

"Do you, Sanya Light, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, your Alpha, your protector and provider, to honor and obey, for as long as you both shall live?"

The silence stretches. Everyone is waiting. Watching.

Tyron's hand finds my lower back. Not gentle. A warning.

"I do." The words are barely a whisper.

"And do you, Tyron Stone—"

"I do." He doesn't wait for the full question. His eyes never leave my face.

"Then by the power vested in me by the Creator and the laws of our people, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride."

Tyron turns me to face him. His hands frame my face—elegant hands, I notice distantly. Strange, for someone who radiates such casual violence.

The kiss is nothing like Aaron's kisses. Nothing soft or gentle or reverent.

It's a brand. A claim. Cold and possessive and utterly thorough.

When he pulls back, his thumb traces my bottom lip.

"Mine," he says again, quiet enough that only I hear.

The crowd erupts in applause.

I'm paraded through the ballroom like a prize, Tyron's hand never leaving my back. The touch burns through the silk, a constant reminder of ownership.

"My bride is quite beautiful, isn't she?" He says this to a group of older Alphas, not asking me, not including me in the conversation. Just displaying me.

They agree. Compliment my dress. My hair. My family's wisdom in arranging such an advantageous match.

I smile until my face aches.

A woman approaches—tall, elegant, silver streaking through her dark hair. Her eyes are the same ice blue as Tyron's.

"Mother." Tyron's hand tightens on my back. "May I present my wife. Sanya Stone."

The name sounds wrong. Foreign.

"Welcome to the family, dear." Her smile is perfect. Practiced. Completely empty. "I do hope you'll prove yourself worthy of the Stone name. It's quite a legacy to live up to."

Something in her tone makes my skin crawl.

"Thank you, Mrs. Stone."

"Tara, please. We're family now." She looks me up and down, and I feel measured. Found wanting. "You'll start your Luna duties tomorrow. I trust your brothers taught you the basics of household management?"

Luna duties. Right. I'm not just Tyron's wife. I'm the Luna of Blood Moon Pack.

The responsibility settles on my shoulders like a weight.

"I'll do my best."

"See that you do." She pats my cheek, the gesture almost motherly except for the ice in her eyes. "My son deserves the best of the best. I won't tolerate anything less."

She glides away, and I realize I'm shaking.

"Father." Tyron gestures to a man standing nearby—older, rigid, with steel-gray eyes and a military bearing.

Marcus Stone looks at me once. Just once. His gaze slides over me like I'm not even there, then he nods and walks away without a single word.

"Don't take it personally," Tyron says, and I think it might be the closest thing to kindness I've heard from him. "He doesn't approve of arranged marriages."

"Then why—"

"Because I wanted you." His hand slides lower on my back. Possessive. "And what I want, I get."

The words should be romantic. Coming from him, they sound like a prison sentence.

Two more people approach—a man who looks like a younger, softer version of Tyron, and a woman with calculating eyes and a smirk that makes me nervous.

"Brother." The younger man nods to Tyron, then offers me a hesitant smile. "Welcome to the family. I'm John."

He won't meet my eyes. Keeps glancing away, at the floor, at his wife—anywhere but at me.

"And I'm Mira." The woman's smile is all teeth. She loops her arm through John's, claiming him the way Tyron claims me. "John's wife. We're so pleased to have another woman in the family."

She doesn't look pleased. She looks amused.

They move on, and I catch Mira whispering to John, her eyes cutting back to me. John's response is too quiet to hear, but his expression makes my stomach turn.

He looks guilty.

"Champagne?" A servant appears with a tray of crystal flutes.

I take one. The champagne is expensive—I can tell by the way it fizzes, the golden color—but it tastes bitter on my tongue.

Everything tastes bitter now.

The crowd presses closer. More faces, more names I'll never remember. Everyone is polite. Too polite. Like they're waiting for something.

I notice the servants then. How they avoid looking directly at me. How they scurry past with their heads down, hands trembling slightly as they serve drinks and hors d'oeuvres.

They're afraid.

Not just respectful. Not just following protocol.

Terrified.

An old woman passes close enough to brush my arm. She's bent with age, her eyes clouded with cataracts, but her grip is surprisingly strong as she catches my wrist.

"The first wife thought she could run, too," she whispers. Her breath smells like herbs and something sour. "Thought she could escape. You should ask what happened to her, girl. Before it's too late."

Then she's gone, melting into the crowd before I can respond.

My heart pounds. The champagne flute shakes in my hand.

The first wife.

I'm about to turn, to find Tyron, to demand answers—

"Congratulations on your marriage."

The voice is smooth. Cultured. Familiar in a way that makes my blood freeze.

I turn and find myself face to face with a woman I haven't seen in years. She's beautiful—auburn hair, amber eyes, a smile that doesn't quite reach those calculating depths.

"Maya?" The name comes out strangled.

"You remember." She looks genuinely pleased. "I'm flattered. It's been what, four years since graduation? You look wonderful, Sanya. Marriage suits you."

No. No, she can't be here. Not now. Not—

"I went to college with you, remember?" Her voice carries, just loud enough. People nearby start to listen. "You, me... and Aaron Knight."

The name hits me like a fist to the chest.

Conversations quiet. Heads turn. Everyone is watching now, sensing drama the way wolves sense blood.

"How is dear Aaron, by the way?" Maya's smile sharpens. "I haven't seen him since graduation. You two were so inseparable back then. So in love."

I can't breathe. Can't speak. Can't do anything but stand here while she destroys me.

"Oh wait—" She touches her fingers to her lips in mock surprise. "You married Tyron instead. How... unexpected. What happened? Did Aaron not measure up to an Alpha's wealth and status?"

The ballroom is silent now. Every eye on me.

I should say something. Defend myself. Explain that I didn't have a choice, that this marriage is a cage, that Aaron was—

Is—

Was.

Past tense. Because he's not here. Because he didn't come for me.

Across the room, through the crowd of watching faces, I find Tyron.

He's standing perfectly still, champagne glass in hand. His expression hasn't changed—still controlled, still composed. But something dangerous flickers in those ice-blue depths.

He heard.

Every. Single. Word.