WHISPERS OF THE FORGOTTEN MOON

CHAPTER FIVE

The morning light streaming through the windows finds me already awake, staring at the ceiling as my mind churns with plans for tonight. Today we return to Silver Crest. Today I face the monsters who destroyed my life.

A soft knock at my door makes my pulse quicken.

"Come in."

Damon enters carrying a garment bag and wearing a smile that makes my breath catch. He's dressed in a black suit that fits him like it was crafted by angels, his dark hair perfectly styled, but it's the heat in his gray eyes that makes my stomach flip.

"Good morning, beautiful." His voice is rough with sleep and something deeper.

I sit up, suddenly very aware that I'm wearing nothing but a silk nightgown that barely covers my thighs. His eyes darken as they trace the line of my bare shoulders, the curve of my neck.

"Is that for me?" I nod toward the garment bag, trying to ignore the way my skin heats under his gaze.

"Among other things." He sets it aside and moves toward the bed with predatory grace. "But first..."

Before I can ask what, his lips are on mine.

The kiss is different from the gentle one in the bathroom yesterday. This is hungry, possessive, like he's claiming me. His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones as his mouth moves against mine with increasing urgency.

"Damon," I breathe against his lips, my hands fisting in his expensive shirt.

"I've been thinking about this all night," he murmurs, his lips trailing down my throat. "About you."

My head falls back, giving him better access as his teeth graze the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. A sound escapes me that's half moan, half plea.

"We should..." I try to form a coherent thought, but his mouth is doing things that make thinking impossible. "We should get ready."

"Mmm." His lips find mine again, softer this time but no less devastating. "In a minute."

His hands slides into my night gown, while he tilted my head so he could deepen the kiss. I melt against him, my body responding to his touch in ways that terrify and thrill me. When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard.

"My beautiful mate," he whispers, his forehead resting against mine. "You have no idea what you do to me."

The endearment sends warmth flooding through my chest. No one has ever called me beautiful like he means it, like it's a prayer.

"Show me," I whisper back, surprising myself with my boldness.

His eyes flare with heat, but he forces himself to step back. "Tonight. After we've dealt with your past, I'll show you exactly what you mean to me."

The promise in his voice makes my skin tingle.

He helps me to my feet, his hands lingering on my waist longer than necessary. "But first, let's make those bastards regret the day they crossed you."

The dress he's brought me is perfection—deep emerald silk that hugs my curves and falls to just above my knees. It's elegant but with enough edge to make a statement. When I slip it on, I feel like myself again. Not Sasha the broken slave, but Mica Silvers, rightful Alpha of Silver Crest Pack.

"Perfect." Damon's voice is rough with approval when I emerge from the bathroom. "You look like a queen."

His hands find my waist, pulling me against him for another kiss. This one is slower, more reverent, his lips moving against mine like he's trying to memorize the taste of me.

"I can't seem to stop kissing you," he murmurs against my lips, his breath warm on my skin.

"I'm not complaining."

He pulls back with visible effort, his hands still framing my face. "Marcus is waiting with the car. I have some urgent pack business to handle before the banquet, but I'll meet you there."

"What if—"

He silences my fears with another soft kiss. "You're stronger than you know, little mate. And they can't hurt you anymore. Not with me backing you."

The drive to Silver Crest Pack territory is surreal. I watch familiar landmarks pass by the window—the old oak tree where I used to climb as a child, the stream where I learned to shift, the border markers that once meant home.

Now they just mark the edges of my personal hell.

The banquet hall comes into view as we round the final curve, and my breath catches. They've transformed the space I remember from pack celebrations into something grotesquely opulent. Crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than most people's houses hang from the ceiling, and everything gleams with gold accents.

It's beautiful and horrible at the same time.

Marcus opens my door with a gentle smile. "You can do this, Miss Mica."

"Thank you." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

The moment I step inside, memories assault me. This is where we held the celebration for my eighteenth birthday. Where my father announced me as his heir. Where I danced with Richard for the first time, thinking I'd found my fairy tale ending.

Bile rises in my throat, but I force it down. I'm not that naive girl anymore.

"Excuse me, miss?"

A waiter approaches with a tray of champagne. I take a glass with a smile that feels like shattered glass on my lips.

The hall is filled with pack members I recognize—some who served my family loyally, others who clearly threw their lot in with the new regime. Their conversations create a buzz of white noise that makes my skin crawl.

These people watched my father die and did nothing.

I'm scanning the crowd for familiar faces when I hear a gasp behind me.

"Mica?"

My blood turns to ice at the voice, but I school my features into confusion before turning around.

Aunt Kira stands frozen three feet away, her face white as paper. She's wearing a designer gown that probably cost more than most people make in a year, dripping in jewelry that I recognize from my mother's collection. The sight of her wearing my dead mother's earrings makes rage burn hot in my chest.

"I'm sorry?" I tilt my head, letting confusion color my voice. "Do I know you?"

Her mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air. "Mica... what are you doing here?"

The name feels like poison in the air between us.

"I think you have me confused with someone else," I say with a polite smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "My name is Sasha."

She stumbles backward like I've struck her. "Impossible. You…But you... you're supposed to be..."

"Dead?"

The male voice that cuts through our conversation makes my skin crawl. I turn to see Richard—Zayden—approaching, his face a mask of barely controlled shock and fury. He's aged in the three years since I saw him last, lines around his eyes that speak of stress and paranoia. Good. I hope he's been sleeping poorly.

"Well, well," he says, recovering his composure with the ease of a practiced liar. "Look what the cat dragged in."

He's dressed in an expensive tuxedo, playing the part of the refined Alpha, but I can see the crude thug underneath. How did I ever find him attractive? How did I ever mistake his arrogance for confidence?

"I'm sorry," I say, letting hurt creep into my voice. "You both seem upset to see me. Have I done something wrong?"

Kira and Richard exchange a look that might have been meaningful once. Now it just looks desperate.

"Wrong?" Richard's laugh is sharp and ugly. "You were supposed to stay dead, trash. What are you doing here and how the f**k are you alive?”

The insult hits its mark, but I don't let it show. Instead, I take a small step back, letting my eyes fill with tears I don't have to fake—they're tears of rage, but they serve their purpose.

"I don't understand," I whisper. "Why are you being so cruel?"

"Cruel?" Kira finds her voice, stepping closer with predatory intent. "You want to see cruel, little b***h?"

A few people nearby start to notice the commotion, turning to watch with curious eyes. Richard notices too, his jaw tightening with barely controlled fury.

"Whose w***e are you now?" he hisses, grabbing my wrist hard enough to bruise. "Who's your sugar daddy? Some pathetic human who doesn't know what a worthless piece of trash you really are?"

The pain in my wrist is nothing compared to the pain of hearing his voice again, of being this close to the man who destroyed my life. But I force myself to stay in character, to let them think they still have power over me.

"Please," I say, my voice breaking. "I just... I was invited. I don't want any trouble."

"Invited?" Kira laughs, the sound like breaking glass. "By who? You're not even supposed to exist anymore."

"That's enough."

Richard releases my wrist and straightens, putting on his Alpha mask as a few pack elders approach. "I'm sorry for the disturbance," he says with fake charm. "This young lady appears to be here without an invitation."

"Actually," one of the elders says uncertainly, "she's on the guest list. As Alpha Blackwood's plus-one."

The color drains from both their faces.

"Blackwood?" Kira whispers.

"There must be some mistake," Kira says, but her voice has lost its confidence. "She's nobody. Just some... some slave we knew once."

"Where is Alpha Blackwood?" Richard demands, trying to regain control of the situation.

"Right here."

The voice that cuts through the tension is silk over steel, commanding without being loud. Every conversation in our vicinity stops as if someone has flipped a switch. Even the music seems to quiet.

Damon appears beside me like he materialized from the shadows, his presence immediately dominating the space. He's changed into formal evening wear—a black tuxedo that makes him look like a dangerous prince. His gray eyes are cold as winter storms as they take in the scene.

One look at my face, at the tears still clinging to my lashes, at the way I'm cradling my bruised wrist, and something deadly flickers behind his controlled facade.

"Gentlemen," Damon says, his voice carrying the kind of quiet authority that makes grown men wet themselves. "I hope I didn’t see you being rude to my mate.”