Fleeing Moon

The duty to protect

Marcus’ father glanced at him, his brow furrowing. “You’re not a pup anymore. You need to take your responsibilities seriously.”

Marcus sighed in frustration. “Yes, Father.”

He hated his father’s office. It was a sterile, high-rise sanctuary. The walls were lined with dark wooden paneling, and the massive, intricately carved desk was clearly a custom piece designed to show power.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a breathtaking view of the bustling city below, the skyline a constant reminder of the empire his father controlled with an iron fist.

Marcus was seated in one of the plush leather chairs that seemed to swallow him whole. He always felt small and insignificant in that office.

His gaze shifted to his father, Anton, who was completely absorbed in a mountain of files. His brow was furrowed in concentration, the soft hum of the desk lamp pressing, Marcus.

“Father, I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes,” Marcus said, his voice cutting through the tension. You’ve been frowning and flipping through those files, completely ignoring me. What’s going on?”

Anton slowly raised his head, the dim light from the desk lamp casting sharp shadows across his face, making him look almost dangerous. The intensity in his eyes was frightening, and for a moment, Marcus felt a pang of unease. Anton placed his fingers beneath his chin and stared at him, assessing, waiting. The silver in his black hair glinting.

Marcus shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His gaze moved toward the window, where small cars scurried through the streets, the moon hanging low in the sky.

To the world, Anton Ross was a Mafia boss. But to Marcus, he was more—he was an Alpha, a powerful, relentless werewolf. And Marcus still couldn’t decide whether he wanted to live up to that legacy, or escape it.

The silence stretched until Anton finally spoke.

“You were looking at the she-wolf in a strange way,” his voice was low but piercing.

Marcus stiffened, a rush of heat creeping up his neck, but he forced himself to maintain his composure.

“We were just sparring…”

“Yes… sparring,” Anton repeated, his sharp, gaze unwavering as it locked onto Marcus’ face. “Did your wolf sense hers?”

A sharp sting of frustration flared in Marcus’ chest.

“Father, I didn’t come here to discuss my mate or the future Luna. When I turn twenty-five, my wolf will know who she is. Until then, it’s not a concern.”

Anton paused, his expression softening for a moment. “Feelings can be distractions. You know that. You’re destined to lead. There will be time for…” he hesitated, searching for the right words, “…for personal attachments later.”

“Later?” Marcus echoed, irritation creeping into his voice.

Anton’s expression hardened again, the mask of authority slipping back into place. “You will not lose your chance. Focus on your training. The pack needs you to be strong, not distracted by a fleeting attraction. You're twenty-one and you’re ready to start leading the Ross Pack.”

Marcus clenched his fists. Since his mother’s passing, his father had become detached, hardened. Emotionally distant, focused only on the weight of the pack and its legacy.

In the depths of his mind, Marcus could feel his wolf stir—whining, urging him to return to her, to explore whatever bond was beginning to form between him and…

“Lena…” His wolf, Shadow, whispered.

Marcus knew that his father’s expectations loomed larger than his personal desires. For now, duty came first.

“I need to talk to you about our Aurelia Trades,”

Anton said, his voice firm, trying to redirect the conversation.

Marcus’ eyes flickered with interest, though his expression remained stoic. “Aurelia Trades? What about it?”

Marcus knew how serious this conversation was.

The **Aurelia Trades** were the backbone of their empire—an intricate and powerful network dealing with mystical plants, rare herbs, and enchanted flora, specifically sought after by werewolves.

These plants possessed unique properties—enhancing their abilities, soothing their wolfish instincts, or even offering healing beyond what normal medicine could achieve. For centuries, the Ross Pack had controlled the cultivation, harvesting, and distribution of these potent plants, operating in the shadows, untouchable by others.

“We need to tighten security and distribution. The market is changing,” His father continued, his gaze steady now. “There are rumors—other packs are getting too close to our supply chains. And there are whispers about rogue traders looking to break into our territories.”

Anton’s eyes darkened, his hand resting on the edge of the desk as he continued. “The Aurelia Trades are the heart of our power. We can’t afford to let anyone get too close.”

Marcus nodded. Watching his father standing up, walking around his desk and stopping right in front of Marcus.

“We also need to ensure that no one gets too ambitious. If word gets out that we’re vulnerable…”

“I’ll handle it,” Marcus interrupted, his voice cold.

"I won’t let anyone threaten what we’ve built. Not now, not ever.”

The Ross Pack’s grip on the mystical plant trade had always been unshakable—but even the most powerful empires were susceptible to cracks, especially when ambition and greed fueled the ones looking to bring them down.

“I’ll take care of it,” Marcus said quietly again.

Anton gave a sharp nod, his gaze flickering over his son. “You’re learning, Marcus. But remember—strength is your greatest ally. Don’t forget that.”

Marcus nodded, feeling the weight of his father's expectations pressing down on him once again.

“I’ve already heard whispers,” Anton said, forcing his voice to remain steady. “A few of the smaller packs are getting restless. They think they can capitalize on our internal issues. They think they can be the ones to challenge us.”

Anton’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s a dangerous game. One that can lead to ruin if played recklessly. We need to remind them who holds the reins.”

Marcus took a deep breath.

“I’ll make sure they know. A show of strength, perhaps? A demonstration that we will not tolerate dissent.”

“Exactly.” Anton stepped back, returning to his desk, his fingers brushing over the various papers mixed across it. “But it must be calculated. We can’t afford to make enemies of those we might need later. Diplomacy has its place in this world, Marcus. Just as much as power does.”

“Then perhaps a meeting?” Marcus suggested.

"A gathering of packs. We can assert our dominance without drawing blood. Show them the strength of our alliance, remind them of the consequences of disloyalty.”

Anton’s brow furrowed, and he leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. “A meeting could work, but you must control the narrative. Make it clear that the Ross Pack is not to be underestimated. You need to be the one they fear—and respect.”

“Fear and respect,” Marcus echoed, the words feeling heavy on his tongue. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Anton’s gaze was piercing.

“Fear can breed rebellion if it’s not tempered with respect. I also have a mission. The Elite must take care of tomorrow night.”

Marcus combed his hand through his hair, his wolf pacing inside of him.

“What mission?”

“I have gotten word that a few rogue wolves intend to steal some of our herbs from the warehouse… We need to take care of them.”

Marcus’s wolf clawed inside of him at the mention of unwanted guests. The warehouse was a vital resource for their packaging, housing not just herbs but also healing supplies and provisions that could sustain them through the harsh winter months. If the rogues succeed, it could cripple them.

“What do you need from me?” Marcus asked, his tone shifting to determination.

His father leaned back slightly, studying him.

“I need you to lead the Elite on this operation. You know the territory better than anyone, and your instincts are sharp. We can’t afford to underestimate these rogues.”

Marcus swallowed hard. His wolf stirred, eager for the chance to defend their territory.

“We won’t engage unless we have the advantage. Stealth and strategy are our allies. "We’ll set up a perimeter to watch their movements and strike when the time is right, and bring them in”

“Do you know who the rogues are?” Marcus asked, his mind already racing through possible plans.

“Not yet, but I have a few leads. We think they might be a pack of rouges calling themselves the Black Blood Pack. I’ll need you to gather the Elite tomorrow night.”

“Understood,” Marcus said, his voice firm with resolve. “I’ll gather the Elite and report back with what I find.”

“Good,” Anton replied, his gaze softening slightly. “Remember, we fight for our home, our people."

Marcus nodded and left his father’s office, the door clicking shut behind him.

As he walked through the long, dimly lit corridor, the weight of the conversation about the Aurelia Trades and the pack’s future still lingered in his mind. Yet, despite the pressing matters, his thoughts kept returning to her.

He couldn’t shake the image of her from his mind.

“Lena.” His wolf purred again.

Her fiery energy, the way she moved so fluidly during their sparring session—he couldn’t shake the image of her. She was strong, graceful, her wolf radiating power with each swift movement.

There was something about her, something beyond her skill, beyond the way she fought. It was the pull—this inexplicable, magnetic connection he had felt the moment their eyes met.

Marcus furrowed his brow as he kept on walking, making his way to the elevator.

Why did he feel so… drawn to her? He had sparred with countless warriors over the years, yet none had made his pulse quicken like she did. He had been trained to focus, to maintain control, to keep his distance from distractions, especially when it came to matters of the pack and the future of his leadership.

And yet, every time Lena had moved today, every time their eyes met, he felt something shift inside him.

His wolf stirred in the deepest corners of his mind, restless and curious, urging him to get closer, to learn more about her.

There was a bond—he could feel it. The pull was subtle, but undeniable. As if something inside him recognized her, even if his human mind didn’t fully understand it.

Marcus had been taught that when he turned twenty-five, his wolf would recognize his mate. Until then, distractions were to be avoided. His father had always been firm on that, and Marcus, despite his own desires, had never questioned it.

Marcus stopped in the elevator, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He was thinking too much about this. He needed to focus.

“Focus,” he muttered under his breath, trying to push the thoughts aside while he pressed the button for the first floor.