Chasing the rejected Luna

Chapter two

"You eat like a boar, Rodrigo," Sofia signed rapidly, her hands flashing with sharp, playful precision across the polished mahogany dining table. “Father says my manners are bad, but yours is worse.” She signed again.

Rodrigo didn't miss a beat. “At least I finish my vegetables instead of hiding them under my napkin,” he signed back with a lazy smirk, flicking a hand toward her plate.

At the head of the table, Alpha Jonathan chuckled, setting down his crystal wine glass, while Luna Victoria shook her head with a faint, fond smile. The warm glow of the silver candelabras flickered against the stone walls, bathing the royal family in a rare moment of quiet intimacy.

"She has you there, son," Jonathan teased, gesturing toward the platter of roasted venison between them.

Sofia had been born without a voice, the fever that nearly claimed her as an infant leaving her throat forever silent, so it was only her hands that spoke for her, quick and fearless and utterly without mercy for her older brother. She ignored her father and turned her dark eyes back to Rodrigo, her fingers moving in quick, defensive bursts.

“ About the nanny thingy, I am eight. I do not need a nanny to watch me.”

Rodrigo leaned back in his chair, signing smoothly with one hand while holding his glass with the other.

“I know you can take care of yourself, small one. But a companion wouldn't hurt. Someone to help around the wing.”

Sofia slumped back, pouting, then jabbed a finger at him and signed again, quicker this time.

“You just don't want to walk me to my lessons anymore.”

“Guilty, as charged my dear Sophia.”

Rodrigo signed back, unrepentant, and Jonathan let out a booming laugh that startled a smile even out of Victoria.

"Rodrigo," Victoria said, dabbing her mouth with her napkin, amusement warm in her voice, "you are meant to be setting an example, not conspiring against her tutors."

"I set an excellent example," Rodrigo said. "I simply also value my mornings."

Sofia slumped back, pouting, she loved that Rodrigo still signed at her even though she could hear, it just made her not feel completely alone. Before she could sign another retort, the heavy oak doors of the dining hall creaked open.

A royal guard stepped inside, his posture rigid and his eyes low. He moved swiftly to Rodrigo's side, bending down to whisper a brief, urgent message into the Crown Prince's ear.

Rodrigo's expression hardened instantly, the lighthearted warmth draining from his dark eyes.

Alpha Jonathan tilted his head, his sharp gaze fixing on his son. "Is everything fine, Rodrigo?"

Rodrigo wiped his hands with a linen napkin and stood up from the table, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the room. He gave his father a brief, respectful nod.

"It is nothing I cannot handle," Rodrigo said smoothly, his voice flat and unreadable.

"At this hour?" Victoria asked, a flicker of concern crossing her face. "Rodrigo—"

"Truly, Mother. Stay and finish your evening," Rodrigo said, softer now. "I'll be back before you notice I'm gone."

He didn't elaborate. He knew mentioning that his cousin Gonzalo had just lost his wife and unborn child would ruin the quiet warmth of his mother's evening.

Sofia caught his sleeve as he passed, her hands flying up in a worried question. *Where are you going?*

Rodrigo paused just long enough to sign back, gentle despite the tightness in his jaw. “Nowhere that concerns you tonight. Go easy on your tutors tomorrow.” He forced a smile.

Without another word, Rodrigo bowed lightly to his parents, offered a brief sign of farewell to his sister, and turned on his heel, his heavy boots echoing down the grand hallway as he walked out into the cold night air.

Meanwhile, at the edge of the border village, the night air was thick and silent. ​Isabella stood in the narrow garden behind the cabin, a wooden pitcher held in her hands as she watered her father’s rowan herbs and nightshade roots. The cool water sank into the dark soil, releasing a sharp, earthy aroma. The evening had finally quieted down after the royal procession, but the strange, electric feeling of the Crown Prince’s gaze still lingered under her skin, making her uneasy.

​Suddenly, a heavy rustle shattered the quiet of the treeline. Before Isabella could even reach for the small silver knife hidden at her waist, a massive grey wolf burst from the thicket at a desperate sprint. Slung awkwardly across its broad, furred back was the limp body of a woman.

Seconds later, a second wolf crashed through the brush behind them, its tongue hanging out as it panted heavily, eyes wild with panic. ​The first wolf didn't pause. It lunged forward into the garden patch, dropped the limp woman onto the cold dirt right in front of Isabella, and threw its head back, letting out a raw, heart-wrenching howl that vibrated in Isabella's chest.

​Isabella didn't flinch, nor did she scream. Emergency was a language she and her father spoke fluently.

​Without a word, Isabella immediately pointed toward a sprawling oak tree at the edge of the yard. Behind its thick trunk, Santiago always kept a hidden, weatherproof wooden box filled with spare shorts and dresses, an essential precaution for any werewolf whose clothes tore to shreds during a sudden, forced shift.

​The two wolves understood instantly. They bolted behind the oak, and within moments, the sound of cracking bones and deep grunts echoed through the dark as they shifted back into human form. ​When they stepped out from behind the tree, they were two broad-shouldered men hastily pulling on the spare shorts. Their faces were pale, drenched in sweat, and twisted in absolute terror.

​Isabella was already on her knees in the dirt beside the motionless woman.

​She pressed her palm against the woman's cheek. It was burning hot, yet clammy, a deadly sign. To an ordinary person or a common wolf warrior who relied on basic instincts, a wolf’s naturally high body temperature made it almost impossible to judge fever or internal distress. But Isabella had spent her life under Santiago's strict training. She knew the subtle shifts in heat that signaled poison, infection, or fading life.

​Looking closer, Isabella’s breath caught in her throat. The woman's stomach was visibly swollen, she was heavily pregnant.

​"Help her! Please, you have to help her!" one of the men choked out, stumbling forward, his hands trembling violently.

​"Stay back," Isabella commanded, her voice dropping into the cool, absolute authority of a trained healer. She quickly reached into her apron pocket, pulling out a pouch of dried silver-leaf herbs and a small stone mortar she always carried. She crushed the leaves with rapid, practiced strokes, spitting a drop of clean water into the mixture to form a thick, dark green paste.

​She leaned over the woman, examining the damage. Deep, jagged lacerations tore across the woman's throat and shoulders. Strangely, the woman’s own hands were locked into tight, rigid fists, her long nails fully extended into sharp claws, as if she had been attacked out of nowhere and had fought back with every ounce of strength in her body before collapsing.

​Isabella began applying the cooling herbal paste directly into the raw wounds. The moment the herbs touched the flesh, a faint, sickly steam rose from the torn skin, and the metallic stench of wolf venom filled the night air.

​Isabella’s eyes narrowed, her heart cold. These weren't normal beast wounds. ​Someone had tried to kill this woman, and whoever it was had used venom.