Don't Call Me Luna

Chapter Twelve

KAT

Ghosts and Revelations

Morning crawls across the compound like something wounded, dragging shadows that refuse to die.

I wake on my couch, neck kinked from sleeping in clothes that reek of bourbon and self-destruction. The hangover sits behind my eyes like a living creature, pulsing with each heartbeat, but it's nothing compared to the hollow ache where trust used to live. My wolf paces restlessly beneath my skin, responding to scents and sounds that my human consciousness hasn't processed yet—the compound breathing differently now, charged with tension that makes the air taste metallic.

Through my window, Dave's handiwork spreads across our territory like evidence of devotion. New locks catching morning light. Reinforced fencing that transforms our home from refuge into fortress. Repairs that he had to have paid with his own money. Every improvement screams protection, care, the kind of attention that builds sanctuary instead of just shelter.

The Kentucky morning feels different after yesterday's rain. Steam rises from gravel paths, creating an otherworldly atmosphere that makes the compound look like something caught between dimensions. Moisture clings to everything—trailer siding, fence posts, the razor wire Dave installed that now glints like silver teeth in filtered sunlight. The air carries scents of wet earth, growing things, and something darker underneath. Something that whispers of the violence this land has witnessed.

This place remembers. The ground beneath our trailers is soaked with more than rainwater. Thirty-eight years ago, cult members chose death over compromise, spilling blood that still stains the soil in ways only supernatural senses can detect. Uncle Hiro exorcised most of the restless spirits, but some echoes linger—grief, desperation, the bitter taste of endings chosen rather than imposed.

My wolf knows this history in ways my human mind can't fully grasp. Every step across the compound carries weight of those who died here, their final moments echoing in frequencies that make my skin crawl. But there's something else now, something newer layered over the old pain. Hope, maybe. The scent of someone who's chosen to build rather than break.

"It's done."

Cheryl's voice cuts through atmospheric weight like a blade through fog. She stands in my doorway, silhouetted against morning light that makes her look less like my beta and more like a messenger delivering fate.

I don't turn around. "What's done?"

"Dave filed the paperwork. Council confirmed receipt at 11:47 last night."

The words settle into my bones like lead, heavy and permanent. No going back now. No pretending this is some elaborate misunderstanding that conversation could smooth away. The transformation is official—Dave Westwood, disappointing beta son, becomes David Westwood, Alpha of Howling Pines pack.

"So he's officially alpha."

"Pending combat trials."

"When?"

"Tonight. Neutral territory in Lexington. Beauregard first, then Colton if Dave survives."

If Dave survives. The possibility hits like ice water, washing away hangover fog and replacing it with something sharper, more immediate. Dave could die tonight. Could bleed out on some warehouse floor while fighting for the right to protect people he's known eleven days.

My wolf snarls at the thought, protective instincts flaring in ways that have nothing to do with pack politics and everything to do with the way he makes my blood sing when he's near.

"Kat."

"I heard you."

"You need to see him before he leaves."

"No, I don't."

"Yeah, you do. Because if he dies tonight and the last thing you said to him was 'get out,' you'll spend the rest of your life wishing you'd been braver."

Cheryl's voice carries weight of someone who's watched too many people waste last chances on pride. She knows about regret. Knows about words you can't take back once silence becomes permanent.

"I don't know what to say to him."

"Figure it out. Because in about six hours, he's leaving for challenges that could end everything we've built here."

She's gone before I can respond, leaving me alone with morning light and fear coating my tongue like copper pennies.

I shower away bourbon sweat and self-pity, then dress in clean clothes that don't carry yesterday's mistakes. Water runs hot enough to scald, washing away surface grime but leaving deeper stains untouched. My reflection looks like someone who's been hollowed out and roughly reassembled, but it'll have to do.

The compound hums with activity that feels different from usual morning routines. Sharper. More focused. People moving with efficiency that comes from understanding violence might arrive without warning. My pack has transformed overnight, shedding casual comfort for the kind of alertness that keeps families alive when the world decides they don't deserve to exist.

Dave's nowhere to be seen.

I check the kitchen where he's fed ninety-seven people with patience that should be classified as supernatural. The distillery where he learned to appreciate Margot's dangerous chemistry. The perimeter where he spent two days turning our home into something that could defend itself. No sign of him, but his presence lingers in every improvement, every small kindness that makes survival feel less brutal.

The murder trailer sits at the compound's edge like a question I've been avoiding. Dave's been living there for eleven days, sleeping on his own mattress among ghosts and memories of mass suicide. The building carries psychic weight that makes most people avoid it entirely, but he claimed the space like it was just another project requiring patient attention.

The door's unlocked. Because of course it is. Dave Westwood doesn't lock doors against people he's trying to protect.

Inside, the air hits me like a physical force. His scent everywhere—clean cotton, sawdust, something indefinably male that makes my wolf whine with recognition and need. But underneath, older energies linger. The trailer remembers what happened here in 1987, when thirty-eight people chose death over deprogramming. Their despair still clings to the walls like psychic residue that most supernatural senses can detect.

Dave's been living with ghosts, literally and figuratively. Sleeping where people died, working where blood was spilled, somehow transforming space that should feel cursed into something that feels like home.

His clothes hang neatly in a closet that probably held suicide notes and cult paraphernalia until he claimed it. Books stacked on surfaces that once collected dust and despair. Legal pads covered with notes about pack management, territorial law, ways to make ninety-seven misfits look like legitimate supernatural citizens.

Evidence of someone who's been planning for permanence, not temporary assignment.

"He's not here."

The voice makes me jump before I remember Harold doesn't actually speak. Which means he spoke directly into my brain. The ghost materializes near what used to be his favorite chair, translucent and watching me with eyes that have witnessed too much death to be impressed by ordinary drama. Harold's the only spirit Uncle Hiro left intact—partially because he's harmless, mostly because he seems to enjoy having company in his eternal unfinished business.

"I know he's not here. I'm looking for something."

Harold tilts his head, waiting for explanation I don't owe him but find myself giving anyway. The ghost has become part of the compound's landscape, a fixture so familiar that talking to him feels natural rather than supernatural.

"I need to understand what kind of man plans to die for people he barely knows."

Harold gestures toward Dave's desk, where papers spread across the surface like evidence in a case I haven't been smart enough to solve. Council forms. Legal briefs. A detailed analysis of pack assets and territorial claims that reads like love letter disguised as bureaucracy.

But it's the handwritten notes that stop my breath.

Methany - brilliant but unstable. Needs structure, not elimination. Valuable asset if properly supported. Fae blood creates unique opportunities for defensive chemistry.

Tommy - psychology degree in progress. Natural mediator with trauma background that builds empathy. Potential pack counselor with proper training. s****l orientation irrelevant to pack function.

Eddie - anxiety issues stem from previous pack rejection. Responds well to acceptance and responsibility. Excellent baker, natural caretaker. Canadian heritage brings different perspective to pack dynamics.

Crash and Burn - former addicts with violent histories. Currently stable, productive pack members. Recovery success story that challenges traditional bias against reformed criminals. Mountain lion genetics provide enhanced security capabilities.

Pages of observations about every pack member, written with careful attention of someone who sees value where others see problems. Clinical assessment mixed with genuine affection, professional evaluation tempered by protective instinct.

Each entry reveals layers of thought I hadn't credited him with. He's been studying us, learning our stories, understanding our worth in ways that go beyond simple headcount for Council paperwork.

At the bottom of the stack, a single sheet covered with what looks like strategic planning.

Territorial defense scenarios. Morrison pack assault probability: 73%. Timeline: 48-72 hours post-challenge results. Recommended countermeasures include perimeter hardening, emergency protocols, evacuation routes for non-combatants.

He's been preparing for war. Not just the legal kind involving Council recognition, but actual violence that'll come when traditional alphas decide female-led packs represent existential threat to natural order.

"He knew." I tell Harold's ghost, my voice rough with realization. "He knew this was never just about Council approval."

Harold nods, expression carrying weight of someone who understands that knowledge doesn't always prevent tragedy. The ghost has watched enough human drama to recognize patterns of sacrifice and stupidity.

"He knew Morrison would come back. Knew Governor Lamont would use us as campaign ammunition. Knew that saving us meant painting targets on all our backs."

Harold points toward another document I'd missed. Photos of Morrison pack members, detailed background checks, criminal histories that read like cautionary tales about what happens when alphas decide might makes right.

Dave's been building intelligence files. Researching threats. Preparing for conflicts that extend far beyond tonight's challenges. The level of preparation suggests someone planning for long-term war, not short-term compliance.

"And he's still planning to claim us. Still willing to put himself between my people and everyone who wants us gone."

Harold's expression shifts to something that might be approval. Or maybe just recognition of someone finally understanding what's been obvious to everyone except the person who needed to see it most.

I sink into Dave's chair, surrounded by evidence of devotion disguised as duty. Legal work that could have been handled remotely, but he chose to be here. Improvements that could have been contracted out, but he did them himself. Plans that could have focused on minimal compliance, but instead prepare for every threat we might face.

The chair still holds his warmth, his scent. Sitting here feels intimate in ways that make my wolf pace with restless energy. This is where he's been working late into the night, planning ways to keep us safe. Where he's been writing reports that make our damaged family sound like valuable assets instead of supernatural charity cases.

"I've been an idiot."

Harold doesn't disagree. The ghost's silence feels like confirmation rather than politeness.

"I thought he was here to save us from ourselves. Turns out he's here to save us from everyone else."

The distinction matters more than I realized. Salvation implies broken things requiring fixing. Protection means valuable things worth defending. Dave sees us as worth defending, not worth repairing.

Outside, engines approach with rumble that usually means trouble. I move to the window, expecting Morrison pack or government officials or some new catastrophe designed to test our collective sanity.

Instead, it's Dave returning from wherever alphas go to prepare for combat trials. He climbs out of his truck moving like someone who's made peace with difficult decisions, calm in ways that suggest acceptance rather than resignation.

Behind him, the truck bed holds equipment that looks suspiciously like body armor and medical supplies. Gear for someone planning to survive tonight's challenges, not just endure them.

He's not planning to die for us.

He's planning to live for us.

The realization hits with force of transformation, rearranging everything I thought I understood about his motivations. Not martyrdom, but commitment. Not sacrifice, but investment in a future he's determined to share.

My wolf responds to his presence even through glass and distance, recognizing something in his movements that speaks to instincts I've been ignoring. The way he carries himself has changed since filing the paperwork. More confident. More certain. Like he's finally stopped pretending to be something he isn't.

Harold's ghost watches me process this revelation with patience of someone who's had decades to contemplate the relationship between truth and timing.

"I need to talk to him."

The ghost nods approval, then points toward the door with expression that suggests I've figured out something important but potentially too late to matter.

"Before he leaves for the challenges."

Another nod, this one more urgent. Harold understands deadlines better than most.

"Before I lose the chance to tell him I understand."

Harold smiles—actually smiles—then begins to fade with satisfaction of someone whose unfinished business might finally be approaching resolution.

I'm halfway to the door when Dave's footsteps approach on gravel outside. Heavy, steady, the rhythm of someone who's made decisions and plans to see them through regardless of consequences. My wolf stirs with anticipation that has nothing to do with territorial disputes and everything to do with the way he moves through space like he belongs here.

In thirty seconds, he'll walk through that door expecting to find his empty trailer and maybe Harold's ghost for company. Instead, he'll find me sitting in his chair, surrounded by evidence of feelings he's never actually confessed but documented in careful detail across dozens of pages.

He'll find me ready to admit that protection feels better than pride. That being wrong about someone's motives doesn't always mean being wrong about their worth. That sometimes love requires trusting people to fight for you instead of insisting you fight alone.

The doorknob turns, and my heart pounds with anticipation that tastes like possibility mixed with terror. Because this conversation will either repair something precious or destroy whatever's left of what we built together.

Either way, we'll finally stop pretending that eleven days isn't long enough to change everything you thought you knew about love, loyalty, and the difference between being saved and being protected.

The door opens, and Dave Westwood steps into his temporary home carrying gear for battles that could cost him everything he's just claimed.

Time to find out if I'm brave enough to fight for him the way he's planning to fight for me.