Don't Call Me Luna

Chapter Thirteen

DAVE

Alpha Awakening

Louisville waits somewhere beyond this Kentucky morning that I cut through like a blade through flesh, each mile pulling me further from Howling Pines and the woman who might never forgive me for becoming what I was always meant to be.

My hands grip the steering wheel with strength that still surprises me. Three days ago, I was Dave Westwood, disappointing beta son. Now power flows through my bloodstream like liquid fire, transforming every breath into something electric and dangerous. The wolf inside me no longer cowers behind careful control—it stretches against my skin with the confidence of something finally allowed to exist.

Being alpha feels like coming home to a body I'd been borrowing instead of inhabiting.

The city spreads before me, concrete and steel rising from earth that remembers wilder times. My law office sits in a converted warehouse district where supernatural businesses cluster like refugees seeking safety in numbers. Westwood and Associates—the joke being there are no associates, just me, Lamar, and Janet holding together a practice built on defending people the system wants to erase.

Lamar's already at his desk when I arrive, tiny paws flying over a keyboard that looks enormous compared to his raccoon proportions. His mask markings catch fluorescent light as he looks up, black eyes sharp with intelligence that makes most people forget he's technically classified as vermin by the state of Kentucky.

"Dave. You look different."

"Filed alpha registration last night."

"About damn time." He saves whatever document he was working on, giving me his full attention. "How's it feel?"

"Like I've been wearing clothes three sizes too small for twenty-nine years."

"Good. Ready to discuss contingencies?"

I settle into the chair across from his desk, noting how my presence affects the room's energy. Lamar's natural deference to stronger predators wars with years of professional relationship, creating tension that tastes metallic on my tongue.

"If I lose tonight, Howling Pines gets disbanded. Pack members scattered to territories that may not welcome rogues with criminal histories."

"And if you win?"

"I become responsible for ninety-seven souls who didn't ask for my protection but need it anyway."

Lamar nods, understanding the weight that comes with claiming territory. Raccoons are natural survivors, pack animals who understand that sometimes leadership means accepting responsibility for choices you didn't make.

"What do you need from me?"

"Legal guardianship documents for the minors. Luna's sixteen, three others under eighteen. If disbandment happens, I want them placed with families who'll protect instead of exploit them."

"Already drafted." He slides papers across the desk. "Also prepared emergency fund transfers, property deeds, and immigration documents for anyone who might need to disappear quickly."

The thoroughness doesn't surprise me. Lamar's been handling supernatural legal crises long enough to understand that preparation means survival. His small fingers move over documents with precision that would shame most human lawyers.

"Medical powers of attorney for anyone who might need supernatural-friendly healthcare. Standard non-disclosure agreements. And this." He produces a sealed envelope marked with my name in careful script. "Instructions for pack dissolution if everything goes to hell."

The envelope feels heavier than paper should. Inside are decisions I hope never to make—which pack members could integrate into mainstream supernatural society, which ones would need to disappear entirely, how to liquidate assets while protecting the vulnerable.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. Beauregard and Colton aren't just traditional alphas—they're Council favorites with political connections. This isn't just about combat trials."

"I know."

"Dave." His voice carries the weight of someone who's watched too many good people get destroyed by systems designed to eliminate threats to established order. "Be careful tonight. Some battles can't be won with legal precedent and good intentions."

Janet appears in the doorway, her lynx genetics making her movements liquid grace wrapped in professional attire. She's worked part-time for three years, juggling single motherhood with law school while helping me navigate supernatural civil rights cases.

"Heard you finally stopped pretending to be beta."

"News travels fast."

"Supernatural community's not that big." She moves closer, and I catch the scent of nervous excitement. "Also heard you're fighting tonight for pack recognition."

"Combat trials. Council requirement."

"Kick their asses."

The vehemence in her voice surprises me until I remember her story. Lynx shifter thrown out of her birth pack for refusing an arranged mating, left to raise three kittens alone while fighting for custody rights human courts don't recognize.

"I'll do my best."

"Your best better be spectacular. Those bastards need to learn that might doesn't always make right."

She hands me a small leather pouch that smells like herbs and something wilder. "Protection charm. My grandmother's recipe. Won't stop claws, but it might turn aside bad luck."

I tuck the charm into my pocket, feeling warmth spread through the leather. Lynx magic is subtle but effective, woven from instincts honed by centuries of solitary survival.

"Thank you. Both of you. For everything."

"Thank us by winning." Lamar's black eyes hold depths that speak to intelligence most people never recognize. "And by protecting what you've found at Howling Pines."

The drive to meet my mother takes me through neighborhoods where old money disguises itself as understated elegance. Sylvia Westwood chose the restaurant—neutral territory where supernatural politics can be discussed over menu items that cost more than most people's monthly rent.

She's already seated when I arrive, silver hair gleaming in filtered sunlight, wearing pearls that probably financed small countries. But her eyes hold something I've never seen before—pride mixed with satisfaction, like someone watching carefully laid plans finally bearing fruit.

"David." She rises to kiss my cheek, and her touch carries warmth that has nothing to do with maternal affection and everything to do with recognition. "You look wonderful."

"Different, you mean."

"Yourself. Finally yourself."

We settle at a table positioned for privacy, surrounded by the kind of careful opulence that makes power seem civilized. But underneath elegant surfaces, I can feel my mother's alpha energy responding to mine—not challenging, but acknowledging. Pack leader recognizing pack leader.

"You orchestrated this. The Council assignment, the integration timeline, even the deadline pressure."

"I suggested you might be uniquely qualified for the position."

"Because you knew I'd fall for Katana."

"Because I knew you'd fall for what she's built. Because I knew you'd find your true nature when protecting people mattered more than maintaining comfortable lies."

The waiter approaches with the kind of deference reserved for customers who tip in hundreds rather than percentages. My mother orders for both of us, her authority extending even to menu choices.

"Your father's having difficulties with your registration."

"I imagine he is."

"Your brothers are... concerned about territorial implications."

"They should be."

She sips wine that probably predates the Constitution, studying me with eyes that miss nothing. "You've changed more than just classification, haven't you? This isn't just paperwork."

"No."

"Tell me."

The request comes gentle but implacable, carrying the weight of someone who's spent fifty years managing supernatural politics. I find myself describing Howling Pines—not the official version I'd present to the Council, but the truth about ninety-seven souls who've found family in the spaces between legal and necessary.

"They matter to you."

"They're mine to protect."

"And Katana?"

"She hates me right now."

"Good."

The response surprises me. "Good?"

"Hate means she cares enough to be hurt. Indifference would be worse." My mother's smile carries depths that speak to decades of navigating love and politics in equal measure. "Strong women don't forgive easily, but they love permanently."

"What if she doesn't forgive me at all?"

"Then you'll spend the rest of your life proving you're worth the effort."

Lunch arrives with the ceremony reserved for food that doubles as art. But my mother's attention remains focused on me, evaluating changes that go deeper than supernatural classification.

"Your father wants to see you. Today. Before the trials."

"I figured."

"He's bringing Maxwell and Harrison."

The full council of Westwood males, assembled to discuss territorial complications created by their disappointing son finally living up to genetic potential. The irony would be amusing if the stakes weren't so high.

"They can't stop me from claiming Howling Pines."

"They can make your life complicated. Blueridge territory has been stable for generations. Adding another alpha creates succession questions your father isn't prepared to answer."

"Then maybe it's time for new questions."

She nods approval, like I've finally said something worth hearing. "David. Tonight's trials aren't just about pack recognition. They're about establishing your place in supernatural hierarchy. Win, and doors open that have been closed to our family for decades. Lose..."

"Lose, and ninety-seven people get scattered to territories that might not value what they are."

"Exactly."

We finish lunch in comfortable silence, two alphas planning for battles that extend beyond simple combat trials. When she kisses my cheek goodbye, her touch carries blessings that feel like pack bonds reinforced.

"Make me proud."

"I'll make them safe."

"Same thing."

The Westwood estate sprawls across Kentucky countryside like a monument to everything I'd never wanted to inherit. My truck looks distinctly out of place among the German luxury vehicles clustered in the circular drive, but I park it prominently anyway. Let them see how their investment in my Yale education translated to defending people they'd consider beneath notice.

Inside, the family conference room holds three men who share my genetics but none of my priorities. My father dominates the head of the table, flanked by my brothers like generals planning campaigns. They rise when I enter, and for the first time in my life, they don't tower over me with inherited authority.

Alpha recognizes alpha. Even when they don't want to.

"David." My father's voice carries the weight of someone who's spent forty years managing supernatural politics. "Sit."

I remain standing. "This won't take long."

"Your registration creates complications."

"My registration protects people who deserve better than they've been given."

"Your registration threatens family stability." Maxwell's voice holds the kind of authority that comes from being groomed for leadership since birth. "Blueridge territory has been stable for generations."

"Stability built on excluding people who don't meet traditional standards."

"Standards that have kept our pack strong and our territory secure."

Harrison leans forward, studying me with eyes that calculate political implications like stock market fluctuations. "You're dividing family loyalty. Creating competition where none existed."

"I'm creating opportunity where none existed."

"For rogues and criminals."

"For people who've found family in the spaces between legal and necessary."

The tension in the room tastes metallic, charged with competing alpha energies that make the air itself feel dangerous. My wolf stretches against boundaries I've maintained since childhood, testing limits that suddenly feel arbitrary.

"If you proceed with tonight's trials," my father's voice drops to register that's made lesser wolves submit for generations, "you'll be on your own. No family support, no territorial backing, no resources beyond what you can provide yourself."

"Good."

The word hangs between us like challenge and liberation combined. I don't need their approval anymore. Don't need their money or connections or carefully managed political influence.

I have ninety-seven souls who've chosen to trust me with their lives. I have a woman who built sanctuary from scraps and stubbornness. I have a purpose that matters more than comfortable privilege or inherited authority.

"David." My father's voice carries warning that might have stopped me three days ago. "Consider what you're risking."

"Consider what I'm protecting."

I leave them staring at empty doorway, three alphas who understand power but not purpose, authority but not responsibility.

The drive back to Howling Pines carries me through Kentucky twilight that tastes like possibilities and endings combined. Tonight I fight for the right to protect people who've become my family. Tonight I prove that some things are worth becoming what you never wanted to be.

My phone buzzes with incoming text from Kat: Where are you?

Three words that rearrange everything I thought I understood about forgiveness and second chances. She's looking for me. Which means she's ready to talk. Which means maybe, possibly, hopefully, there's still something worth saving between us.

I type back: Coming home.

Because that's what Howling Pines is now. Home. Family. The place where ninety-seven souls wait for someone to fight for their right to exist.

The compound looks different in evening light, transformed by the defensive improvements I've spent two days installing. Motion sensors track my approach. Reinforced fencing catches the last rays of sunlight. Everything I've built to protect the people who matter most.

I park near the murder trailer and gather my gear from the truck bed. Body armor that might stop claws if I'm lucky. Medical supplies in case luck runs out. Everything I need to survive tonight's challenges and return to the woman who might finally be ready to forgive me.

My wolf stirs with anticipation that has nothing to do with combat trials and everything to do with the possibility of reconciliation. Of coming home to someone who sees me as more than just another alpha claiming territory.

The trailer door awaits, unlocked as always because I've never needed to lock out the people I'm trying to protect. Inside, Harold's ghost probably maintains his eternal vigil, and maybe—just maybe—a woman who builds families from fragments waits to tell me she understands why I had to become what I never wanted to be.

I take a breath that tastes like hope mixed with terror, then reach for the doorknob. Time to find out if I'm brave enough to face the woman I love before I face the alphas who want to destroy everything she's built.

Time to discover if eleven days is long enough to build something worth fighting for.

Time to go home.