Don't Call Me Luna

Chapter Eleven

DAVE

Alpha Rising

The rain stops at dawn, but I keep working.

Thirty-six hours left to save ninety-seven souls, and I've got a compound to fortify. Kat's been locked in her trailer since yesterday, drowning whatever trust we built in bourbon and justified rage. I don't blame her. If someone had played me the way she thinks I played her, I'd want to burn their world down too.

But I can't think about that right now. Can't think about the way she looked at me like I'd torn her heart out with my bare hands. Can't think about how she called me everything she thought I wasn't.

Right now, I need to focus on keeping these people alive.

The eastern perimeter needs reinforcement. Morrison pack will come back, probably with friends, and when they do, I want them to think twice about easy targets. I've got materials arriving from three different suppliers—steel posts, razor wire, motion sensors that'll make this place harder to breach than Fort Knox.

All paid for with Westwood money that my family can't touch. Fifty million in trust funds earmarked for whatever I decide matters most. Turns out, ninety-seven misfits matter more than anything I ever imagined wanting.

Eddie lumbers over with coffee that could wake the dead, steam rising from a mug the size of a small bucket. The Canadian bear shifter moves with careful grace, like someone who's spent years apologizing for taking up space.

"You've been out here all night."

"Couldn't sleep."

"Rain stopped."

"Noticed."

He hands me the coffee, and I catch the scent of anxiety rolling off him in waves. Eddie worries about everything—weather, food supplies, whether people actually like his bread or just tolerate it out of politeness. Right now, he's worried about pack stability and what happens when alphas start making territorial claims.

"Dave."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For what you're doing. For trying to keep us together."

The gratitude in his voice hits harder than expected. Eddie's been part of this pack for eight years, ever since Kat found him living rough in Mammoth Cave after his birth pack decided anxiety disorders were incompatible with proper bear behavior.

"You don't need to thank me."

"Yeah, I do. We all do."

Something shifts in my chest, settling into place with the weight of responsibility I've been dancing around for ten days. These people aren't just Kat's pack anymore. They're mine too. My family, my responsibility, my wolves to protect.

My wolves.

The possessive thought should probably concern me, but it doesn't. It feels right in ways that twenty-nine years of careful beta performance never did.

I drink Eddie's coffee and get back to work.

By noon, I've reinforced the most vulnerable sections of perimeter fencing, replacing rotted posts with pressure-treated lumber and adding razor wire to the top rail. Not pretty, but it'll slow down anyone trying to breach our borders while we organize a response.

The main gate was held together with hope and rusty hinges, so I install heavy-duty hardware and add a manual lock system that can't be cut with bolt cutters. Takes twenty minutes of serious work to get through, which is twenty minutes we'd have to mount defense.

I focus on immediate threats first. The generator shed's lock was a joke, so I replace it with something that requires actual tools to defeat. Our power goes down, we lose lights, communications, and any electronic security measures. Can't let someone disable us by flipping a switch.

Three trailers had doors that wouldn't properly close, leaving families vulnerable to forced entry during the night. I adjust hinges, replace door frames where wood rot had compromised structural integrity, and install deadbolts that actually engage with the strike plates. Basic security, but it makes the difference between safe sleep and lying awake listening for footsteps.

The water pump's pressure switch was failing, causing intermittent outages that left people without running water for hours at a time. I swap in a new unit and adjust the tank's air pressure to maintain consistent flow. Can't defend a compound if people are dehydrated or can't wash wounds properly.

Methany's trailer steps were ready to collapse under anyone heavier than a house cat. I tear out the rotted boards and rebuild with materials that'll support actual human weight, adding railings that give her something to grab during her more chemically-enhanced moments.

Most importantly, I check every lock, every window latch, every point of entry that could give attackers easy access. Small improvements that won't stop determined assault but might buy precious seconds when violence comes calling.

Tommy appears with sandwiches and the kind of determined cheerfulness that means he's appointed himself morale officer. The psychology student understands pack dynamics better than most people with advanced degrees, probably because he's lived through the destructive kind.

"Kat's still in her trailer."

"I know."

"She's not drinking anymore."

"Good."

"She's thinking."

"Dangerous."

Tommy grins, the expression transforming his whole face. "She asked Cheryl about the legal paperwork. About what happens if you win the challenges."

I pause mid-bite, hope flaring in my chest before I can stop it. "What did Cheryl tell her?"

"That you'd technically be pack alpha, but that doesn't mean she'd lose authority. That smart alphas delegate to competent betas instead of micromanaging everything."

"Smart alphas do."

"You planning to be smart?"

"I'm planning to be whatever keeps everyone safe."

Tommy studies me with the intense focus of someone who's made psychology his life's work. "You know what's funny?"

"What?"

"You've been alpha all along. Just took the rest of us a while to notice."

He walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing in Kentucky mud with sandwich crumbs and the uncomfortable realization that maybe hiding my nature fooled fewer people than I thought.

The afternoon brings different priorities. I spend two hours weatherproofing Eddie's trailer, sealing gaps around windows where cold air pours in during winter months. The Canadian bear runs hot, but his anxiety spikes when he's uncomfortable, and stressed pack members make poor decisions during crisis situations.

Luna's sixteen and her psychic abilities manifest stronger when she's sleeping poorly. Her trailer door doesn't latch properly, leaving her feeling exposed when visions hit during vulnerable moments. I adjust the frame alignment and install a proper deadbolt that gives her the security she needs to rest.

The twins' place reeks of something that might be mold or might be residual meth contamination from previous occupants. I track the smell to a leak under their kitchen sink that's been saturating floorboards for months. Quick fix with new plumbing and a shop vacuum, but it eliminates a health hazard that could weaken their immune systems when we need everyone at full strength.

Billy Ray and Johnny Ray's livestock pens need emergency repair before rain turns them into mud pits that breed disease. I replace broken boards and add drainage that'll keep the goats and pigs healthy through storm season. Sick animals mean less protein, less milk, fewer resources when supply lines get cut.

Most importantly, I check the compound's weak points with fresh eyes. Places where vehicles could breach fencing, sight lines that give attackers concealment, escape routes that families could use if defense fails. I can't fortify everything in thirty-six hours, but I can identify vulnerabilities and prepare contingency plans.

Uncle Hiro emerges to help with the final project—organizing emergency supplies into caches placed throughout the compound. Medical kits, ammunition, non-perishable food, basic tools for field repairs. If we get overrun, people need resources scattered where they can find them during chaos.

Margot emerges from her lab to supervise installation of chemical storage units that'll keep her more explosive experiments safely contained. Her heterochromatic eyes track every detail with the focus of someone who understands that proper preparation prevents catastrophic accidents.

"Nice toys."

"Necessary toys."

"You're building a fortress."

"I'm building a home that can defend itself."

She nods approval, then hands me a small metal canister that weighs about what it should but feels dangerous anyway.

"Smoke grenades. Non-lethal crowd control. Just in case talking doesn't work."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet. If you screw this up, if you hurt her worse than she's already been hurt, I'll use the rest of my chemistry knowledge to make your life very unpleasant."

The threat comes with a smile, but Margot's half-fae heritage means her promises tend to manifest in uncomfortable ways. I pocket the smoke grenades and file the warning under information I really didn't need but probably deserved.

By evening, Howling Pines looks like what it's always been—a place where dangerous people gather to protect each other from a world that wants them gone. Except now it's got enough defensive capabilities to back up that reputation.

I'm installing the last motion sensor when my phone buzzes with incoming text from Lamar. Property records clean. Selkie ownership verified. Agricultural permits approved. Everything legal.

One more piece falling into place. The selkies' land will provide legitimate business foundation, agricultural income, and territorial justification that even traditionalist Council members can't dispute.

My wolf stretches against boundaries I've maintained since childhood, testing limits that suddenly feel arbitrary. All my life, I've been the disappointing beta son, the Westwood who couldn't live up to family expectations. But that was performance, wasn't it? Careful construction of identity designed to avoid the responsibilities that come with alpha genetics.

Being alpha feels like coming home to a house I never knew I was missing.

The power that flows through my bloodstream isn't aggressive or destructive like my siblings' gifts. It's protective, nurturing, the kind of authority that builds rather than breaks. It makes pack bonds feel solid, unbreakable, permanent in ways that have nothing to do with legal documents or Council recognition.

These people are mine. Mine to protect, mine to guide, mine to love in all the complicated ways that family requires.

Kat's trailer window glows with warm light, and I catch glimpses of movement inside. She's alive, she's thinking, and maybe—maybe she's starting to understand that this isn't betrayal disguised as salvation.

Maybe she's starting to understand that loving someone means choosing their wellbeing over your own pride.

The thought tastes like hope mixed with desperation.

Cheryl finds me as I'm packing up tools, her expression carrying the weight of someone who's been managing crisis logistics all day.

"Council's confirmed the challenge schedule. Tomorrow night, neutral territory in Lexington. You fight Beauregard first, then Colton if you win."

"And if I lose?"

"Then we're f****d, but at least we tried."

Her bluntness is oddly comforting. Cheryl doesn't deal in false optimism or sugar-coated reality. She deals in facts, plans, and backup strategies for when primary objectives go to hell.

"What do you need from me?"

"Registration paperwork filed within six hours. Combat waiver signed. Next of kin notification completed."

Next of kin. My family, who think I'm playing charity worker with supernatural misfits. My father, who'll lose his mind when he discovers another alpha in the bloodline. My siblings, who'll see territorial threat where I see family expansion.

My mother, who probably saw this coming from the moment they offered me the assignment.

"I'll handle it."

"Dave."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For all of this. For everything you're risking."

"You don't need to—"

"Yeah, I do. We all do. You could have walked away ten days ago. Could have filed a report recommending disbandment and been back in your comfortable life by now."

"This is my comfortable life."

"Even if Kat never forgives you?"

The question hits like physical blow, but I answer honestly. "Even then."

Cheryl nods once, satisfied with whatever she heard in my voice. "Paperwork's in your trailer. File it tonight, or we're out of time."

She walks away, leaving me alone with defensive systems and the weight of decisions that'll change everything for everyone involved.

I head back to the murder trailer, where Harold's ghost materializes to offer what looks like encouragement. The spirit points toward a manila envelope sitting on his former table, thick with forms that'll officially transform me from disappointing beta son to territorial alpha.

The paperwork's straightforward. Name, birth date, genetic lineage, territorial claims, pack composition. But each signature feels like stepping through doorways I can't close again.

I fill out forms with careful precision, documenting ninety-seven souls who deserve protection under supernatural law. List territorial boundaries that include both compound property and selkie-owned agricultural land. Specify defensive capabilities and economic sustainability that prove we're not charity case requiring Council oversight.

The registration transforms me from David Westwood, disappointment son of Blueridge territory, to David Westwood, Alpha of Howling Pines pack. It makes official what my wolf has known since the moment I first saw Kat move through her compound like someone who'd built sanctuary from scraps and stubbornness.

I sign the challenge acceptance forms that'll put me in combat trials against two alphas who see female leadership as aberration requiring correction. Sign medical waivers that acknowledge potential death or permanent injury. Sign next of kin notifications that'll inform my family their disappointment son just became their biggest political problem.

The final document requires pack member consent. Ninety-seven signatures acknowledging willingness to transfer loyalty from Katana Lightfoot to David Westwood.

Kat's signature sits at the top of the page, shaky but determined. Below it, every member of Howling Pines has added their name in ink that makes their choice permanent.

Even drunk, even angry, even feeling betrayed and manipulated, she chose to save her people.

She chose to trust me with their lives.

I scan the documents into my laptop and hit send, uploading everything to Council servers that'll process applications with bureaucratic efficiency. The timestamp reads 11:47 PM, giving us thirteen minutes to spare before deadline closure.

Official confirmation arrives in my inbox within moments. Challenge accepted. Combat trials scheduled. Howling Pines pack registration pending outcome of territorial disputes.

My phone immediately starts buzzing with incoming calls from family members who monitor Council filings like other people watch stock markets. I silence the device and set it aside. Whatever conversations await can happen after I've won the right to have them.

Harold's ghost gives me what looks like a thumbs up before fading into whatever dimension houses spirits with unfinished business. Outside, the compound settles into evening quiet, lights glowing in trailer windows that hold people sleeping peacefully because they believe someone's watching over them.

I want to be that man for them. For Suzy.