Alpha Killian's True Luna

3

You must be wondering where my wolf is in all of this. It’s a fair question. Being married to a man as powerful and commanding as Nicholas Smith, living in the heart of the Emberwood pack’s territory, and once being addressed as their Luna—naturally, you would assume I have a beast of my own sleeping under my skin.

But you would be wrong. I’m not a werewolf. I am entirely, painfully human.

I didn't end up here because of a fated bond or some mystical pull of the moon. I ended up here as collateral in a failed family business. It’s as cold and transactional as it sounds. My father’s company was crumbling, his ego tied to the success of a legacy he couldn't maintain, and Nicholas had the resources he needed to stay afloat. I was the price. I was forced into marrying Nicholas in exchange for the funding that saved my father’s reputation. At the time, I thought I was being sold to a monster of the corporate world. I had no idea the monster was literal.

I only discovered he was a werewolf after I moved into the mansion. Before then, werewolves were just things I’d read about in novels, creatures of ink and paper meant to thrill and scare. To see it—to see him shift, to realize the true nature of the "people" I was now living with—should have terrified me. And it did, at first. But then, something unexpected happened.

Nicholas, despite being the most feared Alpha in the region, was not the brutal killer the rumors suggested. At least, not to me.

He turned out to be the most passionate, attentive man I had ever met in my entire life. He loved me with an intensity that made me forget I was ever a bargain. He loved me more than my own family ever had. He fooled me into believing in a fairy tale so deeply that I thought it would remain like that forever. I was so devoted to him that I took the oath of silence without a second thought, swearing never to reveal the existence of their kind to the human world. I would have done anything for him back then.

But things changed. Just two years into our marriage, that version of Nicholas died, or perhaps he just finished the act. Things turned the way they are now, and they have stayed this way for five years.

Yes, we have been married for seven years now. For the past five, I have been nothing more than a slave to this pack. I am a wife in name only, a legal technicality that Nicholas refuses to dissolve even as he treats me like the dirt beneath his boots.

Sometimes, when the house is quiet and the weight of my reality feels too heavy to carry, I pray for death. I ask for an end to the exhaustion and the shame. Other times, I find myself praying for a savior. It’s stupid, right? I know it is. I’m a grown woman who knows exactly how the world works. No one is coming to save me. My family got their money, the pack has their scapegoat, and Nicholas has everything he wants.

I moved through the dining hall on autopilot, my feet heavy but practiced. Serving these dishes has become a routine so ingrained in my muscles that I don't even have to think about it anymore. I moved from table to table, placing heavy plates in front of wolves who looked through me as if I were invisible. It’s quite normal to me now; I do this every single day. I’ve learned how to carry the trays so they don't rattle, how to set a glass down without making a sound, and how to keep my eyes fixed on the floor.

Even when I do everything right, it’s rarely enough. I get scolded for being too slow, for not anticipating someone’s needs, or for simply existing in their line of sight. Sometimes, it’s worse than words. I’ve learned to hide the bruises that come from a rough shove or a heavy-handed "correction" when I don't move fast enough. In a world of predators, a human is a fragile thing, and they never let me forget it.

By the time I finished serving the last of the pack members, the sun had climbed high into the sky. It was already way past noon. My back ached from the constant bending and lifting, and my hands were red from the hot water in the kitchen. I didn't wait for permission to leave; I just slipped away while they were occupied with their food and their loud, boisterous conversations about hunting and pack politics.

I headed to my room—the small, drafty space they moved me to years ago—to take my first shower of the day. The water wasn't particularly warm, but I didn't care. I just needed to wash the smell of the kitchen and the feel of their judging eyes off my skin. I moved slowly, my body feeling older than its years.

Once I was dry, I lay down on the bed, not even bothering to pull the covers up. I closed my eyes, trying to find a moment of peace, but the silence only made the sounds of my own body louder. My stomach growled, a deep, persistent ache of hunger that I tried to ignore. I hadn't eaten since yesterday, and there had been no scraps left for me today. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how many more years of this I was expected to endure.

I was the wife of an Alpha. I was a human in a world of wolves. And more than anything, I was just so, so tired.

I had been so happy once. I had really believed I was his mate, even if nature hadn't given me a wolf to prove it. I thought our love was the kind they wrote those novels about—the kind that broke all the rules. But I was just a human girl who was bought and paid for, and once the novelty wore off, I was nothing.

I shifted on the thin mattress, trying to find a position that didn't make my ribs hurt. My mind wandered back to the wedding anniversary that changed everything. I could still see the look on his face when he told me Sophia was staying. It wasn't just that he brought her back; it was the way he looked at me—like I was a nuisance, a petty distraction from his "real" responsibilities.

"Get used to it," he had said.

I was used to it. I was used to the cold, the hunger, and the way my heart felt like it had been turned to stone. I was used to being the wife by name and the slave by deed. I just didn't know how much longer my body would hold out.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force sleep to come. If I could just sleep, I wouldn't have to feel the hunger. I wouldn't have to think about the dinner I would eventually have to cook or the insults I would have to endure tomorrow. For now, in the quiet of this room, I could almost pretend I didn't exist at all. That was the closest thing to a savior I was ever going to get.