The Alpha’s Outlaw Luna

Chapter 4 – Lies in the Ledger

Finn told me to open the file sitting down.

He undersold it.

My office is dark but for the glow of the holo‑projector on my desk. Outside, Larkhaven glitters. Inside, my father’s voice crackles through ten‑year‑old air.

“…the girl from nowhere is too close,” Ronan says on the recording. “He leans on her for every decision. It’s not sustainable.”

Three months before the ritual.

In the projection, a younger Ronan sits at the head of a smaller conference table. Aric Holt is at his right. Elara is a shadow at the far end.

“She’s effective,” my mother says quietly.

“I’m not denying that,” Ronan snaps. “I’m telling you effectiveness and loyalty are not the same. The girl holds leverage she has no right to. She was dragged in off a border skirmish and now thinks she can dictate to the heir of Moontrace.”

“She advises,” Elara corrects.

“And he listens,” Aric says. “Too closely. Our metrics—”

I pause the file, knuckles white on the desk.

Metrics. Of course there were metrics.

Graphs. Charts. My life as data.

I hit play again.

“If we allow this pattern,” Aric continues, “we risk a de facto dual leadership once Callum ascends. The pack responds to both of them. Tolerable if she were of blood. She is not.”

Elara’s silence hurts more than any word.

“She’s a risk,” Ronan says. “Risks must be managed.”

“How?” Elara asks.

The projection shifts. A ring of light appears on the holo‑screen, runes circling slowly.

“We already have Crescent’s prototype,” Aric says. “The Draven alliance requires a formal bond. We bind him to Selene, stabilize his instincts, and remove this… reliance on the outsider.”

“And Mara?” Elara almost whispers.

“Without the possibility of an elevated bond, she’ll lose leverage,” Aric says. “We can reposition her lower in the chain, or encourage her to seek opportunities elsewhere.”

“Encourage,” I echo under my breath.

Onscreen, my father steeples his fingers.

“If we do this,” Ronan says, “we do it cleanly. No rumors. No questions. The boy believes it’s his duty, not our correction. The last thing we need is him feeling manipulated.”

I slam the projector off.

The office drops into shadow. My reflection stares back from the window: polished suit, neat hair, jaw clenched so hard it aches.

Finn’s voice comes from my laptop, still on speaker. “Well?”

“You should’ve told me to open it lying down,” I say. My throat feels raw.

“The good news,” Finn says, “is you now have proof Crescent’s methods were imposed without full disclosure. To you. And to some of your own people.”

“Elara knew,” I say. “She was in the room.”

“She was outvoted,” he replies. “Knowing and being able to stop it aren’t the same.”

I don’t answer. My wolf paces inside my ribs.

“Aric and Ronan didn’t just bind you to Selene,” Finn continues. “They made sure Mara could never be anything more than convenient talent, then nudged her out the door.”

“How many others?” I ask. “How many wolves did Crescent chain using our name?”

“Too many,” he says. “Not just through Moontrace. Border packs. City gangs. Anywhere desperate wolves wanted shortcuts.”

He types, sends another file. A still pops up on my screen: grainy roadside footage. A van. Two figures hauling a third onto a stretcher.

The angle is bad. The lighting worse.

But I know that walk. Efficient, economical, no wasted motion.

Mara.

Older. A little thinner. New scar along her jaw. Very much alive.

“You said you didn’t know where she went,” I say.

“I didn’t,” Finn answers. “Until this. Local pack sent it over—kid with ritual burns, muttering about Larkhaven and ‘Varyn’ in a motel parking lot.”

Shame tastes metallic.

“Someone out there is selling bootleg versions of Crescent’s tech,” Finn says. “Using your family name as a stamp of quality. She’s picking up the pieces.”

Of course she is.

I look past my warped reflection to the city.

“What do you want to do?” Finn asks.

The old answer would’ve been: write a report, argue in committee, trust the system.

That version of me died on a ritual floor.

“I want every contract,” I say. “Every trial. Every wolf they touched under our crest. I want to know exactly how far this goes.”

“And then?”

“Then it stops,” I say. “With us. If that means burning Aric, Crescent, Draven—and my father—fine. If it means burning Moontrace as we know it—”

I let the sentence hang.

Finn exhales. “That’s more like it.”

The call clicks off.

Alone in the dim office, I restart the recording from the beginning, forcing myself to listen to every word.

My father calls it risk management.

On the motel asphalt, a boy bleeds in a stranger’s van because of those “managed risks.”

Because of me.

Debts, Mara once told me, aren’t paid with apologies.

They’re paid with interest.