Chapter 5

The Luna’s First Command

The silver dagger felt like ice against my throat. Claire’s smile was wide, her eyes glowing with a predatory light that shouldn't belong to a "perfect" Luna.

"The silver-pits are a long walk, Claire," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. "You really want to get your expensive heels dirty on your first night?"

"For you? I’d walk through fire," she hissed. She pressed the blade a fraction harder, and I felt a thin line of heat where the metal broke the skin. "You think you’re so clever. You think because you have history with Brock, you have a leash on him. But fated mates don't share, Raya. And I don't keep trash in my garden."

"I'm not his mate, Claire. I'm an Omega. You've already won," I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "Why do you care so much about me?"

"Because he looks for you," she spat, her face contorting with rage. "Even when he’s holding me, his wolf is searching for your scent. It’s disgusting. It’s a glitch in the bond that I am going to fix."

"Enough."

The voice was like a thunderclap.

Declan and the Elders straightened instantly. Brock walked out of the shadows, his Alpha aura so thick it felt like the walls were closing in. He didn't look at me. He looked at Claire, his expression softening into something so tender it made my stomach turn.

"Claire," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Why are you out here? You should be resting. The first day of the bond is exhausting for the wolf."

"She was trying to sneak back into your office, Brock," Claire lied, her voice instantly shifting into a victim's whimper. She pulled the dagger back and tucked it into her silk robes. "I caught her. She’s obsessed. She’s dangerous."

Brock finally turned his gaze to me. The warmth he had for Claire vanished, replaced by an icy, ruthless stare.

"Is that true, Raya?" he asked. "Are you stalking my Mate now?"

"She’s lying, Brock," I said, stepping forward. "She had a knife to my throat. Ask Declan. He saw it."

I looked at Declan, pleading with my eyes. Declan was the Beta’s son. He had played tag with us in the woods. He knew the truth.

Declan looked at the floor. "I didn't see a knife, Alpha. I just saw the Omega wandering where she shouldn't be."

The betrayal stung more than the silver cut.

Brock let out a short, harsh laugh. "See? This is the problem with orphans. No discipline. No respect for rank."

He walked toward me, his heavy boots echoing on the marble. He stopped so close I could smell the whiskey on his breath and the floral scent of Claire’s perfume on his skin.

"You want to play games, Raya? Fine. Since you love the Alpha wing so much, you can stay. But not as a guest."

He turned to the Elders. "As of this moment, Raya is stripped of her rank. She isn't just an Omega. She is the Luna’s personal handmaid. She will clean Claire’s rooms, she will wash Claire’s clothes, and she will be at Claire’s beck and call twenty-four hours a day."

"Brock, no," I gasped. "You can't do that. That’s a slave sentence."

"It’s a mercy," he snapped. "The Elders wanted you exiled. I’m giving you a roof over your head. You should be thanking me on your knees."

Claire let out a delighted little giggle, stepping up beside him and looping her arm through his. "Oh, Brock. That’s perfect. I have so many things that need... deep cleaning."

The humiliation was a physical weight. I had to stand there while the man I had given my virginity to—the man I had loved for a lifetime—handed me over to his new mate like a piece of used furniture.

"The Alpha has spoken," Elder Raven said, though her eyes were filled with sorrow. "Raya, baring your throat is the only way this ends without blood."

"Do it," Brock commanded. His voice was laced with Alpha power, a vibration that forced my muscles to move against my will.

My head tilted back. My throat was exposed. My pride was dead.

"Good girl," Claire whispered as she walked past me, her shoulder intentionally clipping mine.

The next three hours were a blur of agony. I was forced to move my few belongings into a literal closet in the servant’s hallway. Then, the real work began.

Claire sat in a plush armchair in her suite, sipping tea, while she watched me scrub the floors of her bathroom on my hands and knees.

"You missed a spot by the tub, Raya," she said, pointing with a manicured toe. "And make sure you use the silver-bleach. I want it sterile."

The silver-bleach burned my hands. Since I was a shifter, even a diluted solution of silver was like acid. My skin was red and blistering, but I didn't say a word. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of hearing me cry.

"Why are you doing this, Claire?" I asked, my voice raspy. "You have the bond. You have the title. Why be so cruel?"

"Because you're a loose end," she said, leaning forward. "And I don't like loose ends. I know what happened last night. I can smell it on the sheets, Raya. I can smell you."

I froze, the scrub brush stopping mid-motion.

"He told me everything," she lied, her eyes gleaming. "He told me how you threw yourself at him. How you begged for it. He said he felt sorry for you. That he only did it because he knew he was about to find his real mate and he wanted to give the pack's little charity case one last night of happiness."

"He's a liar," I whispered, though the words felt hollow.

"Maybe," she shrugged. "But he’s my liar now. And tonight, we’re having the official Mating Ball. The Elders are coming from all over the territory to witness the marking. And guess who gets to serve the wine?"

She stood up, walking over to me. She looked down at my blistered, red hands and smiled.

"You’re going to be right there, Raya. You’re going to watch him sink his teeth into my neck. You’re going to watch the mark take hold. And then, you’re going to clear the table while we go to bed to finalize the bond."

I stood up, shaking the silver-bleach from my hands. "I won't do it. Kill me if you want, but I won't watch that."

"You will," a voice growled from the door.

Brock was leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were like flint.

"It’s a pack requirement, Raya. Every member of the household staff must be present for the Alpha’s marking ceremony. It’s about loyalty. Or are you saying you aren't loyal to your Alpha?"

"I'm loyal to the Brock I knew," I said, my voice cracking. "But I don't know who this is."

Brock’s expression didn't flicker. "That boy is dead. This is the Alpha. Now get cleaned up. You have two hours before the guests arrive. And wear the uniform. The gray one. I want everyone to know exactly what your place is."

He turned and walked away, leaving me alone with Claire.

The ballroom was even more crowded than the night before. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and the heavy, musky smell of hundreds of wolves.

I stood by the buffet table, dressed in a coarse, gray wool dress that scratched my skin. My hands were hidden in gloves to cover the chemical burns, but the pain was a constant throb that kept me grounded.

I watched him.

Brock was the center of attention. He looked regal, powerful, every inch the Alpha he was born to be. Claire was at his side, wearing a dress of pure white, looking every bit the virginal Luna she definitely wasn't.

"Drink, Omega," a guest snapped, thrusting an empty glass at me.

I took it, my head bowed, playing the role. I felt invisible, a ghost in my own home.

Finally, the music stopped. The Great Elder, a wolf so old his fur was probably permanently gray in his shift, stepped onto the dais.

"Tonight, we witness the completion of the Crescent Moon," he announced, his voice carrying through the silent hall. "Alpha Brock, bring forward your Fated Mate for the marking."

My breath hitched. I wanted to run. I wanted to shift and bolt into the woods and never look back. But my feet were rooted to the spot.

Brock took Claire’s hand, leading her to the center of the stage. He looked down at her, and for a second, he hesitated. His eyes flickered toward the back of the room. Searching.

He found me.

For three seconds, the world stopped. His eyes were wide, filled with a sudden, sharp agony that mirrored my own. His hand on Claire’s waist tightened, but not in passion—in a grip so hard she winced.

"Brock?" Claire whispered, her voice audible in the silence.

Brock blinked, the mask slamming back down. He leaned in, his nose brushing the side of her neck where the marking vein pulsed. He opened his mouth, his canines lengthening, ready to claim her and seal my fate forever.

Just as his teeth grazed her skin, the massive front doors of the ballroom burst open.

A scout, covered in blood and breathing hard, stumbled into the room.

"Alpha!" he gasped, collapsing to his knees. "The Northern Border! We're under attack!"

The room erupted into chaos. Brock pulled away from Claire, his wolf surging to the surface. "By who? The Rogues?"

"No," the scout wheezed, looking up with eyes filled with terror. "It’s not shifters. It’s humans. And they have silver-gas."

But that wasn't the cliffhanger.

As the wolves began to panic, a tall, imposing man stepped into the ballroom behind the scout. He wasn't a wolf. He was human, dressed in a high-end tactical suit, carrying a device I didn't recognize.

He didn't look at the Alpha. He didn't look at the Luna.

He looked straight at me.

"Raya?" the man called out, his voice calm amidst the screaming. "The Doctor sent me. It's time to go."