Alpha’s Cursed Luna: The rise of the Giborim

ANAIYAH

I'd been standing outside Adrian's bedroom door for three minutes before I knocked.

Three minutes of listening to sounds I had no business hearing. Three minutes of staring at the wood grain, telling myself this was fine—just another morning. I'd survived worse.

I knocked.

"Enter."

I pushed the door open.

The she-wolf in his bed didn't bother covering herself. Neither did Adrian. He lay there watching me with those green eyes, waiting to see what I'd do with it.

I looked at the wall behind him.

"I said come in." His voice carried the particular softness that meant he was paying close attention. "Look at me, Anaiyah."

'Don't.'

I looked at him.

He smiled.

The woman beside him was Mara—a warrior's daughter with a ranked family, a healthy wolf, and zero interest in acknowledging my existence. She stretched slowly, deliberately, and slid out from under the sheets without a single glance in my direction. Omegas weren't worth acknowledging. The door clicked shut behind her.

Adrian hadn't moved.

"Strip the bed." He gestured toward the mattress he was still occupying. "East wing floors need scrubbing before breakfast."

I moved to the bed.

The sheets smelled like her perfume and his dominance and something underneath both that I'd spent years convincing myself I no longer recognized. I stripped the pillowcase first—quick hands, no eye contact. Don't think about the fact that six years ago Adrian used to split his dinner with me, call me Ana, and act like I was someone worth protecting.

He'd been fifteen. We'd both been different people.

I folded the sheet corner to corner.

The bathroom door swung open.

He had a towel at his waist and water running down his jaw, staring at me with an expression I couldn't decipher. I kept my hands moving. Corner. Fold. Smooth.

He grabbed my arm.

One second, I was holding clean linen, and the next I was on my back across the mattress, springs biting into my spine, with Adrian's grip still circling my wrist. My heart turned loud enough that I could feel it in my teeth.

'Lunara.'

My wolf stirred. Slow. Reluctant.

'If you're in there—'

Adrian went still.

I knew that look. He hadn't looked at me that way in years. Something moved across his face I recognized from memory. Something that resembled the boy who had once found me crying in the east corridor and sat beside me on the cold floor without asking a single question.

Then it was gone.

"Get out," he muttered.

I got out.

The corridor was empty. I stood there, breathing through my nose until my hands stopped shaking, then went downstairs to resume the work that had been waiting since four in the morning.

Crescent's kitchen was already loud. Ranked wolves eating. Omegas serving. The usual arrangement of things.

I kept my head down and my hands moving.

By midmorning I'd scrubbed two corridors, hauled three loads of laundry, and managed half a bread roll while the cook's back was turned. My shoulder ached from yesterday's linens. My ribs were still bruised from the week before—a reminder from one of Adrian's enforcers that I'd been walking too slowly.

Lunara stayed quiet. She did that sometimes—retreated somewhere deep and unreachable where even I couldn't find her. I'd stopped taking it personally.

I'd been wringing the mop when the water hit me, then the laughter.

Cold and filthy, reeking of grease and old dishwater. It soaked through my hair, my shirt, and down into my shoes before I registered what had happened. I sat on the kitchen floor blinking while the two Omegas who'd done it nearly buckled over themselves.

"Oops." Marissa tilted the empty bucket toward me so I could appreciate the joke. "Did we spill something?"

The other one—Talia, whose family had spent three years climbing Crescent's social ladder one polished heel at a time—pressed a hand over her mouth. Not to hide guilt. To keep the laughter from getting too loud.

"Nothing to say?" Marissa crouched to my level, smiling wide. "Traitor's daughter got water in her ears?" She snickered. "Look at her. Still pretending she belongs here."

"Maybe she forgot she is nobody."

The word "traitor" still hits somewhere tender, even after all these years.

I remembered being small enough to fit entirely in my dad's arms. My mom's hands in my hair, warm and certain. Then fire, and screaming, and someone telling me to stop asking questions because some things were better left dead. I didn't remember the rest clearly—just edges, just sound, just the cold floor of somewhere unfamiliar and the smell of blood that had already dried.

I stayed where I was. Getting up meant escalating. Escalating meant bruises that took longer to hide.

I lifted my eyes slowly, then glanced toward the empty bucket.

"Finished?" I asked. "I have somewhere important to be."

Marissa's smile twitched.

Talia blinked. "You think you're funny?"

"Not usually."

I wrung another stream from my shirt. "You're both making it difficult."

Marissa grabbed my chin and forced my face upward. "Your dad tried to overthrow Alpha Adrian. Your mom helped him. Both traitors." She tilted her head. "Wonder where that puts you."

"Crescent doesn't owe traitor's blood anything," Talia added cheerfully. "Be grateful we only used water."

A warrior appeared in the kitchen doorway—breathing hard, uniform half-fastened.

"Outside. Everyone outside."

"What's hap—"

"Now." His voice had nothing in it except urgency. "He's already through the gate."

The name passed through the pack the way names did when everyone already understood what they meant.

Dravenmoor.

The whole pack gathered on the grounds when the vehicles rolled through the gates. I stayed near the back, between a water barrel and the kitchen wall—visible enough not to look suspicious, forgettable enough to avoid notice.

Nikolai Dravenmoor stepped out, and the entire pack went silent.

Not the performing-respect kind of quiet. The kind that happened when every instinct a person had suddenly agreed on one thing without being asked.

He didn't look around. Didn't acknowledge the row of wolves who'd arranged themselves into a welcome formation. He moved across the grounds carrying the kind of stillness that made everything around him look frantic by comparison—the world kept rushing forward, and he'd simply decided not to.

Dark coat. Dark eyes. A face built for making people reconsider their choices.

I told myself I wasn't staring.

Lunara slammed into the front of my mind so hard I nearly dropped the cloth in my hands.

'Mine.'

The word hit me the way the water had—sudden and total. My breath caught. My pulse went strange. Something warm and disorienting spread through my chest, and I couldn't—

He turned.

And looked directly at me.

Not past me. Not through me. At me, with the focused attention of someone who'd been searching for something and had just found it somewhere they hadn't expected.

Everything inside me went very still.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Thirty feet separated us, and every terrible year of my life, and Lunara was still pressing against my ribs, louder than she'd ever been—mine, mine, mine—in a voice I'd never once heard her use.

I looked away first.

My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against my thighs and stared at the ground and told myself it was fear. Fear made sense. Fear—I knew how to survive.

When I looked back up, Nikolai Dravenmoor was still watching me.

I had spent twenty-two years learning how to survive being invisible. Standing there soaking wet with a bruised cheek and a stolen heel of bread under my shirt, I had no idea that the most dangerous man in the world had just decided to notice me—and that nothing about my life would ever be manageable again.