Finding His Royal English Luna

The loud buzzing of my alarm woke me from my recurring nightmare. It was always the same. I was tied to a stake in the middle of the Blessed Runes, surrounded by the whole Pack. No one spoke up for me. I was a foundling, brought up by the kind elderly Luna. She had died alongside her Alpha two days ago when Bryn, the young, much stronger Alpha of the Sierra Nevada Pack, had launched his brutal coup.                               Now, I was a prisoner in the only home I had ever known; the pack house that once felt like a sanctuary was now cold and unfamiliar under the watchful eyes of Bryn’s loyalists. The scent of stale blood and fear still clung to the hallways, a grim reminder of the slaughter that had claimed the only family I knew.             I sat up, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, and forced myself to take a steadying breath. There was no time for lingering in the terror of the past; if I wanted to survive the day, I needed to move. I was expected to clean the kitchen, then cook breakfast for the whole Pack House staff, a chore that felt like a cruel mockery of the life I had lived before. Bryn had taken everything— leaving me as a slave to his warriors and anyone else who stayed at the Pack House. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, well, not a bed as such; it was just a mattress on the floor of the tiny storage room under the eaves that he allowed me to use as my own. Splashing some ice-cold water on my face from the basin in the corner, I tugged on the rough, oversized tunic that served as my uniform. It was coarse against my skin, scratching at my collarbone and serving as a constant reminder of my diminished status. I caught my reflection in the cracked shard of a mirror propped against the wall—hollow eyes, sallow skin, and hair that hung in limp, lifeless tangles around my face. I looked away, unable to bear the sight of the girl who had once been full of fire, now reduced to a mere shadow of servitude.                                                                                          I could barely remember my name, Angelique Tudor; it was so long since anyone had spoken it to me. Ever since I could remember, the Pack members would refer to me as a slave or a bitch, and I had no recollection of my parents at all. I was a half-breed, or so they told me; my father had been an Alpha Wolf and my mother was a human; that was the limit of my knowledge. I was staring at my reflection, seeing a broken, ugly girl, and that could not have been further from the truth. I had long, heavy chestnut curls when I was allowed to wash and brush it, and unusual golden eyes flecked with emerald green. I would be turning eighteen in a few weeks, and my figure was beginning to reflect my womanly status, although wrapped in this shapeless tunic it was hard to decipher what sex I was.

A heavy knock rattled the thin wooden door, followed by the sharp, impatient voice of the housekeeper.

‘Come on, you lazy good-for-nothing wretch; breakfast won’t make itself, and the master expects his meal to be ready by six.’

Without a word, I exited my room and headed down the back stairs to the kitchen, shivering in the cold and dampness that clung to the stone walls like a shroud of ancient grief. The kitchen would not get warm until I had scrubbed every surface and washed last night’s dishes, a task that awaited me every morning, a ritual of penance for sins I had not committed but had been forced to accept as my own. The hearth was a cavern of cold ash, mocking my efforts as I knelt before it, my fingers trembling as I reached for the poker. The iron tool felt biting against my skin, a stark reminder of the winter that seemed to have settled permanently into the marrow of this old Pack House. I scraped at the grey remains of yesterday’s fire, watching the soot dance in the pale morning light that filtered through the grime-covered windows. Another chore I would be tasked with once breakfast had been served to the Alpha’s inner circle. The sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway, a rhythmic, thudding cadence that signalled the arrival of someone who held no patience for lateness. I froze, my grip tightening on the poker until my knuckles turned white. It was Kaelen, the Alpha’s Beta. His presence always seemed to displace the air in the room, turning the already thin oxygen into something heavy and suffocating. He didn't stop at the threshold of the kitchen, but instead strode directly toward me, his boots clicking sharply against the stone floor.

‘Why has the food not been prepared?’

He demanded coldly, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and settled deep in my bones. I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat feeling like a jagged stone. Not daring to meet his eyes, I kept my gaze on the hard stone cobbles that made up the floor.

‘I am sorry, Sir, I was just about to begin the cooking.’                                                                                   He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he paced the length of the narrow kitchen; his movements were predatory and silent. Each step he took seemed to measure the distance between my failures and his patience, which was clearly wearing thin.  Finally, he stopped directly behind me. The heat of his presence was stifling, a suffocating weight that pressed against my shoulders and made it impossible to draw a full breath. I felt his hand hover near the nape of my neck, not quite touching, but close enough that the fine hairs on my skin stood on end.                                                                                                                       ‘Do you know what happens to those who fail to respect the sanctity of my house, little bird?’