Flower of the Moon : บุปผาเคียงจันทร์

Michelle rose from her living room sofa as the distant purr of an engine broke the silence. The sound was unmistakable, Alpha Patrick’s car crunching across the gravel driveway. Her heart stuttered. She glanced at the clock on the wall; the hands pointed to three fifteen. He wasn’t supposed to be home yet.

“What is he doing back early?” she muttered under her breath, her stomach twisting.

A nervous chill crept through her even though the air conditioning hummed softly in the corner. She hated that she reacted this way to his presence. Every time she heard that car, her mind raced, her pulse quickened, and her body stiffened as though anticipating a blow.

She adjusted the hem of her faded house dress and forced herself to stand still. She tried to gather her composure, though the tension building in her chest felt suffocating.

The front door opened with a sharp creak. Alpha Patrick stepped inside, his tall frame filling the doorway. The expression on his face told her everything she needed to know, it wasn’t going to be a good day. His eyes, dark and cold as winter, flicked over her with the same detached scrutiny one would give a disobedient servant.

“You’re home early,” Michelle said carefully, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound calm.

Patrick’s jaw tightened. “Is anything wrong with that?” he snapped, his tone gruff and dismissive.

Her stomach dropped. That voice, the one that always meant danger.

“N-no,” she murmured quickly, lowering her gaze.

He brushed past her without another word, his heavy boots thudding against the polished floor. The faint scent of whiskey trailed behind him, mingling with his usual musky scent. Michelle stood frozen, watching as he made his way down the hall and disappeared into their bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

She exhaled shakily and turned toward the kitchen. The countertop was bare, she hadn’t even started dinner. Normally, she began cooking around five, but he was early, and that meant trouble. In Patrick’s world, the smallest mistake was an invitation to wrath.

She walked into the kitchen, her hands trembling as she reached for the pots. The air felt thick, heavy with dread. Her fingers brushed the cool surface of the counter, and she closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe.

Patrick had a way of turning even silence into a weapon.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

He was supposed to be her partner, her mate, her equal. That’s what her mother had promised when she arranged their union. But instead, Michelle found herself caged in her own home, bound to a man who saw her as a prize to be possessed rather than a woman to be loved.

She remembered the day it all began.

Her mother, graceful, wise, desperate to protect the legacy of the Range Pack, had insisted Michelle mate with an Alpha. “A strong male will help lead the pack,” she’d said, her voice trembling with the weight of tradition. “The others won’t follow a woman alone, not even a true-born Alpha.”

So Patrick came. A packless Alpha, charming, respectful, his words dripping with humility and promise. He seemed perfect. Michelle had believed her mother’s choice was wise.

He treated her kindly then, brought her flowers, spoke softly, smiled often. He called her Luna before the pack did, and she almost believed in their union.

But everything changed after her mother’s death.

Patrick’s kindness turned to coldness, his tenderness to control. The moment her mother was buried, he became the ruler in truth, and she became his shadow.

Michelle’s hands tightened around the wooden spoon she was holding.

He had taken over everything, her pack, her people, her voice. Even the house that had once felt warm under her mother’s care now felt like a gilded cage. He replaced her father’s loyal officers with his own men, loyal only to him. They patrolled the grounds, “for security,” he said. But she knew better. It was surveillance.

There was nowhere to run.

The mark on her neck pulsed faintly, a cruel reminder of the bond that tethered her to him. Through it, he could sense her emotions, her movements, her very heartbeat. Once, she had thought it was a symbol of love. Now she knew it was a leash.

She stirred the empty pot, lost in thought.

Her reflection shimmered in the steel, eyes that once held defiance now dulled by fear. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a tight bun, not out of vanity but habit. Patrick didn’t like her hair loose; he said it distracted him. So she tied it away every day, erasing another piece of herself to keep the peace.

She could still hear his voice echoing in her head. “A Luna must know her place. Respect keeps the pack in order.”

Respect. That was his word for obedience.

Michelle set the spoon down and leaned on the counter, gripping its edge to steady herself.

The first year hadn’t been terrible. She’d tried to make it work, to be the Luna her pack expected her to be, the wife Patrick claimed he wanted. But the moment she tried to take charge, to speak as her father’s daughter and rightful heir, he’d silenced her with threats disguised as affection.

“I only want to protect you,” he would say, pressing a possessive hand against her neck. “You’re too soft for leadership. Let me handle the hard things.”

And she had let him.

Because she wanted peace. Because she didn’t know how to fight someone who wore love like armour.

Now, peace was the last thing she had.

A loud thud came from the bedroom, snapping her out of her thoughts. She froze. Another sound followed, the sound of glass shattering. Her heart raced.

Michelle wiped her hands and forced herself to walk to the hallway. The door to the bedroom was ajar, and she could see him standing there, his back to her, his hands clenched. A broken glass lay on the floor beside the dresser.

He didn’t turn around.

“Patrick?” she asked softly.

“Did you speak to Jason today?” His voice was low, dangerous.

Her breath caught. “No.”

He turned then, eyes sharp and accusing. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” she whispered.

He stared at her for a long moment, then exhaled roughly, his face dark with frustration. Without another word, he stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door.

Michelle stepped back, her chest heaving. She had no idea what had set him off this time, but she knew it wouldn’t be the last. It never was.

She retreated to the kitchen, every muscle in her body taut. She had learned long ago that Patrick’s anger wasn’t something she could reason with, it came and went like a storm, destroying everything in its path and leaving her to clean up the wreckage.

As the minutes passed, she leaned against the counter, staring at the empty pot again. The house was too quiet.

The mark on her neck burned faintly, as though sensing her fear. She touched it unconsciously, her mind whispering the same thought that haunted her every day.

If only I could be free.

But freedom was a luxury she could not afford.

Patrick owned the pack. He owned her name, her status, her land. And until she found a way to break the bond, she was nothing more than his possession, Alpha by blood, prisoner by fate.

And in that silence, Michelle realised something she hadn’t dared to before.

If she didn’t find a way to fight back soon…