The pack expects their Luna.

Clara's POV

Sunlight should have been warm.

It wasn’t. Not in his bed—not with dread carved into my bones, the wedding dress still tangled around my ankles like a binding spell. I lay there watching fiery streaks crawl across the ceiling, breathing shallowly so I wouldn’t disturb his scent—ash, bitter whiskey, iron. The taste of blood lingered in my mouth.

When I touched my neck, I flinched. The mark throbbed—raw, swollen, ugly. My lip burned, split and tender. Bruises mottled my wrists and arms in florid shades of purple and blue.

He was gone.

His side of the bed was cold, the pillow barely dented. I wondered how long I’d slept after blacking out—when the world spun from pain and shame. There was no privacy, only surveillance. I could hear them outside—the guards, the distant shuffle of servants who would never meet my gaze.

A new dress was dumped at the foot of the bed. Grey. Plain. Not meant for a Luna. The message was clear.

I’d barely managed to stand—my legs buckling under me—when the door burst open. No knock. Why would the condemned be given respect?

Taehyung stood in the frame, the morning sun transforming his silhouette into a shadow twice as large as the man himself. He didn’t step forward, just sneered, flicking his gaze from my bruises to the ruined dress clinging to my body.

“Get dressed. You’re not here to rest,” he said, voice flat—almost bored. “There’s no mourning for you. The pack expects their Luna.”

I swallowed hard; my throat was raw—half from his bite, half from unshed screams.

I clung to the blanket, but his glare stopped me cold.

He tossed a comb onto the mattress, the noise sharp. “Clean yourself up, Clara. Or I’ll do it—and you won’t like how.”

His anger simmered beneath every word. Not the storm of last night, but something more controlled, colder. I hated it more.

He stalked to the window and watched the courtyard, his back to me, but his presence was a lead weight pressing down on my chest. My hands shook as I peeled away the ruined wedding dress—the scent of old perfume and new blood almost suffocating. I pulled the plain dress on. Everything in me screamed in humiliation.

When I finished, he finally turned.

His eyes—unreadable. Hard as obsidian.

He stepped close, his grip suddenly biting my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Smile for the pack, Clara. If you embarrass me, if you cry, if you show weakness… there will be consequences.” His lips twisted into something cruel. “Do you understand?”

I nodded, unable to trust my voice.

He released me, turning away as if I were filth.

“Follow me,” Taehyung said, and stalked out, not waiting to see if I hobbled after him like a ghost.

The guards fell in behind me, their footsteps heavy with hatred.

Every inch of my soul hurt.

I was Luna in title, prisoner in truth. My trial had only just begun.

---

The doors to the Great Hall swung open, and I entered a world colder than any dungeon. Stone silence pressed up from the floor, clawed at my bare arms. Taehyung strode ahead—never glancing back—like he was leading prey into a pit. I followed in the hush, pulse thundering.

They were all there.

The pack that had raised me, sneered at me, weighed every flaw. Warriors in black, elders in fox-fur, omega servants keeping their heads low. Dozens—maybe hundreds—lined the margins of the marble foyer, filling the room with judgment, venom, and expectation.

No one welcomed me.

No one called out, “Congratulations!”

I heard only the scrape of someone’s boot and the way the word “Traitor” slithered between two young she-wolves. Children peered from behind mothers’ skirts, quickly shushed and hidden.

There were bruises on my wrists. Blood from my bitten lip. The heavy bond on my neck. They could smell my humiliation as much as the dried iron on my skin.

Taehyung stopped at the dais, his height commanding, his aura oppressive. He didn’t offer his hand, didn’t shield me. He just watched, impassive, while I mounted the steps alone.

“Welcome your Luna,” he intoned, but every word dripped like acid.

A few loyalists muttered, but most faces twisted—some with glee, most with fury or disappointment. There was no warmth. Only the silent question in everyone’s eyes: murderer or sacrifice?

A middle-aged Beta spat onto the stone right in front of me. His glare promised pain. A woman in the crowd covered her child’s eyes.

Taehyung smiled, cold and sharp. “Your Luna is here on my command. She is not to be harmed—unless you wish to answer to me.” He gave the crowd an icy once-over, every word a threat.

Then, much quieter, meant only for me: “Stand up straight. Don’t let them see you shatter. This is only day one.”

My hands shook, but I forced them to still. I tried to lift my chin, to pretend I belonged. But inside, I splintered—shattered into a dozen trembling pieces. Their hatred washed over me in hot, choking waves.

From the back, I heard a single, derisive laugh—a young voice, sharp and cruel. Then an old crone’s whisper: “She’ll be dead before the moon turns, mark my words.”

It took everything in me not to crumple.

Taehyung stepped forward, voice ringing cold command: “You will show respect. Or you will regret it.”

The crowd answered with silence—thick, poisonous, unbearable.

And I stood, the dead woman in grey, the Luna no one would ever let forget her place.