A day in the alpha’s grandeur

A DAY IN THE ALPHA’S GRANDEUR

“How much can’t you remember?” he asks, his stare piercing straight through me.

“So much,” I admit softly. “Maybe… everything.”

His eyes darken.

“There’s something different about you.”

His hand comes up again, fingers circling my neck—gentle, controlled, yet unmistakably possessive. He leans in, inhaling slowly, deeply, as if my scent holds answers he’s desperate to find.

Heat surges through me, unwelcome and addictive.

“I can hear every heartbeat in this packhouse,” he murmurs. “Every breath. Every lie.” His gaze sharpens. “But you… standing right in front of me, I hear nothing.”

Like I’m invisible to his instincts.

Like I don’t belong where I should.

“Maybe almost dying reset things,” I say, my voice unsteady. “Doctor Karl said my body would stabilize with time.”

His thumb presses lightly against my pulse.

“This has nothing to do with—”

A soft knock interrupts us.

“Alpha,” a voice says carefully. “Someone is here to meet the soon-to-be Luna.”

He releases me instantly, his expression shuttering back into cold authority.

“Leave.”

One word.

Whoever it is obeys without question.

The silence that follows feels heavier than before.

I swallow, still feeling his touch like a phantom. “Soon-to-be Luna?” I ask, frowning. “That sounds strange… we’re married.”

He looks at me like I’ve said something absurd.

“Your memory loss is worse than I thought,” he says calmly.

I cross my arms. “Then explain.”

“Our marriage was for the human world,” he says. “For alliances. Business. Appearances.” His eyes flicker with something darker. “But for you to become my Luna—recognized by the pack and blessed by the Moon Goddess—there is a bond ritual.”

My stomach flips. “A ritual?”

“Tonight,” he says simply.

I rub my temple dramatically. “So all that stress, the ceremony, the vows… didn’t really count?”

“It mattered,” he replies. “Just not to our world.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off with a look.

“Get dressed,” he says coolly. “Your guest is waiting.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he’s already turning away.

Slowly—deliberately—he unbuttons his shirt, one button at a time. The fabric parts inch by inch, revealing tattooed skin and hard muscle beneath, like he knows exactly what it’s doing to me. Like he wants me distracted, unsettled, off balance.

My breath catches despite myself.

He doesn’t look back.

He slips the shirt from his shoulders and walks toward the bathroom, every movement controlled, confident, devastating. The door closes behind him with a quiet final click.

And I’m left standing there, pulse racing, heat curling low in my stomach.

I shake my head, forcing myself back into my body.

I wonder who is here to see me.

I haven’t seen the whole house yet, but if this room is anything to go by… this isn’t just luxury. It’s massive—the kind of space meant to remind you exactly where you stand.

Damn it.

I step farther inside, my footsteps swallowed by thick carpet. My gaze drifts, looking for the familiar shape of my suitcases.

They’re nowhere in sight.

A strange pull tugs at me, and I follow it, pushing open a door tucked beside the wall. I freeze.

A dressing room.

No—more than that. It looks like a celebrity’s private closet. Long mirrors. Soft lights. Endless space. Shelves and racks stretching farther than they should.

I move closer, heart ticking unevenly, and that’s when I see them.

My clothes.

Every piece I own is here—clean, pressed, arranged with care. Dresses I remember Khloe folding into my suitcases. Shoes lined up perfectly. Jewelry laid out like museum exhibits.

My throat tightens.

When did they do this?

Everything is too perfect. When did they even do this? It had to have been while I was asleep.

I stand there longer than I should, staring at rows of fabric and choices, my mind blank. I don’t know what to wear. Nothing here feels like me yet.

So I drift farther into the dressing room.

That’s when I realize I’ve crossed into his space.

Damon’s side.

The air feels different somehow. His clothes are darker—exotic fabrics, tailored cuts, designer pieces that look so expensive even on their hangers. Everything about it screams control, money and power.

I see his T-shirts. Big. I'm taking one; it’s the only thing in this room that looks comfy.

Without overthinking, I slip out of my ripped nightie and toss it into the trash beside me. I pull one of his T-shirts over my head.

It falls past my thighs, swallowing me whole.

The scent hits next—warm, masculine, unmistakably his and my breath stutters before I can steady it.

I glance at my reflection, satisfied.

*******

I step out of the room and into the hallway, walking until the space opens and the house finally reveals itself. The stairs curve downward, wide and grand, every step echoing as if the walls are listening.

When I reach the ground floor, I stop.

By the living room stands a massive sculpture—a werewolf caught mid-motion, powerful and raw, carved with unsettling precision. It isn’t decorative. It’s a statement. A warning. This is who rules here.

Footsteps approach.

I turn. “Khloe?”

She looks almost as surprised to see me as I am to see her.

“Hey,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

She hesitates, then answers carefully. “Your parents suggested to the Alpha that I come stay here. That I continue serving you… so you’d have someone familiar around.”

My chest tightens. “And he agreed?”

“Yes. The Alpha gave his consent.”

Relief spreads across my face before I can stop it. “That’s good.”

A young girl passes by, bowing slightly as she does. The gesture catches my attention.

“Wait,” I call. “What’s your name?”

She steps closer, eyes lowered. “An omega of the Moon Pack.”

I nod. “That’s… quite formal.” I glance at Khloe. “Please arrange a room for her. She’ll be my—” I pause, tapping my nose, unsure how to name a role in a world I barely understand.

Khloe fills in, a little stiff. “I’ll be your beta female.”

She nods once and walks away.

Khloe’s expression changes the moment she’s gone. She leans closer, voice barely above a breath.

“Your mother asked me to give you something.”

“What?” I whisper back.

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she presses a small box into my hands—smooth, portable, deceptively ordinary and raises her voice deliberately.

“Your mother sends you this precious jewel of the family.”

I look at her face. The tightness in her jaw. The warning in her eyes.

This isn’t just a gift.

From upstairs, the girl calls her name.

Khloe turns to go, then pauses. She leans in one last time, her whisper urgent.

“Make sure you open it before tonight’s ritual.”

She disappears up the stairs.

I’m left standing there, wearing Damon’s shirt, holding a box I don’t understand.

I walk into the dining area and stop.

A table long enough to host wars and treaties. Chandeliers heavy with light. Chairs carved like thrones. Everything about the space says authority, permanence, dominance.

My stomach growls, unimpressed.

I clap my hands loudly.

The sound echoes—and within seconds, staff appear from every direction. Three of them step forward, quick and silent, drawn in like snare wolves responding to a call.

Their eyes drop immediately.

To my shirt.

Damon’s shirt.

Recognition flickers across their faces—surprise, caution, something close to reverence.

I smile, casual. “Who’s the chef?”

They exchange glances. Finally, one steps forward.

“I’m the chief of the kitchen. Becky.”

“That’s perfect,” I say warmly. “Because I’m starving. I want pasta—really good pasta. Spicy with chicken.”

The room goes still.

They freeze like I’ve spoken a forbidden word. Becky’s eyes widen, her voice hesitant.

“Are… are we expecting human guests today?”

“No,” I say easily. “The food is for me.”

A collective gasp fills the room.

Then laughter cuts through it—sharp, mocking.

Alec steps into view, arms crossed, eyes amused.

What are you now? A goddess?” He shakes his head, a mocking smirk playing on his lips. “Stop being dramatic. That human food won’t stay down your throat for a second—your wolf will let you know exactly what she thinks of it.

I look at him.

“I don’t care what you eat,” I say, my voice steady at first. Then firmer. “I want pasta.”

The words land heavier than I expect.

The air tightens.

And then—

A voice roars from behind me, deep and commanding, powerful enough to make humans and werewolves alike stiffen where they stand.

“What is going on here?”

Silence crashes down.

No one moves.