The Alpha’s Secret Luna

Elsin Waveridge POV

Elsin Waveridge kept her spine rigid against the wooden booth, her golden eyes locked onto the towering male sitting across from her inside Silverthorn Pack Lodge. She did not flinch. She couldn't afford to.

The male before her was lethal—sharp cheekbones, midnight hair, and slate-gray eyes that burned with a suffocating, predatory aura. Even dressed in a simple dark tunic that marked him as an ordinary low-ranking pack worker, his broad shoulders and commanding posture screamed dominant strength. He left every other male her mother had forced her to meet in the dust.

This was her tenth blind date in three months. Her mother, Georgiana Waveridge, had spent the last ninety days threatening to starve herself if Elsin did not secure a mate and carry on their bloodline.

"We just sat down," the male said, his voice a deep, velvet rumble that made Elsin's dormant wolf stir beneath her ribs. A slow, razor-sharp smile touched his lips. "Direct for a hidden stray, aren't you?"

Elsin forced her claws to retract beneath her knuckles, keeping her expression deadpan. "I'm Elsin. Twenty-five. A low-tier artisan who sells bone charms at the night market. I make fifty thousand silver coins a year, supporting both myself and my mother. I have no lingering ties to other packs, my wolf is healthy, and I don't touch black-root poison. I need a mate bond. Today."

Her mother had pulled his name off the pack notice board. Elsin had expected a broken-down, bottom-feed wolf with a beer belly and no combat skills. The pack boards were notoriously full of desperate, low-tier strays.

The male tilted his head, inspecting her like a commander evaluating a new recruit. "And you weren't afraid I was a scammer or a hunter trap?"

"Life in Frostwick Moon Territory is a gamble," Elsin said curtly, resting her forearms on the table. "You're a local worker for Westbourne Alpha Holdings. Your parents passed into the ancestral grounds. You're honest, low-ranking, hard-working, and eager to settle down. Your name is Alaric... Westbourne, correct?"

"Alaric Westbourne," he corrected, his gray eyes darkening slightly as he pronounced his surname. "Yes. I work in Vinkintop Blackswan. I rent a small stone shelter, I drive an old iron wagon, and I earn a steady living as a general laborer. My wolf is untainted."

Elsin pulled a parchment wolf-gene certificate from her tunic and dropped it onto the table between them. "Mr. Westbourne, walk to the Pack Elders Hall with me right now. I don't want your silver. We don't need a joint vault, a dowry, or a grand pack ceremony. We sign the bond, we stamp the wax, and we finish it."

She needed her mother to stop suffocating her. Once the legal seal was struck, Elsin could handle whatever came next.

Alaric drummed long, calloused fingers against the tabletop, his gaze piercing right through her. "You don't care that I don't own a grand estate or hold a title? You might be taking on more than you bargained for by binding your wolf to mine."

"I don't own an estate either," Elsin said cleanly. "Without an Alpha bloodline to inherit from, no normal twenty-five-year-old wolf owns land in Frostwick. As long as your character is sound and your wolf is loyal, we build from the ground up."

Alaric stared at her for three long seconds. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached into his vest, pulled out an old mind-comm tablet, and keyed a swift message: Bring my ancestral identity tokens to the Elders Hall immediately.

An hour later, Elsin stepped onto the cobbled steps outside the Frostwick Elders Hall, staring down at the binding parchment in her hands. The red wax seal of the mate bond burned bright under the overcast sky.

She had actually done it. She had bound her soul and her wolf to a completely unknown male in less than sixty minutes.

Beside her, Alaric tucked his copy into his dark coat. A faint, dangerous smirk caught the corner of his mouth. "A bit too late to break the bond, little wolf."

"I don't retreat, Mr. Westbourne," Elsin said, tucking the parchment safely into her leather satchel. "I have to return to my charm stall. You should get back to your shift at Alpha Holdings."

Alaric paused, his gray eyes tracking her movement with sudden, heavy intensity. "You didn't give me your pack frequency. How am I supposed to track my mate?"

Elsin felt a flush hit her neck. She pulled out her comm-device, opening her contact rune. Alaric tapped his glass against hers, transferring his private link.

She caught a glimpse of his screen before he darkened it. Above her newly registered frequency, he had already typed a single, possessive label: Luna.

Elsin swallowed hard, tapping her own screen to save his frequency under Alaric Westbourne.

"Call if your wolf senses danger," Alaric murmured, stepping closer until his scent—cold cedar, rain, and raw silver—wrapped completely around her senses.

"I will," Elsin whispered, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

Alaric opened his mouth to speak again, but the heavy silver comm-device in his inner pocket suddenly burst into a violent, high-frequency alarm chime reserved exclusively for urgent pack emergencies.

The warm air between them instantly died. Alaric’s posture shifted, his gray eyes turning as cold and unyielding as tundra ice. He clicked the receiver, listening to the panicked voice on the other end for barely two seconds before killing the signal.

"Take an iron cab," Alaric said, his voice dropping into a deep tone of absolute command that nearly brought Elsin's wolf to its knees. "Go straight to the market."

Before Elsin could respond, a sleek, jet-black armored Rolls Royce with reinforced silver-plated rims glided to a silent stop right at the curb in front of them. The heavily tinted rear window rolled down slowly, revealing the terrifying, scarred face of an Enforcement Beta.

The Beta bowed his head low toward Alaric and growled with absolute deference, "Alpha, the High Council has fallen—we need you at the stronghold now."