A Deeper Cut

Victor Quinn’s head throbbed like a drum as he staggered out of his black Roll-Royce's. 

His body reeked faintly of gin and perfume, neither of which belonged in a home where a Luna and child waited.

He dragged a hand over his face. The night had been one of sexual moans, claw marks, and the scent of another woman—Charlotte, his secretary, his mistress of five years. 

She had told him something about rejecting and breaking the bond with his Luna before sunrise. Victor had ignored her, shaking off the thought as if he could erase it with another drink.

“Divorce your fat wife already,” Charlotte had hissed earlier, curling her manicured fingers around his chest. 

“You don’t love her. You don’t even look at her without wincing.”

The words stung, though he masked it with a careless grin. “Clara’s still a good wife and Luna of my pack. Just… fatter now. After Amelia.”

Fat. That was the word he had chosen, though his wolf bristled at the lie. His mate had given him a daughter—his bloodline, his legacy—and all he could think about was her body changing?

Charlotte had rolled her eyes, and said in disdain. 

“Cooking, cleaning, smiling like some Luna doll? You could hire a dozen maids for that. I’ve been giving you my youth for five years, Victor. Don’t play the loyal Alpha with me. I want you to mate me. I want a bond. I want to be your Luna.”

When he didn’t answer, she stormed out.

 Victor had stood at the balcony, staring at the city lights below, drowning his guilt with a shot of gin.

Now, as he parked in Crescent Moon’s garage, his bumper scraped the wall with a sickening screech. He didn’t care. He was hungover, hollow, and his wolf shifted uneasily under his skin. The animal part of him longed for home, for Amelia’s laugh, for the grounding warmth of the bond with Clara.

She hates you, his wolf muttered. And why wouldn’t she?

Victor shoved the thought away. He wasn’t here to think—he was here to see his daughter.

The door creaked as he entered the pack-house. His eyes scanned the living room. Clara sat there, spine straight, gaze cold and unyielding. He could smell the faint aura of Luna authority coming from her.

One look told him this would not be a conversation he could charm his way out of.

“Welcome home,” she said flatly. Her voice had no warmth. Just frost. Her tone made the words sound like an insult.

 “I’m surprised you remembered where this house is. It’s already past noon.”

Victor winced at the chill in her tone. He pressed his hand against his temple, fighting dizziness as he stepped toward her. 

“Where’s Amelia? I’ll take her to the mall. Buy her anything she wants.”

Clara’s eyes hardened. 

“She’s with my mother. She didn’t get the birthday she deserved, so I told her she could celebrate with her cousins. She cried herself to sleep on her birthday. I wasn’t going to let her wake up to disappointment again, so I sent her to a place where she’d feel loved.”

Victor’s stomach twisted. 

“Why would you do that? We always celebrate Amelia’s birthday together. I just missed one day.”

Her control shattered. Clara stood to her feet, her wolf flaring behind her words.

 “One day? Victor Quinn, do you even hear yourself? You’ve been gone for months! I can count on one hand how many times you’ve stepped foot in this house in the past three moons!” 

Her voice rose, trembling with fury. 

“If you want to sleep with your secretary, then go! But don’t you dare pretend to be a father when it suits you.”

Victor’s wolf snarled at the insult, his Alpha temper sparking. 

“Oh, shut up, Clara! I just toy around with her at work, so what? Do you think it’s easy carrying the weight of this pack, keeping Crescent Moon stable? I’m exhausted. Arguing with you exhausts me even more!”

Her hands balled into fists. She had stayed awake the entire night waiting for him. Her heart leaped at every car that passed, only to learn he was sleeping with another woman in a hotel while their daughter cried herself to sleep.

Exhausted? He dared to say exhausted?

Her laugh was short and bitter. 

“Exhausted? You have no idea what exhaustion is. Try raising a daughter alone while pretending her father still cares. Try waiting up every night, praying the car in the driveway belongs to you and not some stranger. Until then, don’t you dare lecture me about exhaustion.”

Victor opened his mouth, but no words came. He was tired. He was guilty. But beneath it all was the undeniable truth: he had chosen this path, and his wolf hated him for it.

Clara turned sharply and grabbed a thick envelope from the table. She shoved it against his chest.

Victor stumbled, catching it clumsily. He squinted at the papers, his vision blurred. “What the hell is this?”

“Your cure,” she said evenly. “You claim I exhaust you. Fine. Then this will free you.”

He glanced down, his vision still blurred from the night before. Divorce papers. Her signature already scrawled across the bottom in firm, defiant strokes: Clara Hayes.

His chest tightened as the bond inside him shuddered. 

The mate link—a thread woven by the Moon Goddess herself—quivered in protest. His wolf snarled, furious at the attempt to sever what was sacred.

Clara’s gaze didn’t waver. 

“I’m done, Victor. I signed my part. All that’s left is yours. Or maybe Charlotte can guide your hand, since she seems so eager to take my place.”

The words sliced deeper than claws. Victor’s hand trembled around the pen she had left atop the stack. For a long moment he just stared at her. She looked tired, yes, but not weak. There was steel in her posture, the kind of strength born from silently breaking down at night and still choosing to rise in the morning.

“You’re serious,” he muttered.

Clara’s lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. 

“I’ve never been more serious. I won’t keep covering for you. I won’t let Amelia grow up thinking this is what love looks like.”

Her use of their daughter’s name hit him harder than any insult. Amelia. The little wolf who carried his eyes and her mother’s determination. He had missed her birthday, missed the candles, missed the chance to see her wolf stir with joy.

His wolf whimpered, ashamed. But his pride was louder. His fear of scandal louder still. An Alpha rejected by his Luna was a story that traveled fast. 

 The mate bond between them was cracking slowly. His wolf recoiled, claws scraping inside his chest, unwilling to accept the severing.

Victor staggered back, staring at her. Clara’s scent—normally his anchor—smelled foreign, distant, like ash in the wind.

For the first time in twelve years, Victor Quinn, Alpha of Crescent Moon, realized something terrifying.

He was losing his Luna.