The Alpha's Vengeful Luna

Chelsea Wren POV

“Where is he?” I mutter under my breath, my fingers tightening on the skirt of my pure white mate gown.

I stand just inside the doorway of Moonlace Atelier, the heavy fabric weighing on my skin. Five minutes ago, a text lit up my screen. Everett Sloan claimed he couldn't wait another second to see me in the gown, prompting me to rush downstairs without a second thought.

Now, the view through the window shows me exactly why he’s late.

Everett stands with his back to the glass, his lips locked with another woman’s. The female in his arms turns her head just enough to meet my eyes. Cressida Wynn smiles—a slow, sharp curve full of pure triumph.

My knees nearly give out. The gown suddenly feels like a set of heavy chains.

“I can’t believe how stupid I was,” I grit out through clenching teeth.

My half-blood pack sister sent the text. Of course she did. Cressida always needs an audience for her victories. First, she and her mother stole my father Gideon’s affection. Now, she’s taking the male I was supposed to claim under the next full moon.

The phone in my hand vibrates. Cressida’s name flashes on the screen. I answer only because rage demands it.

“Did you see that, dear sister?” Cressida’s voice drips with honey and poison. “Everett has belonged to me the entire time. He will never form the mate bond with you. I won’t allow it. Give him up while you still have a shred of pride left.”

I end the call without a word. Tears blur the street as I walk out into the open air, wrapped in the white gown. Passers-by stare, but I couldn't care less.

The Blackfang Night Den swallows me the moment I push through its heavy doors. I order drink after drink, each one burning a hole through the hollow ache in my chest. The pack members around me blur together. Voices rise and fall in the background. At some point, the room tilts, and I curl up on a low couch, the white gown still wrapped around me like a cruel joke.

Morning light cuts through the den windows when a new call jerks me awake. Everett’s name. I answer on pure reflex.

“Chelsea Wren, where were you?” His voice is laced with thick irritation. “I waited at Moonlace the entire afternoon. If you can't take this mate bond seriously, maybe we should call the whole thing off.”

Cold clarity floods my veins. The mate bond with him is already dead. I hang up, force myself upright, and head for the washroom to splash cold water on my face. The mirror reveals bloodshot eyes and ruined makeup. I pay the den keeper and step out into the hallway.

Two sets of footsteps approach. A tall male moves down the corridor like he owns every inch of it, an aide trailing nervously behind him.

“Alpha, Lord Emeric has ordered that your primary task today is at the Pack Registry with Lady Ottilie Crane. After the official sealing, you are expected to attend the celebration.”

“I have better things to do,” Alastair Crowhurst replies, his voice cold as winter steel.

The aide swallows hard. “I understand, sir, but the pack elder was clear. If Lady Ottilie does not please you, he will keep sending candidates until one does.”

Alastair’s mouth curves into a cold, humorless smile. “Then bring me a different female. Anyone except the ones he’s already forced on me. That will put an end to it.”

The aide nearly trips over his own feet. “Sir, you can’t be serious. A mate bond isn't something to decide in a single day—”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

My gaze locks onto the Alpha of Crowhurst Holdings. I saw him once years ago when I was still a junior pack member. Flawless bone structure, a firm mouth, and eyes like deep forest shadows. His tailored black clothes fit him like a second skin. Everything about him radiates raw Alpha dominance—the kind that forces lesser wolves to drop their gaze.

He needs a Luna. I need a weapon sharp enough to destroy both Everett and Cressida.

The realization hits like a full-moon shift.

I step forward before the two males can disappear around the corner.

“Please wait a moment, Alpha Crowhurst.”

Alastair stops and turns. The aide freezes mid-step. Those icy eyes land on me—taking in my wrinkled white gown, messy hair, and the faint scent of last night’s liquor still clinging to my skin.

For one long second, silence hangs heavy between us.

Then Alastair’s voice cuts through the air, low and dangerous. “And who exactly are you supposed to be?”