The Heart of a Luna

Lyric

“Will you leave me the fuck alone,” I snap, “before I rip both your throats out?”

The two Omega attendants freeze.

The one with the spiced wine goes white. Her hands shake so badly the liquid sloshes against the rim of the cup. 

The other, the one holding the bowl of hot water and folded linen, just stares at me. There’s too much sympathy in her eyes. I hate it. I hate that it makes my chest ache.

I exhale slowly through my nose. The regret is immediate and bitter.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. My voice cracks on the second word. “It’s not your fault. Just… put it down. I know what to do.”

“You should not be alone, Luna,” the one with the wine says. “No one should be by themselves at a time like this.”

I swallow past the knot in my throat. “I prefer it. Leave. Please.”

The Omega with the bowl sets it carefully on the vanity, then she presses a small glass vial into my hand. “From the healer, Luna,” she whispers. “She says it will help with the pain.”

“And don’t forget this,” the other one adds, almost tripping over her own feet to get closer. She offers me the cup with both hands, like it’s something holy and not something that will force my body to finish what’s already begun. “Please drink all of it, Luna. Alpha instructs… we don’t want… we don’t want a repeat of last time.”

Last time.

It was the worst of the miscarriages.

The fever burned inside me like a furnace, yet no amount of furs could stop the shivering. I remember the healer telling my father to prepare for my funeral.

That's how close I came to dying.

Bryce would have been thrilled if I had. If I go to the pyre, he’s free to chase the she-wolf he actually wanted - my younger sister, Leila. 

Unfortunately for him, the Moon Goddess had other plans.

The high priestess declared me Bryce’s mate by divine will when I was sixteen. She laid her hands on our heads in the Temple of Three Towers, eyes rolled all the way back in her skull, and said the Goddess had chosen this match to “secure the North for generations to come.”

No one argues with divinity. Not even my father.

Especially not my father.

And that was that. Bryce and I married on my eighteenth birthday. Six months later I was pregnant for the first time.

I uncork the vial. The bitter scent of crushed roots and something metallic burns my nostrils. I tip the contents back without flinching. It stings my tongue, then burns a path down my throat.

The wine is next. I lift the glass to my lips, staring at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser. 

I look like a ghost wearing a broken Luna’s crown.

I don’t want to do it. Once the spiced, medicinal wine passes my lips, there will be no stopping it. 

But I’m just delaying the inevitable. 

It is all just a dream now. Like all the others only live on in my dreams.

I take a deep breath and drain the cup. The spiced warmth hits my empty stomach and sinks like a stone.

There’s no pain yet. Just the hollow ache that’s been sitting under my ribs since yesterday, when the healer pressed that cold wand against my lower belly and frowned.

“I can’t find a heartbeat, Luna,” she whispered, confirming my worst fears.

She didn’t need to tell me. I’d known for days. My wolf, Star, went quiet first. She whimpered softly at night and wouldn’t speak to me. 

My body always knows. It’s my mind that insists on hope.

Bryce stood beside me during the examination, jaw clenched, posture rigid, as if he would be the one enduring the ordeal instead of me.

I turned my head to the side and threw up.

The healer rushed over to help me while my mate looked at me as if I’d personally offended him.

“This is the fifth one, Lyric,” he said, voice flat and cold as winter stone. “You are defective. I am wasting my seed on you. I should abjure and banish you.”

The healer gasped, the colour draining from her face. She emptied a vial of something into a glass of water, handed it to me and scurried from the room, leaving us alone.

I stared at the ceiling, at the beams my father always claimed he carved himself and wished they would collapse on top of me.

“Do what you want,” I told Bryce. My voice sounded strange to my own ears - as hollow as my heart. 

We both knew he could do nothing. “You don’t have the power to abjure me. Not yet anyway. Petition the council. Pray to the Goddess. Curse my name. I don’t care.”

I cared. But not enough to fight him. Not anymore.

Now, alone with the quiet crackle of the fire and the heavy air of my bedchamber, the tears come hot and soundless. They slide down my cheeks and soak the neckline of my blouse. I press the heel of my hands into my eyes until colours burst behind my lids.

Why does She do this to me? Why choose Bryce as my mate when She knew he didn't even want me? Why let life take root in my body over and over only to rip it away?

The door opens without a knock.

Bryce strides in as if this is his room, his tower, his pack. Pale hair perfectly combed, shirt immaculate, not a hint of the grief or fury I’ve been drowning in on his face.

He feels nothing.

“Has it started yet?” he asks, as if we’re discussing the weather.

I meet his gaze in the mirror. His eyes are the colour of winter ice. Beautiful. Merciless.

I shake my head once. I don’t speak. If I open my mouth, the sound that comes out won’t be words; it’ll be a howl.

"When this is over, I will ask your father to call a meeting with the council of elders,” he says. No preamble. No hesitation.

“Fine.” 

My throat is raw. My heart is aching in my chest. My insides are on fire. But I force my chin up and straighten my spine.

I am Lyric Greyheart, daughter of Alpha George Greyheart, Luna of Three Towers by decree of the Moon Goddess herself. I will not crawl away to die - broken and alone like a beaten dog. It's what he wants, and I won't give him that satisfaction.

“They won’t grant you anything,” I tell him. “Not while my father is still Alpha of the Three Towers pack, and I am still able to conceive.”

His lip curls into a wicked grin. “I think they will be more inclined to listen this time. I think it's obvious... you are cursed Lyric.”

He steps closer, then stops just out of reach, as if the sight of me repulses him. He only touches me when I’m in heat and the bond drives him mad; when his need for me outweighs his disgust.

“You are not the only one with divine blood,” Bryce continues. “This time, the high priestess will bless a union between me and Leila. She will understand the necessity. She will see reason.”

A laugh slips out, brittle and humorless.

Then a sharp cramp grips my abdomen and steals my breath. I brace myself against the dresser as warmth spreads low in my belly, a familiar sign that the process has begun.

Bryce sniffs the air, then grimaces. A flicker of unhidden disgust crosses his face. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says. “Goddess willing, I’ll never be forced to touch you again.”

He turns his back and walks out, leaving me to face the next part alone.