The alphas sons forbidden Luna

The clang of fists on flesh echoed through the training grounds, a brutal rhythm under the moon’s silver gaze.

Damien Blackfang’s knuckles split open as he drove his fist into the chest of the hulking enforcer before him. The man staggered, wheezing, blood spattering onto the dirt. But Damien didn’t pause. His body moved like wildfire, each strike a crackling spark of fury, each movement honed from years of relentless drills.

He ducked low, golden eyes burning, and swept the man’s legs out from under him. The enforcer crashed into the dirt with a growl. Damien’s wolf howled inside him, demanding more, demanding victory. He lunged forward, straddling the man, fists pounding into his face with raw, unrelenting power until the enforcer’s arms went limp at his sides.

The circle of watching wolves erupted in a mixture of cheers and jeers. Bloodlust hummed in the air, thick and heavy. The ground smelled of sweat, dirt, and copper tang.

Damien stood, chest heaving, blood dripping from his knuckles. The enforcer groaned, spitting crimson into the dirt.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

There was a void in Damien’s chest that no fight could fill, a hunger that no victory could satisfy.

“It’s sloppy.”

The voice cut through the crowd like a blade.

Instant silence.

All heads bowed, eyes dropping, shoulders shrinking.

Damien turned, jaw tightening, every muscle in his body going rigid.

His father, Marcus Blackfang, stood at the edge of the ring.

The Alpha was a mountain of a man, broad shoulders wrapped in black leather, his hair dark as night streaked with silver, his eyes a piercing shade of molten silver. His aura pressed against the clearing like a stormcloud, thick with dominance, suffocating. Even the air seemed to bend around him.

Marcus stepped into the circle with unhurried strides, boots crunching against the gravel. His eyes swept over the bloodied enforcer before flicking to Damien.

“You fight like a pup,” Marcus said, his tone as calm as it was cutting. “Lashing at shadows. No focus. No control. Rage may win a brawl, Damien, but it does not win wars.”

Damien’s fists curled tighter, nails digging into his palms. His wolf snarled in protest at the insult, but he kept his head high.

“Yes, Father,” he forced out, his voice flat.

Marcus studied him, his face unreadable. Then his lips curved in a humorless smile. “Better. You’ll learn.”

He turned to the others. “Go. All of you.”

The gathered wolves scattered at once, tails tucked, the weight of his command irresistible. Only the injured enforcer lingered, dragging himself to his feet. Marcus’s silver gaze flicked his way, and the man flinched, limping off without a word.

Now only father and son remained.

Marcus’s boots crunched closer. He stopped in front of Damien, towering, casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the younger wolf whole. His hand clamped onto Damien’s shoulder, heavy and immovable.

“You’ll spar again at dawn,” Marcus said. “And you’ll win. Not because you are my son. Because I don’t breed weakness.”

Damien’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He wanted to snarl, to break free, to throw his father’s hand off and scream that maybe he didn’t want to be just a weapon, a tool.

But he didn’t.

“Yes, Father,” he said again, hollow.

Marcus’s grip lingered a second longer, crushing, before he released him and turned away. His presence seemed to drag the air with him as he left, the silence settling like dust in his wake.

Only when his father was gone did Damien let his mask slip. His fists trembled, blood dripping from his knuckles. His wolf raged, pacing inside his chest, snarling for release.

He tore his bloodied shirt from his body and stalked into the forest, the training ground fading behind him.

The forest was alive with night. Crickets hummed, owls hooted in the distance, the wind rustled through leaves. But Damien barely heard it. His head buzzed with anger, his chest burned with the weight of his father’s scorn.

He needed air. He needed space. He needed—

The scent hit him like lightning.

Warm bread. Soap. Wildflowers after rain.

His wolf stilled, ears pricking, nose lifting. His pulse spiked, heat flaring low in his belly.

Her.

Damien slowed, his breath catching, as Emilia stepped from the shadows.

She wore a simple cotton dress, her hair dark and loose around her shoulders. She was the maid’s daughter, meant to go unseen, meant to keep her eyes lowered, meant to move silently through the halls of the Blackfang estate like a shadow.

But she could never be invisible. Not to him.

Her eyes found his at once, soft but steady. “Damien.”

The sound of his name on her lips made his wolf shiver with something dangerously close to pleasure. He scowled, trying to bite it down.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice harsher than he meant.

“I know.” She hesitated, then held up a cloth bundle. “You didn’t come in for dinner. I thought… you might be hungry.”

Damien’s chest burned. He shouldn’t take it. He shouldn’t let her be here. He shouldn’t let her look at him like that.

But his wolf growled, possessive. Ours.

He reached for the bundle. Their fingers brushed.

The bond flared.

Heat and lightning surged through him, fierce and undeniable. His breath caught, his chest aching.

Emilia’s eyes widened, her lips parting in a soft gasp. She felt it too.

For a long moment, neither moved.

Then her gaze dropped to the shallow cut across his side. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” he muttered.

She ignored him. Pulling a cloth from her apron, she stepped closer, pressing it gently to the wound. The scent of her washed over him, intoxicating. Her touch was light, careful, but it seared through him like fire.

His wolf clawed at him, desperate to pull her closer, to bury his face in her neck and breathe her in until nothing else existed. His teeth ached with the urge to mark.

“You shouldn’t touch me like that,” he said roughly, voice thick.

Her eyes flicked up, wide but unflinching. “Why not?”

“Because…” He broke off, his throat tight. He wanted to tell her everything — that she was his, that the bond was killing him, that he burned for her like wildfire. But his father’s shadow loomed over every word.

He forced a hollow laugh. “Because my father would kill you for daring to touch his heir.”

Hurt flashed across her face, sharp and quick. But she didn’t pull away.

“Maybe I don’t care,” she whispered.

The words hit him like a blow. His wolf howled, golden light flickering faintly in his eyes.

“Emilia,” he rasped, catching her hand against his chest, pressing it over the thunder of his heart. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Her gaze never wavered. “Maybe I do.”

The bond roared, alive between them. His wolf clawed at him, begging, demanding. For one heartbeat, Damien let himself imagine it — crushing his lips to hers, dragging her into his arms, marking her so deep that no one could ever take her away.

His head dipped closer. Her breath hitched, her lips parting—

“Damien.”

The voice froze him cold.

Marcus.

He stood at the edge of the clearing, silver eyes gleaming, the weight of his aura pressing down like a storm.

Emilia gasped, knees buckling under the pressure. Damien caught her, shielding her instinctively. His wolf snarled, golden light blazing brighter in his eyes.

Marcus stepped closer, each stride slow, deliberate, predatory. His gaze swept over the scene: Damien shirtless, glowing-eyed, Emilia’s hand pressed to his chest.

His smile curved sharp and cruel.

“So,” Marcus murmured, his voice dripping with venom, “the rumors are true.”