All Chapters of The Feral Alpha’s Rejected Luna: Chapter 281 - Chapter 290

Diana He starts pacing toward the door like a man possessed. I glance outside—the sky is pitch black, the moon high and silver. “Billy,” I say gently, “it’s late. Why don’t we go tomorrow?” But he shakes his head, already reaching for the doorknob. “I can’t wait. Who knows where she is? What kinda situation she’s in? If she’s far, the sooner I leave, the sooner I’ll reach her—” Eleanor lifts her eyes to Dom in a silent signal. Dominicus stands immediately, moves forward, and catches Billy by the shoulders before he can bolt. “Wait,” he says gently but firmly. “Where are you going? You don’t even have the tracker yet. How will you find her without it?” Billy blinks. “Right. Right, right.” He lets himself be guided back, still jittery, heart pounding in his chest. He turns to Eleanor again, eyes wide and pleading. “Then give it to me. The… the thing you said. What is it?” “I’ll make you a Scrythorn,” Eleanor replies. “It’s an ancient charm, carved and imbued with s

DianaI don’t say anything. I can’t—because part of me agrees with him.He searches my face, voice cracking.“I already lost your mate. And for 13 years, I believed I lost my child too. I won’t lose you.”The silence between us stretches again. The grief in his words coils around my ribs like a vice.After a long moment, I exhale.“I promise,” I say softly, reaching for his hand, “we’ll talk about this. We’ll figure it out. But right now… let’s go back inside. There’s still more Eleanor has to tell us.”He looks at me for a long moment. Then, finally, he nods.We walk back together, quiet and heavy with unspoken thoughts. Inside, the room is just as we left it—Dominicus and Eleanor still seated, their faces somber.Billy crosses his arms as he steps in, his tone dry but edged in steel.“Might as well just leave her with the humans. She was safe there. Let her stay hidden.”Eleanor tilts her head slightly.“Yes, she’s safe,” she says calmly. “But for how long?”He frowns but doesn’t an

Diana It takes me a second. “Thomas’ arm?” I ask, uncertain. Dom answers before I can. “In the car.” “Bring it,” Eleanor says. I look at her, confused, but Dom doesn’t waste time. He stands and heads out the front door. Moments later, he’s back. He carries something wrapped in cloth—long, heavy, stiff. He places it on the table in front of Eleanor with a dull thud. “Unwrap it,” Eleanor says, nodding at the bundle on the table. Dominicus looks at Eleanor, then at the cloth-wrapped bundle on the table. He hesitates a moment before pulling the cloth away. The stench hits us immediately—a sickly, rotting smell that curls in my nose and makes my stomach turn. I press my hand to my mouth. Even Dom grimaces. The withered, blackened arm of Elder Thomas looks even worse in the open air. It’s stiff and slightly curled, like it’s still trying to claw its way toward something. Eleanor makes a face of pure disgust. Her upper lip curls in a sneer as she leans forward and examines

Elder Thomas Rothgar — that old fool — is the same age as Dominicus, and yet he looks every year of it. A wrinkled wreck. By all logic, Dominicus should look the same. And yet he doesn’t. It burns me. Maybe… maybe the curse had something to do with it? Being feral for eighty-three years — could it have preserved him somehow? Could madness have frozen time? The thought is absurd — yet, here we are. Nothing about that wretched Alpha has ever followed natural laws. I sneer at my own reflection. Should I have gone feral too? The idea is laughable. But what isn’t funny is the sheer hypocrisy of the others. Those smug, judgmental Elders — pretending they’re better than me. As if their own greed hadn’t brought them to ruin. As if they hadn’t willingly tried to sacrifice Dominicus’s mate for power, without me needing to so much as lift a finger. They played right into my hands — their avarice as deep as my own. Yet now they look down on me? Hypocrites. Every last one

Elder Thomas I force myself to glance up, keeping my eyes low, submissive, as I take stock of the gathering. Of the seven witches- three of them I know well: The one clad in flowing black, the one adorned in emerald green, and the one robed in a silver-gray. They are the ones who usually deal with me — the ones who negotiated the terms of my… arrangement. The others are new to me, but no less terrifying. Each of them exudes an aura that prickles against my skin like nettles. And then—her. My breath stutters in my chest as my gaze lands on the seventh figure. The Coven Matriarch. She sits enthroned among them, black lace and crimson velvet pooling around her like blood, her eyes bottomless voids. I feel myself shrink inward, my shoulders curling instinctively as cold fear coils around my heart. I force myself to swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat. I lower my head in a deep, respectful bow. “Mistresses,” I say, voice deferential and strained, “Than