All Chapters of The Heart of a Luna: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

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

LyricOutside the tower, the pack begins to howl as the moon crests the treetops. Their voices rise in long, resonant waves that vibrate through the stone walls. It is a powerful sound, alive and unified, but it has nothing to do with me or with Bryce, who is still wrapped in Leila’s embrace.They are howling to herald the arrival of the high priestess—the woman they revere more than almost anyone in the North.She usually plans her visits months in advance. She almost never arrives unannounced.The sound cuts through me with sharp precision. My wolf—weak, fading, curled in on herself after everything that has happened—flinches at the echo of divine power threaded through the chorus. Even in this state, she recognizes the presence of the Temple.I must have dozed off from the healer’s potions, because the world had slipped out of existence, and the next thing I’m aware of is a soft knock at my door.The little bundle I cradled in my hands is gone. Someone took her while I slept and co

LyricMy father’s parlour has always felt like the only place in Three Towers that belongs to me, even though nothing here ever truly has. The chairs are old and scarred from decades of claws and boots, the leather softened by bodies that have sat in them to argue, to grieve, to celebrate. The hearth burns low tonight, not roaring - just steady, the kind of fire warms a space without suffocating you. The table in the middle of the room is laid the way it always is: bread, dried meat, a bottle of dark spirits, two cups. I pace around the room. My abdomen still aches in that deep, bruised way that reminds me I gave birth recently. My empty arms ache in ways I can’t explain. The door swings open hard enough to thud against the stone, and my father strides in like he’s walking into a war room instead of his private parlour. He looks the same as he always does - big, broad shoulders, heavy hands, greying at the temples that he’ll deny if anyone says it aloud. Forty-five, and still strong

Noah Lyric stares up at me, her wide, expressive brown eyes fixed on mine as if waiting for me to deliver some final, devastating pronouncement. There is a mixture of defiance and weariness in her posture - a tension that speaks of battles fought and many wars lost. She shouldn’t have been able to feel the mate bond. The thought is a sharp, disbelieving jolt. That ancient, powerful rune branded into the back of her delicate neck was meant to suppress all her wolf abilities and other magical influences, especially one as potent and disruptive as the true mate bond. Yet, it was powerful enough to bleed through, and like a phantom limb it suddenly woke inside her, pulsing with undeniable, feral necessity. I saw the flicker of that profound, unsettling connection in her eyes the moment I touched her. “I am sorry, your highness,” she says, the words clipped, delivered in a low, even voice that betrays none of the internal chaos I know she must be feeling. “I have no desire to be you

LyricMy insides, which have been a churning, watery mess of fear and uncertainty, abruptly solidify the instant Noah vanishes from the shop. The heavy glass door swings shut behind him with a dull thud, sealing the silence. I let out a long, ragged exhale, a sound that feels enormous in the sudden quiet of the dusty shop. My legs feel shaky and unreliable as I slowly make my way across the shop's crunchy, debris-strewn floor to the front door. I have to lock it, but the simple action proves almost impossible. My hand shakes so violently, a pathetic, uncontrolled tremor, that I cannot align the bolt to hook it into the frame. I close my eyes, take a deep, forced breath, and wait, leaning my forehead against the cool wood of the door until the frantic, erratic drumbeat of my heart finally begins to slow. Only then can I slide the bolt home.The place itself is profoundly depressing. Every detail contributes to the oppressive atmosphere of neglect. The glass shelves are shattered, onl