Semua Bab Luna Redemption: Bab 11 - Bab 20

TRACYHe held a cold bottle of water in his hand. As I walked toward him, he pushed off the wall and closed the distance between us. “You forgot to breathe during the last five slides,” he said. His voice was a low, steady rumble that immediately cut through the ringing in my ears. He held out the water bottle. I took it, our fingers brushing briefly. His skin was incredibly warm. “I was focused,” I defended, twisting the cap off and taking a long drink. The cold water felt like heaven on my dry throat. “You were incredible,” he corrected. He looked down at me, his dark eyes tracking over my face, taking in the flush of my cheeks and the rapid rise of my chest. A slow, easy smile touched the corners of his mouth. “You look damn good up there, Tracy. It’s exactly where you belong.”My stomach executed a tight, sudden flip. It was a light, factual flirtation, but coming from a man like Sean Johnson—an Alpha who commanded half the northern territories without ever having to raise his

AUTHOR'S POV Yvonne’s internal monologue spiraled into immediate, toxic darkness. Her breathing turned shallow. Her entire identity, her entire claim to power in this pack, rested on one single, unbreakable foundation: Tracy was the loser, and Yvonne was the winner. Yvonne took the Alpha. Yvonne took the status. Yvonne took the expensive jewelry and the prime real estate in Chandler’s life. She was the beautiful, desired prize, and Tracy was the discarded trash. But if Tracy walked away—if Tracy seamlessly transitioned from being Chandler’s ignored mate to standing beside Sean Johnson—the entire narrative inverted. If Tracy leveled up to Sean, Tracy won the breakup. Tracy won the war. Yvonne’s jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached. A cold, furious panic set in. She looked down at her red dress. It suddenly felt cheap. She looked at the enforcer by the bar. He suddenly looked like a common thug. She needed to kill this. Immediately. Tracy could not be allowed to have a victory. Tra

SEAN I hit the brakes, sliding the heavy SUV to a violent stop at the curb outside the apartment complex. I didn't bother turning off the engine. I kicked the door open and sprinted across the sidewalk. I shoved through the glass double doors of the lobby. It was a cheap, generic building. Three floors. Long, identical hallways. After a few more steps, I stopped at the base of the stairs. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply through my nose. I pushed my human senses to the back and let the Alpha take over. The building smelled of stale coffee, cheap laundry detergent, and old carpet. I filtered it out. I searched for her. I searched for the clean, sharp scent of her skin, mixed with the rotting, icy smell of the decay I had noticed lingering on her for days. There. Second floor. East wing. I took the stairs three at a time. I hit the second-floor landing and turned right. I walked down the narrow corridor, inhaling deeply. The scent of her decay was overpowering here. I

AUTHOR’S POV The violent tremors shaking Tracy’s frame eventually slowed. Sean kept his hand firmly on her shoulder, anchoring her to the present until her ragged gasps turned into steady, exhausted breathing. She leaned back against the hospital pillows, wiping her damp face with the back of her trembling hand. The absolute panic was gone, replaced by a quiet, lingering shadow of grief that darkened her eyes. Sean stayed seated beside the bed. He did not offer hollow platitudes. He simply held the space. The heavy wooden door swung inward. No knock. No hesitation. Chandler Gaunt strode into the sterile room with the arrogant, heavy step of a man who believed he owned the floor beneath his feet. He wore a sharp charcoal suit, his jaw tight with irritation. He did not look at Sean. His eyes locked onto Tracy, treating the hospital room like an inconvenience she had deliberately designed to waste his time. A lethal, freezing rage ignited in Sean’s chest. His wolf surged against his

AUTHOR'S POV The late morning sunlight spilled across the hardwood floor of Tracy’s apartment, pooling in bright, quiet squares. The kettle whistled a low, steady note from the kitchen. Madam Sarah stood at the counter, carefully pouring boiling water over dried chamomile and mint. She moved with the slow, deliberate grace of a matriarch who had survived decades of pack politics and family ruin. As the steam rose, her sharp eyes drifted to the living room. Tracy sat curled in the corner of the sofa. A thick wool blanket draped over her shoulders. She looked incredibly small. Sarah observed the hollows carving into Tracy’s cheekbones. She noted the translucent, fragile quality of her skin and the faint, unmistakable scent of a fading wolf that clung to the air. Sarah had lived a long time. She had seen the ravages of war, the scars of rogue attacks, and the quiet, devastating rot of a broken mate bond. She knew the signs of Lunar Decay. She knew it was a death sentence. A heavy, pr