The Alpha’s Rejected Human Luna
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Like the first time Rowan grabbed my hair.
They were a few weeks old, awake for once without screaming, lying on my chest while I half‑reclined against the headboard. Lilah slept beside us, face turned toward me, mouth parted slightly.
I was telling them a story, voice low so as not to wake her. Not about war. Not yet. About a deer I’d watched once as a kid, how it had slipped through the trees like smoke.
Rowan’s hand twitched against my shirt.
Then, with surprising coordination, they reached up, latched onto a lock of my hair, and pulled.
Hard.
“Ow,” I said, genuinely startled.
Across the room, Naomi, who had absolutely been spying from the doorway, snorted.
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