The Stray Moon
But nothing about this is simple, not since the moment I met her eyes in the snow and felt the world drop out from under both of us.
My fingers drag through my hair, pulling it back from my forehead. I force myself to stand still. That’s what Alphas do: they hold steady, even when the ground shakes. I reach for the jacket slung over the arm of the chair. It’s not the formal one—no medals, no showy embroidery—just plain black wool, the left breast patched with our insignia: a wolf’s head, rendered in silver thread so tight it gleams in the half-light. The weight of it grounds me. I slip it on, fasten the collar, and try to imagine it’s armor.
The clock on the mantel ticks, the hands stuck at
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