His Rejected Luna, His Hidden Son
Mooncrest gold, third row, a face I'd last seen telling a hall full of people it was ashamed of me.
Damian Blackwood had come to watch the wolfless girl be crowned. He was paler than I remembered, thinner, like the last five years had cost him too. The alliance he'd traded me for sat beside him in pale silk — Liana of Highcrest, already bored of him, her eyes on the candles and not the man. I'd hear, much later, that the Highcrest match had never quite knit; that her father had been the kind of alpha who sold his loyalty by the season, to whoever held the longest knife. But that day she was only a pretty woman beside a hollow man, and neither of them mattered to me at all.
As I passed, Damia