Nyx’s POV
I was never meant to wear the title of Luna.
From the very beginning, I was destined to fade into the background of the packhouse—a quiet presence, a nameless shadow following the Alpha whose voice ruled everyone, while his mate was reduced to nothing more than unpaid labor under his own roof.
I never dreamed of diamonds. Never asked for flowers. All I wanted was a single vow honored. Just one.
A cruise.
Thorne—Alpha Thorne Darkhowl of the Darkhowl Pack—had promised it back when there was still warmth left in him. Back when his embrace felt like shelter instead of a cage, when his wolf smelled of earth and strength instead of blood, steel, and gun smoke.
“I swear,” he had murmured once, lips buried in my hair, his presence wrapping around me like protection, “when we make it big, I’ll take you everywhere. Across oceans, across borders. Just you and me. Moonlight and open water. No pack. No burdens.”
That was before the empire.
Before wealth and authority twisted his wolf into something unrecognizable.
Before love hardened into obligation.
Before I became Luna only on paper, while in reality I served everyone but myself.
And now—today—was my forty-eighth birthday.
No one remembered. No quiet wishes, no ceremonial howl, not even a candle flickering on the table. The pack celebrated victories, promotions, births—but never me.
Still, a foolish part of me hoped.
Maybe tonight would be different.
I mentioned it after dinner.
He sat sprawled in his leather chair, methodically rubbing a stained cloth over a wolf-bone dagger, polishing it like a sacred heirloom. An old Western droned from the television, ignored by everyone. Inside me, my wolf curled inward, exhausted but stubbornly hopeful.
“Do you remember what you said to me,” I asked softly, “when I turned eighteen?”
He didn’t bother glancing up. “You’ll need to be more specific.”
I swallowed. “You promised we’d travel. You said we’d see the world together. That once the work was done and our son was grown, we’d finally go—on a cruise. Just the two of us.”
His laugh was low and cutting, stripped of any warmth. “Have you lost your mind? You think you deserve something like that? Look at yourself, Nyx. You’re nothing but bones and wrinkles. You really think anyone would welcome you aboard a luxury ship? They’d probably think you wandered in from the streets.”
My chest tightened. “But today is my—”
“Your what?” He finally lifted his head, amber eyes dull and heavy with age and disinterest. “You’re not young anymore. The world doesn’t cater to women like you. You’re nothing like Camille.”
The name felt like claws raking my throat.
Camille—his brother’s widow. Elegant. Blonde. Draped in silk and expensive perfume. A woman who carried herself like she belonged in glossy magazines, not among working wolves. She looked at me like I was something tracked in on her shoes, and Thorne never once corrected her.
“She’s useful,” he went on calmly. “She travels for the pack. Makes appearances. Knows how to represent us. She fits the image. You, on the other hand—you’ve always worked best behind closed doors. Taking care of the house. That’s your role.”
Behind me, laughter erupted.
The twins—my grandsons—snickering like hyenas.
“Seriously, Grandma,” Ken mocked, “you look like a walking skeleton in funeral rags.”
“Smells worse too,” Nolan added, pinching his nose. “Like mop water and roadkill.”
They howled with laughter.
No one stopped them.
No one ever did.
Julian—my son, the boy I once loved more than my own life—leaned against the fridge, his scent sour with beer and resentment. “Hey, Ma. Wash my clothes later, yeah? My wife’s busy. And don’t screw up the whites this time.”
“I’m not your servant,” I said quietly.
His head snapped up, dominance flaring. “What did you say?”
“I said I’m not—”
A crushed soda can clattered at my feet. “Then what the hell are you good for? You don’t earn money. You don’t add status. You just take up space.”
My blood burned. My wolf stirred, weak but angry, shackled by years of suppression.
“I raised you,” I whispered fiercely. “I fed you. I stayed awake when your fever almost killed you. I worked before you even learned to walk.”
“Maybe you should’ve worked on not stinking,” one of the twins shot back.
“Yeah,” Nolan sneered, “people at school say you look like a rogue who crawled out of the woods. Ugly enough to curse a whole pack.”
Their laughter echoed, sharp and hollow.
Thorne didn’t even glance at me. He merely inspected his blade again, as if it mattered more than my existence. “We’re wealthy, Nyx. But I’m not wasting money on hired help when you’re already here. Two hands, two feet—what more do you need? Besides, I don’t like unnecessary omegas cluttering the packhouse.”
They called me the woman of the house.
Yet I owned nothing.
No car. No account. Not even the right to spend without permission. Every expense had to be justified, documented, approved—like I was a stranger stealing from them.
That night, when the noise finally died and the house fell silent, I pulled the old red suitcase from the back of the closet.
The same one Thorne had bought for me in Australia, years before our mating ceremony, back when he still meant his vows.
I stared at my hands.
They were rough. Scarred. Aged by work no one acknowledged.
Once, I had been someone.
Mira—daughter of a feared Alpha. A she-wolf born with dominance in her veins. A Luna by blood, not marriage.
I gave it all up for love. Turned my back on my lineage, believing that bonding with Thorne Darkhowl would be enough.
And now?
Now I was nothing more than a forgotten presence.
A ghost haunting a house full of wolves who no longer saw me.
No crown.
No kingdom.
No mate worthy of the bond we once swore beneath the full moon.
Maybe—just maybe—walking away from this family, from this ungrateful pack, was the greatest birthday gift I could give myself.
Because I was done fading into the walls.
And deep within, my wolf shifted at last, whispering that the night still belonged to me.
