The Luna He Rejected Was His True Destiny

On the morning of our Moon-Bound Union, the entire Nightveil den hummed with a restless, electric energy. The pack-servants had been up since before dawn, draping the moonlit ceremony hall in ivory silk and blood-red roses. The hunt-keepers moved through the kitchens like a second war-band. Even the warriors posted along the territory walls seemed to stand a little straighter, their dark coats freshly groomed, their expressions carrying something almost resembling warmth.

And me? I had been dreaming of this day for a year. Twelve moons of fittings and planning, of rehearsing my vows in the mirror of the den I shared with the most powerful Alpha in the eastern territories. Twelve moons of telling myself that this Mating Ceremony would finally make it real, that the sacred Moon Oath our fathers had sworn when I was still a girl would be sealed in blood and gold before the Moon Goddess and the Pack.

But four hours before I was meant to walk down the aisle, Dorian Blackthorn canceled everything.

The reason? Ciara. His precious oath-ward. That porcelain-faced, doe-eyed orphan with her soft voice and her fragile little hands, who had supposedly injured herself during a routine sparring session in the den's training grounds.

The news didn't even come from him. I found out through the pack mind-link, the warded thread that bound every member of the den together, where Ciara's story spread like gasoline on marble.

"I'm so sorry, everyone, but I don't think I'll be able to make it to the ceremony. I hurt my leg badly during training today. Alpha Blackthorn is with me, making sure I'm all right."

Ciara flooded the link with images, each one more carefully staged than the last. Her ankle wrapped in gauze. Her face arranged into a mask of brave suffering. And the final image, the one that drove the blade between my ribs: Ciara lying on a healer's pallet in the den's private Healing Hall, while Dorian stood over her, his jaw tight, his dark eyes clouded with concern. His hand rested on the rail of the pallet as though she might shatter if he looked away.

I gripped my communicator so hard the crystal cracked beneath my thumb. This had to be a joke. Some cruel, elaborate test. That look of concern on his face, that protective stance, the way he leaned toward her as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. That was supposed to be for me. He was supposed to be standing at the altar in three hours, not hovering over Ciara Thornwood like she was the only person in his territory who mattered.

He couldn't cancel the ceremony we had planned for an entire year. Not for this. Not for Ciara faking a twisted ankle.

My blood ran hot. Somewhere beneath my skin, my wolf rose and circled, a low growl building in my chest that I had to swallow down. My reflection stared back at me from the vanity mirror across the room, still wearing the silk robe the groomer had laid out for me, my hair half-pinned in an elaborate updo that no one would ever see. The rage was a living thing inside my chest, coiling tighter with every second, because the voice in the back of my skull would not stop whispering what I already knew.

You can't win against her. You have never been able to win against her. You are always second.

My communicator vibrated against my palm. A private message. From Dorian.

"Neva, something's come up. Ciara's hurt. I can't go through with the ceremony right now. We'll have to reschedule. Don't wait up for me."

I stared at the screen until the words blurred. My chest constricted, a slow, crushing pressure that had nothing to do with the corset the seamstress had fitted that morning and everything to do with the Alpha I had given five years of my life to. My wolf went very still inside me, the way a creature goes still when it has been wounded and does not yet understand how deep.