Happy Rejection, My Alpha

I woke before the birds, not because of habit or alarm, but because the moon, waning but still strong, dragged me from sleep as it always did. No tears. No ache. Just the ragged pull of breath, shallow and sharp, as though the wolf inside me had grown weary of caging herself in flesh too fragile, too human. My skin prickled, veins humming with the restless thrum of something ancient. I washed my face with a damp cloth, tied my hair back, and marked my mouth with balm, not for beauty, but as a mask, a camouflage. Alive enough to play the part of the weak, docile Luna, they believed me to be. But beneath the surface, my wolf prowled, teeth bared in silence. And then I reached under the bed, where my true life waited inside a battered red suitcase, its scent carrying the promise of blood, freedom, and the moon’s call.

I slid it out and unzipped it an inch. Cash, collected from quiet sales, but never just empanadas or breads, as they thought. Men paid extra because their instincts, however dulled, whispered that something in me was different. A passport, bearing my maiden name, Stella Vale… An identity untainted by Alpha Shawn. And a photograph of me at eighteen, smiling with teeth too sharp for innocence, a wildness burning in my eyes before marriage dulled it into obedience. I shut it again before my pulse betrayed me.

The kitchen was dark, the air heavy with lemon cleaner and silence. I boiled water, cracked eggs, and sliced bread. My hands moved on their own, the motions so ingrained they felt more like ritual than routine. Stir. Season. Flip. Feed. That was when I heard them, bare feet padding across the hardwood floor. Her laugh first, honey-sweet and venomous. Then his voice, low and indulgent, as if he had forgotten entirely that this was still my house.

Marga drifted into the kitchen in one of Shawn’s shirts, unbuttoned halfway, her hair messy from the kind of sleep that smells of skin. Shawn followed, freshly showered, reeking of soap and betrayal. Together they looked like honeymooners, radiant with appetite.

“Coffee, Stella,” she said casually, like I was the maid. “Make his strong, mine with cream. You know how he likes it.”

I placed the mugs in front of them without a word. Shawn sipped and smirked, not even sparing me a glance. “Bacon and omelet, Stella. Marga loves it the way I do. None of that salty mess you used to make. She’s watching her figure, not that it shows, huh?”

Marga leaned against my counter as though it were hers already, eyes bright with victory. “Not everyone wants to look like a stick wrapped in sadness, darling.”

I smiled then, not in surrender, but because baring one’s teeth was the oldest language of all. They didn’t notice. They had never truly seen me.

I cracked more eggs, let the oil sizzle, and pretended not to hear them recall the gala, the penthouse, the sheets that smelled of champagne. They spoke of me as though I were an afterthought, a shadow that clung too long. They did not know that shadows can bite.

The front door burst open then, laughter filling the house. My son Mark and his mate, Lydia, swept in with the twins. Lydia flaunted her new purse, her earrings, all “gifts” from Marga, while Mark poured wine before the clock had struck nine. The boys dragged in a massive framed photograph, the family portrait from the Starview Hotel gala. Marga at the center, with Alpha Shawn’s hand on her waist, my children orbiting her like planets around a brighter sun.

I was not in the picture.

“Look, Grandma,” Kurt said, smirking like a wolf pup that thought itself grown. “Don’t we look like a real family here?”

“Too bad you weren’t there,” Ken added, grinning with all his teeth. “Oh, right! You were left behind. Guess you looked too much like the maid.”

The room howled with laughter, my blood with it, though for different reasons. Alpha Shawn laughed. My son laughed. Even Lydia wiped tears from her eyes. Marga sipped her coffee and said lightly, “Don’t worry, Stella. I’ll leave some of my old dresses in your closet. Maybe some perfume too. They’re a little snug on me now, but you might squeeze in.”

Shawn chuckled without looking at me. “You can dress a corpse in Versace, it’s still a corpse. And she smells like disappointment.”

Their laughter was deafening. But I only gathered their plates, washed them one by one, and stared out the window at the lemon tree blooming in the neighbor’s yard. They thought they had finished me. They thought this was the end. But they had never seen what I looked like when I stopped begging to belong.

**

That night, when the wine was drained and the house fell silent, I stood alone in the living room before the portrait. Hung high like a false idol, it glared down at me, Marga in the center where I should have been, Alpha Shawn beaming at her like she was the crown of his life.

I didn’t hear him approach until his voice cut through the dark. “What, jealous again?” His tone was jagged with contempt. “You stare at that thing like it’s gonna cry for you.”

I said nothing. Words were wasted on men who had already chosen blindness.

He sneered.“Damn, Stella. If I could turn back time, I would’ve left your sorry wolf to rot in the countryside where I dragged you from. Should’ve claimed Marga instead, at least she knows how to run a pack, how to keep her muzzle shut, how to stand beside an Alpha without stumbling.”

Still, I stayed quiet. Silence is patience. Silence is hunting.

His anger flared at my stillness. He kicked me hard in the knee, the pain exploding like fire under my skin, but instead of crumpling, I felt something uncoiled. He turned away, dismissing me as broken. “Enough drama. You’re too old for this shit.”

Then his phone rang, and with it, the transformation in his voice. “Hey, baby,” he said, warm and young again, as if I were already rotting in the ground. “Yeah, I’m packing. Can’t wait to see you in that bikini. Just you and me. Open sea.”

I stayed on the floor, not out of weakness but because the tremor running through me was no wound, it was awakening. A surge older than flesh, sharper than bone, a pulse buried beneath years of forced obedience. My nails carved crescents into my palms, my breath quickened, ragged, as though my lungs were too small for the beast pushing inside me. My teeth throbbed with an ache that was not human, begging to lengthen, to tear.

They thought they had broken me, erased me. But the moon was rising, and the blood in my veins had never forgotten the wolf.

They're wrong.