My Alpha Chose the Fake Luna

The Silverbane medical wing smelled of antiseptic and healing herbs—so different from the musty scent of Crescent Creek's infirmary. Dr. Sarah Mitchell, a petite woman with kind eyes and steady hands, examined my mother with gentle efficiency.

"Your mother's malnutrition is concerning," she said, her voice soft but firm. "And these bruises on her arms..."

I gripped the edge of the examination table, my knuckles whitening. "Alice's doing?"

"Most likely," Dr. Mitchell replied, not mincing words. "Omega wolves are sensitive to abuse. Their healing abilities are weaker."

Brodie stood in the corner, his massive frame making the room feel smaller. He hadn't left my side since we'd retrieved my mother from Crescent Creek.

"Can you help her?" I asked, watching my mother's fragile form on the examination table.

"I've already started," Dr. Mitchell assured me, mixing herbs in a small mortar. "But I need to examine you as well, Evie."

I tensed. "I'm fine."

"War fighters often are," she said with a knowing smile. "Until they're not."

Reluctantly, I took my mother's place on the table. Dr. Mitchell's hands were cool against my skin as she checked for injuries I'd ignored for years.

"You have three cracked ribs that never properly healed," she murmured, her fingers tracing the scar tissue. "And this shoulder..."

"I fell from a cliff fighting rogues," I explained.

"Two years ago," she corrected, her eyes meeting mine. "You've been functioning with chronic pain."

I shrugged. "You learn to adapt."

Brodie's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath his skin. I could feel his anger—not at me, but for me.

"Tell me about Alice," Dr. Mitchell said suddenly, changing the subject. "You mentioned she claims to have a broken wolf?"

I nodded, describing Alice's supposed disability. "She uses a wheelchair sometimes, says her wolf can't shift properly."

"Broken wolves usually have a distinct withered aura," Dr. Mitchell said thoughtfully. "Like a plant without water. But you described her as having no aura at all."

"She doesn't," I confirmed. "Just that cloying vanilla scent."

Dr. Mitchell exchanged a glance with Brodie. "That's not a broken wolf," she said carefully. "That's deliberate suppression."

"Suppression?" I echoed.

"Wolfsbane Root and Shadow Leaf," she explained. "Rare herbs that temporarily suppress a wolf's abilities and mask their scent. But they're dangerous—they could damage her wolf permanently."

"She's not disabled," I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "She's hiding something."

---

Three days later, I watched from Brodie's office as he systematically dismantled Crescent Creek's economy.

"Sign here," he said, sliding documents across his mahogany desk. "This freezes their accounts in the werewolf council bank."

I signed without hesitation. "Will it work?"

"Already working," he replied, his voice carrying quiet satisfaction. "Their supply routes are cut off. No food, no medicine, no building materials."

I should have felt remorse. These were my people—the pack I'd grown up in. But they'd stood by while Alice and Carter destroyed my life.

"How long?" I asked.

"Until they feel the full effects? Three days. Until Carter comes begging?" Brodie's eyes met mine. "Sooner than he thinks."

He was right. By the fifth day, reports flooded in of panic in Crescent Creek. Food shortages. Medicine rationing. Pack members questioning their Alpha's leadership.

"Carter's losing control," Marcus reported, placing intelligence reports on Brodie's desk. "His Beta is requesting emergency aid from neighboring packs, but no one will help—not with your sanctions in place."

I felt a grim satisfaction watching Carter's world crumble from afar.

---

"We need proof," Brodie said one evening as we reviewed the intelligence reports. "Proof that Alice has no Alpha bloodline."

"DNA," I replied immediately. "We need a sample."

Marcus nodded. "I've been working on that. There's a guard at Crescent Creek—Delta rank—who owes Evie his life."

I remembered him—a young wolf who'd nearly been killed by rogues at the border. I'd found him half-dead and dragged him to safety.

"He's our mole," Marcus continued. "He can get us what we need."

The plan was simple but dangerous. The guard would steal Alice's hairbrush—with strands of her hair—and leave it at a predetermined drop point near the border.

"I'll get it," I volunteered immediately.

Brodie's expression darkened. "It's too risky."

"I'm the only one who can move freely between territories without raising suspicion," I argued. "I spent five years patrolling those borders. I know every hiding spot, every blind spot in their security."

After a tense moment, Brodie relented. "Dawn tomorrow," he conceded. "And I'm going with you."

---

The forest was silent as we approached the drop point—a hollow tree stump just inside Crescent Creek territory. My heart hammered against my ribs as I scanned for patrols.

"There," I whispered, pointing to a small package wrapped in cloth.

Brodie's hand closed around mine as I reached for it. "Let me check first."

He unwrapped the package carefully, revealing a silver hairbrush with several blonde strands tangled in its bristles.

"Got it," he murmured, his eyes meeting mine with quiet triumph.

As we turned to leave, a twig snapped in the distance. Brodie pulled me behind a large oak tree, his body shielding mine.

"We're not alone," he breathed, his lips close to my ear.

I clutched the DNA sample tightly, feeling the weight of what it represented—the first step toward reclaiming what was rightfully mine.