My Alpha Used My Blood to Crown His Luna

The invitation arrived on a Tuesday, sealed with the official mark of the Global Alpha Summit. I watched from the shadows as Dante's hands trembled, breaking the wax seal with unnecessary force.

"The Global Alpha Summit," Marcus read over his shoulder, his voice carefully neutral. "All pack leaders are required to attend."

Dante's laugh was hollow, echoing through the empty room that once held my shrine. "What does it matter? The Shadow Ridge Pack is crumbling anyway."

"You need alliances," Marcus insisted, his eyes meeting mine briefly as I stood in the corner of the room—invisible to them both. "The northern territories are vulnerable. Three more attacks last week."

I shouldn't have been there. Shouldn't have returned to Seattle after three years. But some bonds pulled harder than reason.

"I heard something," Dante murmured, his fingers tracing the embossed lettering on the invitation. "There's a witch in New York. Someone who can communicate with the dead."

Marcus's jaw tightened. "Alpha, you need to accept that Eva is—"

"Don't say it," Dante snarled, his eyes flashing amber. "Don't you dare say it again."

I stepped back as Marcus bowed his head in submission, though I could see the guilt etched into every line of his face.

"I'll go," Dante said finally, rising from his chair. "Not for alliances. For answers."

He crossed to a locked cabinet, pulling out a velvet-wrapped package with reverent care. Even from where I stood, I could smell the faint metallic scent of my own blood—the portrait he'd commissioned for Amaya's coronation.

---

The private airstrip hummed with activity as our jet touched down. Kenzo's hand rested protectively at the small of my back as we descended the stairs.

"Ready?" he whispered, his breath warm against my ear.

I nodded, adjusting the delicate veil that partially obscured my face. "Ready."

The welcoming committee waited at the bottom of the stairs—lower-ranking Alphas from neighboring territories, their postures already shifting as my aura expanded outward. One by one, they lowered their gazes, necks baring instinctively before the Lycan Queen.

"Welcome to New York," said Victor Blackwood, the nearest Alpha, his voice strained as he fought against his body's natural submission.

I stepped forward, feeling Silver—my wolf—rise within me, adding her strength to my own.

"Thank you for the welcome," I replied, my voice carrying the subtle French accent I'd acquired during my years in Paris.

Isabella's tiny hand slipped into mine as she descended behind me, her heterochromia—one golden eye, one silver—drawing curious glances.

"Maman," she whispered, "does Papa know we're here yet?"

"Of course, little one," I assured her, squeezing her hand gently. "He's waiting for us at the hotel."

The air around us seemed to vibrate with power as our Lycan warriors formed a protective circle. I could feel the lower Alphas struggling against the instinct to kneel.

"The car is ready," announced Jean-Luc, my head warrior, gesturing toward the waiting limousine.

As we moved toward the vehicle, I caught a familiar scent on the wind—rainwater and iron, though masked now by expensive French perfume. My own scent. The one Dante had once claimed would be etched in his memory forever.

---

The opening reception glittered with crystal and silver, the hotel ballroom transformed into a showcase of wealth and power. I stood near the entrance, Kenzo at my side, watching as pack leaders from around the world mingled and maneuvered.

And then I saw him.

Dante stood alone in the corner, a glass of whiskey clutched in his pale hand. His once-commanding presence had diminished to a hollow shell—clothes hanging loose on his frame, dark circles shadowing his eyes, beard unkempt and wild.

He ignored Amaya completely as she attempted to network with other Lunas, her smile brittle as she tried to maintain the facade of her position.

"He looks terrible," Kenzo observed quietly.

"He destroyed himself," I replied, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me.

Across the room, Dante lifted his head suddenly, nostrils flaring as if catching a scent. For one heart-stopping moment, his gaze swept directly toward me.

I held his stare, my expression cold and detached, though my heart hammered against my ribs.

"Does he recognize you?" Kenzo asked, his hand tightening around mine.

"No," I said, though uncertainty flickered through me. "Eva Dunn died in that fire."

As if summoned by her name, Dante's fingers reached for the velvet-wrapped package at his side—the portrait painted with my blood.

Our eyes locked across the crowded room, and for just a moment, I saw something flicker in his gaze—recognition? Impossible.

I turned away, focusing instead on the gathering before us. Let him wonder. Let him suffer.

The memory of the needle in my arm—of his hands holding me down as he took my blood for his new Luna's portrait—surged through me, extinguishing any flicker of pity.

Eva Dunn was dead. And I was here to bury her forever.