No Longer Your Spare Part: The Luna's Revenge

The drill's whine was the only thing in my world, vibrating through my skull and drowning out my own screams.

I was strapped to a cold metal table, paralyzed by wolfsbane, while surgeons bored into my hip bone to siphon my essence.

"Just a little more," the surgeon muttered. "Isabella needs the boost for the wedding photos."

They weren't saving my sister's life. They were harvesting my marrow just to make her skin glow for a picture.

I looked at the observation window, begging with my eyes.

Dante, the Alpha I had dragged from the jaws of death, stood there. He wasn't looking at me. He was holding Isabella's hand.

He didn't know I was the one who healed him. He believed her lies.

"Take it all if you have to," Dante's voice drifted through our fading mate bond. "Don't let her fade."

The drill punched through. My heart stuttered and stopped.

I died on that table, a hollowed-out husk used to feed my sister's vanity.

"Seraphina! Are you deaf?"

A sharp voice snapped me back into existence.

I gasped, clutching my hip. No blood. No drill. No pain.

I looked at the calendar on my father's desk.

I was alive. And I had exactly one year before the surgery that killed me.

I looked at my trembling hands and felt the ancient anger of my White Wolf stirring.

I wasn't going to be the sacrifice this time.

I was going to be the arsonist.

Chapter 1

Seraphina POV:

The drill's whine was the only thing in the world.

It wasn't just noise; it was a physical intrusion, vibrating through my skull and drowning out the wet, ragged sound of my own screams. I was strapped to a cold metal table, limbs heavy with wolfsbane anesthesia—enough to paralyze my muscles, but designed to keep my nerves screamingly awake.

"Just a little more marrow, Seraphina," the surgeon muttered, his mask splattered with my blood. "Isabella's levels are dropping. She needs the boost for the wedding photos."

Not to save her life. To make her glow.

I wanted to beg. I wanted to scream that I was empty. My liver was a map of scar tissue from previous resections. My blood count was so low I was constantly dizzy. And now, they were boring into my hip bone to siphon the essence of my wolf to feed my sister's vanity.

I looked at the observation window. My father, Alpha Giovanni, stood there, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the monitor displaying Isabella's vitals.

Beside him stood Dante.

My mate. The Alpha of the Moretti Pack. The man I had dragged out of the jaws of death.

He wasn't looking at me. He was holding Isabella's hand as she lay on the adjacent bed, looking pale and tragically beautiful.

"Take it all if you have to," Dante said. His voice was muffled by the glass, but I heard it through our fading mate bond. "Don't let her fade."

Take it all.

The drill punched through the bone.

White-hot agony shattered my vision. My heart stuttered. My inner wolf, a White Wolf I'd been forced to drug into a coma to hide her from my father's greed, stirred in the dark. She didn't howl; she whimpered.

Darkness swallowed me.

"Seraphina! Are you deaf?"

The sharp voice snapped me back into existence.

I gasped, hands flying to my hip. Phantom pain flared, then vanished. No blood. No drill.

I was standing in my father's study. Sunlight streamed through heavy velvet curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The room smelled of old paper and expensive cigars.

I looked down at my hands. Trembling, but whole.

"I asked you a question, girl," Alpha Giovanni growled.

I looked up. My father sat behind his massive mahogany desk, hair darker, face less lined.

I was alive.

I checked the calendar on his desk. One year. I had exactly one year before the surgery that killed me.

"I... I'm sorry, Alpha," I stammered, voice raspy. "I drifted off."

Giovanni narrowed his eyes. To him, I was the disappointment. The Wolfless daughter. The spare parts inventory. He didn't know about the White Wolf. If he did, I wouldn't be a donor; I'd be a broodmare.

"I said," Giovanni repeated, tapping a folder, "you are going to London tomorrow. The flight is booked."

London.

The lie. In my past life, I had begged to stay, desperate to be near Dante, hoping he'd realize I was the one who healed him in the safe house.

But London wasn't a school. It was a holding facility. A private clinic where they could harvest my blood remotely, shipping coolers back to the pack while Isabella played house with Dante.

"Why?" I asked, voice steady.

Giovanni looked surprised by my lack of tears. "Isabella and Dante are to be mated soon. Your presence here... disturbs her. She is sensitive. Your jealousy affects her wolf's stability."

Jealousy.

They thought I was jealous of a parasite.

Six months ago, Dante had been poisoned by a rogue's silver-laced blade. Blinded, feral, a mindless killing machine.

I was the one who broke quarantine. I sat in the dark with him for three weeks. I let him bite me to drain the fever. I mixed poultices of vanilla and moonflower. I hummed the old lullabies to anchor his sanity.

When his sight began to return, I fled, terrified my father would punish me.

Isabella found him moments later. She doused herself in synthetic vanilla perfume and claimed the credit.

Dante believed her.

"I understand," I said quietly.

Giovanni blinked. "You do?"

"Yes. I will go to London."

I wouldn't go to London. I'd go to hell before I let them hook me up to another machine.

"Good," Giovanni grunted, dismissing me. "Go pack. And don't make a scene at dinner. Dante is coming over."

The name sent a phantom ache through my chest.

I turned and walked out. I didn't run to my room to cry. I walked to the hallway mirror.

Pale skin, dark circles, messy hair. I looked like a victim.

But deep inside, in the hollow of my ribs, I felt a stirring. A low, vibrating hum of ancient anger.

My wolf.

She wasn't dead.

"No more," I whispered to the glass. "No more blood. No more marrow. No more love."

I wasn't going to be the sacrifice this time. I was going to be the arsonist.