Protecting Son from Alpha's Secret

The call came while I was reviewing the pack's quarterly budget reports—spreadsheets that had consumed my morning with their neat columns of numbers that never quite added up the way they should. My phone buzzed against the desk, the academy's number flashing across the screen.

"Mrs. Strauss, we need you to come pick up Colter." Instructor Phoebe's voice carried that particular tone of administrative inconvenience, as if my son's presence had become a scheduling problem.

My chest tightened. "Is he hurt?"

"There was an incident during sparring. Nothing serious, but he should probably go home for the day."

Nothing serious. The words should have been reassuring, but they landed wrong—too practiced, too dismissive.

I drove faster than I should have, my fingers tight around the steering wheel. The elite academy sat on Black Moon Pack's northern grounds, a sprawling complex where the pack's future warriors trained under instructors Grant had personally selected. I'd been so proud when Colter qualified for the advanced program, believing it meant he'd finally earn the recognition his bloodline deserved.

The training facility smelled of sweat and treated leather. I found Colter on a bench outside Instructor Phoebe's office, his dark hair damp with exertion, one hand pressed gently against his ribs. The sight of the split in his lower lip sent a sharp, protective anger through my chest.

"Colter." I crouched before him, my hands hovering, wanting to touch but afraid of causing pain. "What happened?"

"It's nothing, Mom." His voice was steady, too steady for a boy his age nursing visible injuries. "Just training."

But his eyes told a different story—the careful blankness of someone who'd learned not to expect help.

Instructor Phoebe emerged from her office before I could press further. She was a compact woman with sharp features and an expression of perpetual impatience. Today, something glinted on her wrist—an expensive designer watch I didn't recognize, its face catching the overhead lights with ostentatious shine.

"Mrs. Strauss." She inclined her head with minimal courtesy. "As I mentioned, there was spirited sparring during today's session. Colter took a few hits, but that's to be expected in advanced training."

"Spirited sparring doesn't usually result in split lips," I said, keeping my voice level even as my wolf stirred restlessly beneath my skin. "Or bruised ribs."

Phoebe's smile was thin, professional. "With respect, Luna, perhaps Colter is a bit... sensitive for an Alpha's son. The other trainees handle contact without issue." Her gaze flicked to Colter with something that looked uncomfortably like disdain. "We can't coddle weakness if we want to produce strong warriors."

The word weakness hit like a slap. My son was many things—observant, disciplined, resilient—but weak had never been one of them.

"I'd like to know who he was sparring with," I said.

Something flickered across Phoebe's face—annoyance, perhaps, or calculation. "That's not really relevant. What matters is that all our trainees learn to handle themselves in combat situations. I'm sure you understand, given your... background."

The pause before background felt deliberate, a subtle reminder that I'd left my own Alpha heritage behind to become Grant's Luna. That I'd sacrificed my pack, my territory, my future—all for a mate bond that was supposed to mean something.

"Come on, sweetheart." I helped Colter to his feet, noting how carefully he moved, protecting those bruised ribs. "Let's go home."

As we walked toward the exit, I caught sight of a group of mothers gathered near the bleachers—the pack's high-ranking females, the ones who organized charity galas and decided which families mattered. At the center stood Melina Brooks, her posture regal, her auburn hair catching the light.

She was wearing my jacket.

I stopped walking, my breath catching. The velvet ceremonial Luna jacket with its distinctive embroidered moon phases along the collar—the one that had disappeared from my closet months ago, the one I'd assumed I'd misplaced during one of Grant's endless "pack business" trips. Melina wore it like a crown, her fingers trailing possessively over the silver threading.

Our eyes met across the distance. Her smile was slow, deliberate, edged with something that looked like triumph.

"Oh, Lana," she called out, her voice carrying easily across the space. "What a surprise to see you here. Usually the Luna is too... busy with pack finances to attend training sessions."

The other mothers laughed, a sound like breaking glass.

Melina's hand rested on the jacket's embroidered collar—my collar, my symbol of authority. "You know," she continued, her tone dripping false sympathy, "real influence isn't about titles. It's about who keeps the Alpha happy. Who he actually wants beside him."

The implication hung in the air, sharp and unmistakable.

I should have said something. Should have demanded my jacket back, should have asserted my position as Luna. But Colter's hand found mine, his grip tight, and I remembered why I'd come.

"Let's go," I murmured, leading my son toward the door.

Behind us, Melina's laughter followed like smoke.