Rejected by the Alpha, Claimed by the King

The tally mark I'd carved into the wooden panel became my secret anchor. One strike against Alexander. Nine chances remaining before I would finally free myself from this beautiful prison of a mate bond.

I traced my finger over the mark as dawn broke, my wolf restless within me. The pack hunt would begin soon—a monthly tradition where Alexander, as Alpha, would lead our strongest warriors to bring down game for the pack's feast. As Luna, I was expected to join, though in recent years my role had diminished to mere ceremonial presence.

I dressed carefully in practical hunting leathers, pulling my hair back into a tight braid. The face in my mirror looked tired but resolute. My wolf growled softly, sensing my determination.

The hunting party had gathered in the courtyard when I arrived. Alexander stood at the center, issuing commands with that effortless authority that had once made my knees weak. Now it just made my jaw clench.

"Luna Melissa," Beta Marcus acknowledged with a respectful nod. At least some pack members still honored my position, even if my mate did not.

Alexander barely glanced my way. "We move out in five minutes," he announced, then turned toward the guest quarters.

I knew who he was waiting for before she appeared. Isabella emerged in hunting gear that somehow managed to accentuate every curve of her body, her chestnut hair gleaming in the morning light. Several young warriors stared openly, quickly averting their eyes when they noticed my observation.

But it wasn't her beauty that froze the blood in my veins. It was what hung around her neck—the ancestral Luna necklace, a crescent moon pendant of pure silver that had been passed down through generations of Silver Moon Pack Lunas. My necklace. The one Alexander had placed around my neck during our mating ceremony ten years ago.

The symbol of my position. My birthright as his Luna.

"Alpha," Isabella purred, approaching Alexander with a deliberate sway to her hips. "I hope I'm not late."

Alexander's eyes softened as they fixed on her. "Never," he replied, his voice warm in a way it hadn't been with me in years.

His gaze dropped to the necklace nestled against her collarbone, and I waited—waited for him to realize his mistake, to remember what that pendant symbolized, to remember me.

Instead, he nodded with approval, his hand reaching out to touch the silver crescent briefly. "It suits you," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The pack fell silent. Even those who had witnessed my humiliation at the Full Moon ceremony seemed shocked by this blatant transfer of Luna symbols. Beta Marcus's jaw tightened, though he remained silent as was his duty.

My wolf howled in anguish within me, but outwardly, I remained perfectly still. I would not break. Not here. Not now.

When Alexander finally remembered my presence, he merely gestured for me to take my position at the rear of the hunting party—a place traditionally reserved for the youngest, least experienced wolves. Another deliberate humiliation.

As we moved into the forest, I carved a second tally mark into my mind.

Two strikes. Eight chances remaining.

---

A week later, I joined the border patrol—another Luna duty I still performed despite Alexander's indifference. The eastern border of our territory had reported unusual scents, possibly rogues testing our defenses.

I rode alongside Delta Kira, one of the few pack members who still treated me with genuine respect rather than obligatory deference.

"Luna, look," she said suddenly, pointing toward a clearing where two of our warriors lay on the ground, clutching their sides.

We dismounted quickly, rushing to their aid. Blood seeped through their shirts—claw marks, deep but not life-threatening if treated properly.

"Rogue ambush," one gasped. "Came out of nowhere. We drove them back, but..."

"I'll help you," I said, reaching for the healing herbs I always carried. As Luna, I'd trained extensively with Elara, our pack healer. These wounds were well within my capabilities.

"No."

Alexander's voice cut through the clearing as he approached with Isabella at his side. I hadn't even heard them arrive.

"Isabella will treat them," he commanded, his Alpha tone brooking no argument.

"But Alexander, I—"

"That's an order, Melissa." His eyes were cold, distant. "Step aside."

Isabella knelt beside the injured warriors, her expression one of practiced concern. I watched in horrified silence as she applied herbs in completely wrong combinations, binding the wounds too loosely.

"Alpha," I tried again, my voice low. "The yarrow needs to be crushed first, and the bandages—"

"Enough!" Alexander snapped. "Isabella knows what she's doing."

I bit my tongue as Isabella finished her "treatment," the warriors already developing the flush of fever from improperly cleaned wounds. They would survive, but would suffer unnecessarily for days.

"Well done," Alexander praised her, completely blind to her incompetence.

As we returned to the pack house, I mentally carved my third tally.

Three strikes. Seven chances remaining.

---

That night, I sat alone in my chambers, staring at the physical marks I'd carved into the wooden panel. Three deep lines, each representing a piece of my heart being severed from Alexander's.

A sudden, searing pain tore through my chest, dropping me to my knees. My wolf howled in agony, clawing desperately within me as something fundamental seemed to tear away from our very essence.

The mind-link—the sacred connection between mates that allowed thoughts and emotions to flow freely—was being blocked. Forcibly severed by Alexander.

Through the last threads of our connection, I caught flashes: Isabella, her scent heavy with heat, her body pressed against Alexander's. His desire, overwhelming and primal. His decision to block me out completely so he could fully immerse himself in her.

My body burned with fever as my wolf fought against the severing of our bond. This was more than a betrayal of vows or position—this was a violation of the most sacred aspect of mate pairing.

As darkness closed in around me, I managed to drag myself to the wooden panel. With trembling fingers, I carved a fourth mark.

Four strikes. Six chances remaining.

My last thought before unconsciousness claimed me was that perhaps I had been too generous. Perhaps ten chances were nine too many.