The Alpha Who Burned My Pack And Killed My Pup

That night, Ryan stayed by my side and told me stories about his mother.

His voice was soft, almost hesitant, as he spoke:

"My mom used to sell handmade crafts to make a living. She could earn about twenty dollars a day, but it was never enough to keep us well-fed. Sometimes, she’d take me to the woods behind the pack house to forage for herbs and roots."

"There was this one plant—sweet but toxic. I almost died from eating it once. My mom was so scared; she held me all night, calling my name over and over."

He paused, his eyes distant, then continued:

"She was so skilled with her hands. Whenever my clothes got torn, she’d mend them and sew these little symbols into the fabric."

"Sometimes it was a paw print, sometimes a crescent moon."

"She said she’d heard about a rare breed of cat—Maine Coons—that wealthy humans kept as pets. She wanted to sew one for me, but she’d never seen one before."

When he talked about Cleo, his eyes lit up, as if he were reliving something warm and tender.

I didn’t say anything, just watched him quietly. He seemed to realize he’d spoken too much and grew uneasy. After a long silence, he knelt by my bed and whispered,

"Luna, you’re like my mother."

His voice was so quiet, but I heard it. And I also heard the rustling of the leaves from the oak tree outside the window.

Are you crying?

"I’m nothing like your mother," I said, my voice cold and distant. "Not at all."

"Leave this place. Before I decide to kill you."

With that, I turned away and closed my eyes.

The sound of his footsteps never came. He didn’t leave.

That night, I didn’t dream.

But I felt the blanket being pulled over me, again and again.

And the cool cloth on my forehead was replaced, time after time.