The Dead Luna’s Resurrection-His Living Hell-

The water at the base of Devil’s Drop didn't just move; it churned like a washing machine full of jagged glass.

Julian stood on the slick rocks at the edge of the basin, his chest bare and heaving in the sub-zero air. His skin was a map of scratches from the descent. He didn't feel the cold. He didn't feel the spray of the waterfall hitting his face like needles.

"Find her!" he roared, the sound echoing off the canyon walls. "Get back in there!"

"Alpha, the current... it’s too strong," one of the divers gasped, hauling himself onto a flat stone. The man’s lips were blue. "If she hit the rocks at that speed, there’s no way—"

Julian was on him in a second. He gripped the diver by the collar of his wetsuit, lifting him inches off the ground. "I don't pay you for 'no way.' Dive again. Or I’ll throw you in without the tank."

He dropped the man and turned his back, staring into the frothing white foam. For three days, he had lived on these rocks. He had scoured every inch of the shoreline until his fingernails were torn to the quick.

"Alpha."

It was Marcus, the lead tracker. He held out a bundle of dripping, shredded fabric. It was black. Torn silk.

Julian took it, his hands shaking. The fabric felt like a dead thing in his palms. He pressed it to his nose, desperate for a hint of her scent—lavender and something sharp, like rain. There was nothing. Just the metallic tang of river silt and the smell of rot.

"We found this snagged on a branch five miles downstream," Marcus whispered, his voice heavy with pity. "And... we found this in a shallow pool near the bend."

He held out his palm. Vivienne’s wedding ring. The five-carat diamond he’d bragged about sat there, mocking him with its cold, hard shine. It hadn't slipped off. The band was straight. She had taken it off before she jumped.

Julian’s knees hit the mud. A sound escaped him—not a roar, but a broken, pathetic whimper. Inside his head, his wolf was pacing a frantic, bloody circle, clawing at the walls of his mind. Mate gone. Mate dead. You killed her.

"She’s not dead," Julian whispered to the dirt. "She’s just hiding. She’s trying to punish me."

"Alpha, the elders... the news," Marcus started, stepping back. "The footage from the gala is everywhere. The pack is in a state of revolt. They’re calling for a vote of no confidence. You need to come home."

"Let them talk," Julian snarled, clutching the torn black silk so tight his knuckles turned white. "Let the whole world burn. I’m not leaving without her."

The Strathmore estate was a tomb.

A week had passed. The grand hallway, usually bustling with servants and the hum of pack business, was silent. Julian sat in the library, the only light coming from a dying fire. An empty bottle of Macallan stood on the desk. Another lay shattered on the rug.

He hadn't showered. He hadn't slept. The house smelled like stale booze and neglect.

The door creaked open. Selina Voss stepped in, wearing a silk robe that had belonged to Vivienne. She’d even tried to pin her hair up the same way.

"Julian? Honey?" she purred, walking toward him with a tray of food. "You have to eat. The pack is worried. I’m worried. We can move past this. Now that she’s... well, now that she’s out of the way, we can finally be together properly."

Julian didn't look at her. He just stared at the fire. "Take off the robe."

"What?"

"I said take it off!" He was on his feet in a blur, the chair flipping backward. He was across the room before she could scream, his hand wrapping around her throat. Not a mate’s touch. A predator’s.

"Julian! You’re hurting me!" she choked out, her hands clawing at his wrists.

"You leaked those photos," he hissed, his face inches from hers. He could smell her cloying perfume, and it made him want to vomit. "You thought you were being clever. You thought you were clearing a path to the throne."

"I did it for us!" she gasped. "She was holding you back! She was a nobody!"

"She was my Luna!" Julian roared, flinging her away. She hit the bookshelf, hard, a row of first editions tumbling onto her head. "And you? You’re a distraction I used to pass the time. Get out. You’re staying in the servant’s quarters in the cellar. If I see you on this floor again, I’ll hand you over to the Iron Ridge pack as a peace offering. They’ve been wanting a new plaything."

"You can't do that!" Selina wailed. "I’m an Omega! I have rights!"

"In this pack, I am the law," Julian growled. "And right now, the law says you’re garbage. Get out!"

He watched her scramble out of the room, sobbing. He felt no satisfaction. Only a hollow, echoing void where his heart used to be.

He sat back down and reached for his laptop. He needed to check the accounts. He needed to see how much damage the leak had done to the stock price.

He typed in his password.

Access Denied.

He tried again. Slowly. Access Denied.

He called his CFO. The man picked up on the first ring, sounding like he was in the middle of a panic attack.

"Alpha! Thank god. I was just about to call. Everything is gone."

"What do you mean 'gone'?" Julian’s voice was dangerously low.

"The accounts. The holdings. The offshore shell companies. An anonymous conglomerate called 'Astraea Holdings' just executed a hostile takeover of forty percent of our shares. They used the signatures you provided last week. They’ve frozen our operational liquidity. Julian... we’re broke. We can't even pay the enforcers' salaries on Monday."

Julian stared at the screen. Astraea. The goddess of justice.

"Who owns Astraea?"

"We don't know! It’s a blind trust. But the paperwork was filed by the Black Rose Syndicate."

Julian felt the room tilt. The Syndicate. The rogues. Vivienne had mentioned them once, months ago, and he’d laughed. He’d told her she shouldn't worry her pretty little head about criminals.

The mail slot in the front door clattered.

Julian walked to the hall, his heart thumping against his ribs. A small, padded envelope sat on the mat. No return address.

He tore it open. Inside was a cheap burner phone.

He turned it on. There was one saved audio file. He pressed play.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

The sound of a heartbeat. Steady. Strong. Not the frantic, dying beat of a woman falling to her death.

Then, her voice.

"The mission has begun, Julian. I hope you like the cellar. It’s where you belong."

The phone vibrated violently, the battery heating up until Julian had to drop it. A small puff of smoke rose from the carpet as the hardware fried itself.

She was alive.

She was alive, and she was the one who had taken his money. She was the one behind the Syndicate.

The sun was setting as Julian walked into the glass-walled greenhouse at the back of the property. Vivienne had spent half her life here, tending to rare orchids and medicinal herbs he’d never bothered to learn the names of.

The air was humid and smelled of dirt. The flowers were wilting. The orchids were brown and curled like dead spiders.

He walked to her small potting bench. In a hidden drawer, tucked behind a bag of fertilizer, he found a leather-bound book.

Her diary.

He opened it, expecting to see drawings or gardening notes.

October 12th, he read. Julian came home late again. He smelled like her. He didn't even notice I’d burnt my hand on the stove. He just complained that the wine wasn't chilled enough. He called me 'insignificant' today. I wonder if he knows I could end his life with three keystrokes? Not yet. Soon.

Julian flipped the page.

January 4th. He wants a son. He says the pack needs an heir. He doesn't want a child; he wants a trophy. He told me my only job is to be pretty and fertile. I took my birth control with a smile. I will never bring a child into his cage.

The words were like physical blows. Every entry was a record of a bruise he’d left on her soul, a dream he’d crushed with his ego. He read about the nights she’d sat in the dark, planning his downfall while he slept soundly beside her. He read about her "Low-Status" act—the way she had intentionally played the submissive fool to keep him from looking too closely at what she was doing on her laptop.

He had lived with a wolf in sheep’s clothing for four years, and he’d been too arrogant to notice the claws.

Julian slumped against the glass wall, the diary clutched to his chest. He looked out at the darkening mountains, the place where he had watched her jump.

"I’ll find you," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I don't care if I have to burn the world down. I’ll find you and I’ll..."

He stopped. He’d been about to say "bring you home." But he looked at the wilting flowers and the record of his own cruelty.

"I’ll beg," he finished, a single tear hitting the leather cover.

Somewhere in the Swiss Alps.

Vivienne sat in a chair made of carbon fiber and white leather. Behind her, three monitors displayed a live feed of the Strathmore estate. She watched the grainy thermal image of Julian collapsing in the greenhouse.

She reached out and tapped the "Power" button.

The screen went black.

"Is the Alpha of Silver Peak still crying?" a deep, resonant voice asked from the doorway.

Vivienne didn't turn around. She didn't need to. The scent of the man entering—dark chocolate, cedar, and raw power—was enough to tell her who it was. The King of the Syndicate. The man who had actually caught her at the base of that waterfall.

"He’s mourning a ghost," Vivienne said, her voice devoid of any emotion. "Let him. It’s the only thing he’s ever been good at."

"And the next phase?"

Vivienne stood up and turned to face him. Her black hair was cut short now, sharp and modern. Her eyes weren't the soft, submissive windows of a Luna anymore. They were the eyes of a hunter.

"The next phase," she said, a small, predatory smile tugging at her lips, "is making him realize that being broke was the easy part."