The Luna He Rejected Was His True Destiny

I never thought packing could break a person. Every item I folded into the trunk felt like tearing a piece of my life with Dorian free from the bone. The life I had imagined would last until they laid me beneath the pack's burial ground.

I bit back tears when I stared at the empty closet. The hangers swayed gently, catching the faint light from the window like skeletal fingers waving goodbye. I couldn't believe this was happening. We were supposed to be bound for life. A sacred Moon Oath, sworn under the Moon Goddess and witnessed by the Pack. Instead, here I stood in a half-stripped den, shoving silk blouses into luggage like a woman fleeing a war zone. Deep inside me, my wolf paced the same small circle she'd worn into the ground, refusing to lie down. I pressed the heel of my palm against my eyes and wiped the tears away before they could fall. Now was not the moment to be weak. I was worth more than this.

My communicator vibrated against the dresser. Ivar. He seemed unfinished with his lecture from earlier, as though the first round hadn't been enough.

"Neva, please don't make any rash decisions. I'm sure Dorian will fix this. He's just dealing with a lot right now. Give him time to make it up to you."

I scoffed and rolled my eyes hard enough to feel the pull in my temples.

"Fix this? How could he?" My voice came out low and venomous, barely above a whisper. "Where was he, Ivar? He canceled without thinking twice. He didn't even think of me. And I'm supposed to understand him." I hissed the last word like it was poison on my tongue and pulled the communicator away from my ear, ignoring whatever he said next.

I shoved the last blouse into the suitcase, pressing it down with both hands, trying to crush the memory of the Moon-Bound Union that was supposed to happen today. I had dreamt of it for moons. Walking through the great hall of the Nightveil estate with the entire Pack watching. The candlelight. The oath. The ring of witnesses. Dorian's hand closing over mine as the elder spoke the vows that would bind us before the Moon Goddess and the Pack both.

But today, when it was supposed to happen, Dorian's eyes had gone to Ciara. Sweet, fragile Ciara Thornwood, who had feigned another heat-weakness during her training session. Collapsed on the training grounds like a porcelain doll with a cracked spine. I couldn't count how many times she had pulled this act, and I couldn't fathom how blind Dorian remained to the performance. Every time, the same script. The trembling lip, the wide doe eyes, the whispered "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause trouble." And every time, Dorian dropped everything. Dropped me.

"Damn them."

I zipped the suitcase with a vicious pull, grabbed the handle, and walked out. I told no one. Not even Elder Lavinia, who loved me more than anyone left in that estate. She would have stopped me, and I couldn't afford to be stopped. Not tonight.

The carriage I had summoned was already idling at the curb outside the estate's outer gate, its lamps cutting pale lines through the October dark. I rushed down the gravel path, stuffed my luggage into the back, and slid into the seat, telling the driver to go. No hesitation. No looking back.

I looked back.

The estate shrank behind me, its iron gates and grey-stone walls dissolving into the amber blur of passing lamplight. My heart sat like a stone behind my ribs. Every stretch of road we passed carried a memory. The corner den where Dorian had brought me hot tea the morning after our Moon Oath was announced. The clearing where he had walked beside me in silence, his hand warm against the small of my back, saying nothing because nothing needed to be said. I had fought for so long to make this work, to earn my place beside him, to prove that I was more than just a name in an old oath sworn between our fathers. But now I was done. I was taking back control, even if it carved me hollow. Somewhere beneath my ribs, my wolf went still at last, no longer pacing, only watching the gates disappear with me.

When I arrived at my old den in the lower territory, I stood on the path and stared at the building before going in. A narrow stone row-house with an iron stair that zigzagged up the front like a scar. I had lived here less than a year before moving into the estate, and it had felt like home then. Comforting but painful now, the way a childhood nest feels after a burial. I wished I could become the old Neva. The one full of hope. The one who still believed that Dorian Blackthorn's love was something she could hold in her hands.

I dragged the suitcase up three flights of stairs. Its weight felt lighter than whatever sat crushing my chest. When I reached the bedroom, the small space felt foreign, the air stale and cold, the bed stripped to a bare mattress. The den held no trace of blackthorn smoke or cold iron here, none of his scent at all, and the absence of it was its own quiet ache. But I welcomed the change. Anything was better than that estate tonight.