The Luna They Scorned, Now Reigns

Alex POV:

My fingertips brushed against the crimson silk. The fabric was ice-cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from my chest.

This gown was the only thing I had left of my mother. It was a relic of a slaughtered bloodline, a heavy, suffocating reminder of the pureblood white wolf pride I had buried deep in my bones.

I grabbed the collar of the faded gray loungewear I had worn all morning. With one violent tug, I pulled it over my head and threw it straight into the trash can in the corner of the massive walk-in closet.

That gray cotton represented sixteen years of my life. Sixteen years of shrinking myself, of hiding my scent, of playing the mediocre, obedient wife just to stroke Anthony’s fragile ego.

I slipped the crimson dress over my shoulders. The heavy silk slid down my body, clinging to every curve like a second skin, tailoring itself perfectly to my frame. It felt like battle armor.

I slowly lifted my head and met my own gaze in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

For a fraction of a second, the familiar dull brown of my irises vanished. A blinding, luminescent ring of silver flared around my pupils.

My chest heaved. The white wolf spirit inside my mind, starved and caged for over a decade, was clawing at the back of my skull. It could taste the impending violence. It was practically vibrating with the thrill of revenge.

I squeezed my eyes shut, dug my manicured nails into my palms, and forced a long, shuddering breath into my lungs. When I opened my eyes again, the silver was gone. The dull, unthreatening brown was back.

A sharp, impatient car horn blared from the driveway below.

Anthony. He hated waiting.

I didn't rush. I picked up a tube of matte red lipstick from the vanity. My hand was perfectly steady as I applied it, painting my lips the color of fresh blood.

*Bang.*

The heavy oak door of the bedroom was kicked open. The wood shuddered against the frame.

Anthony stormed into the room, his heavy footsteps eating up the distance. The pungent, suffocating scent of his Alpha pheromones rolled in ahead of him, thick with irritation and dominance.

"I told you to be ready ten minutes—"

His voice cut off abruptly.

His expensive Italian leather shoes screeched to a halt on the hardwood floor.

I turned around slowly to face him.

Anthony’s pupils dilated so fast the dark rings nearly swallowed his irises. His jaw went slack, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

The air in the room shifted. The sharp, angry edge of his scent instantly muddied with a heavy, primal wave of arousal. It was a biological reaction, a raw Alpha instinct responding to a high-ranking mate.

For a second, he just stared at my exposed collarbone, at the slit in the crimson silk that rode high up my thigh.

Then, the realization of his own loss of control hit him. His face darkened, a flush of ugly, embarrassed red creeping up his neck. His hands curled into tight fists at his sides.

"What the hell are you wearing?" he spat, taking a heavy step toward me. He pointed a trembling finger at the deep neckline of my dress. "You look like a cheap whore working the street corners. Go change. Now."

It was his favorite tactic. Whenever he felt threatened, whenever he felt like he was losing his absolute grip on me, he resorted to degradation.

Yesterday, I would have lowered my head. I would have apologized, rushed back to the closet, and put on the high-necked black dress he picked out for me.

Today, I just stared at him.

I didn't blink. I didn't flinch. I let the silence stretch until the air between us felt brittle enough to snap.

I reached out and picked up my silver clutch from the vanity. My movements were slow, fluid, and completely devoid of the nervous energy he was used to seeing.

"If my appearance embarrasses you so much, Alpha," I said, my voice dropping to a flat, emotionless register, "you are more than welcome to attend the gala alone."

Anthony’s nostrils flared. His lips peeled back over his teeth in a vicious snarl.

He unleashed a wave of his Alpha aura, a heavy, oppressive psychic weight designed to force submission. It rolled across the room, slamming into me.

I didn't even blink. My eyelashes didn't so much as flutter. The pressure washed over my skin like a light breeze against a stone wall.

I stepped forward, the heels of my stilettos clicking sharply against the floor. I walked right past him, my shoulder brushing against his rigid arm.

I didn't look back. I just kept walking down the grand staircase.

When I reached the garage, the estate driver was standing by the rear door of the black Rolls-Royce. The moment he saw me, his jaw dropped. He was so stunned he forgot to reach for the handle.

I pulled the heavy car door open myself and slid into the leather seat by the window.

A few seconds later, Anthony stomped into the garage. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. He threw himself into the seat next to me and slammed the door so hard the entire chassis shook.

The air pressure inside the cabin plummeted. The driver scrambled into the front seat, his hands shaking as he started the engine.

Anthony didn't speak. Instead, I felt the familiar, invasive pressure against my temples. He was trying to use the mind-link, trying to force his voice into my head to order me to behave.

I mentally slammed a wall of solid ice down over our bond.

His mental intrusion hit the barrier and bounced off. I heard his sharp intake of breath next to me. He turned his head, staring at the side of my face in absolute shock.

I ignored him. I looked out the tinted window at the blurring streetlights, my thumb rhythmically stroking the smooth plastic of the micro-remote hidden inside my silver clutch.

The car turned onto a tree-lined avenue. In the distance, the sprawling, illuminated grounds of the Silver Moon estate came into view.

"The moonlight is beautiful tonight. Perfect for witnessing the truth."