The Pregnant Luna He Chose To Ignore

Damien POV

The digital numbers on the dashboard climbed past one hundred and twenty.

The world outside the window was a blur of black and grey, trees whipping past like skeletal fingers clawing at the glass. I didn't slow down. The vibration of the steering wheel in my hands was the only thing that felt real.

It was the only thing that drowned out the silence.

Seven days.

One hundred and sixty-eight hours since I had stood on that tarmac and watched a plane disappear into the clouds. I didn't know who was on it then. I just knew that when I turned back to the car, the air felt thinner.

"Damien, you're going to kill us!"

Victoria's voice shrieked through the car's Bluetooth system, shrill and distorted. I had forgotten I was on the phone with her. I had forgotten she existed for the last ten miles.

"The gala is in ruins," she continued, her voice pitching up an octave. "The florists sent lilies instead of moonflowers. And the council members are asking where the Luna is. You need to come back and fix this."

I stared at the road. The white lines were hypnotic. Dash. Dash. Dash.

"Damien? Are you listening to me?"

"I'm driving," I said. My voice sounded rusty, unused, like a machine left out in the rain.

"Well, pull over! This is a disaster. Everyone is whispering. They think you can't control your household. They think-"

I reached out and tapped the red icon on the screen.

The car went silent. The engine roared, filling the void, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

I gripped the leather wheel until my knuckles turned white and the seams bit into my palms. My chest felt like it had been hollowed out with a spoon. It was a physical ache, a dull, throbbing pressure right behind my sternum.

I told myself it was stress. It was the merger. It was the unruly pack elders.

But I knew it was the house.

The house was too quiet.

I had walked into the master bedroom last night. It smelled of antiseptic cleaner and Victoria's cloying perfume. But underneath that, faintly, was the scent of rain and vanilla. Elena's scent.

I had opened her closet. It was empty.

Not just empty. Scrubbed.

There were no stray hairs. No forgotten shoes. No dust bunnies. It was as if she had never lived there. As if the last three years were a hallucination I had conjured up.

I swerved around a semi-truck, ignoring the angry blare of the horn behind me. I didn't flinch.

Why did it matter? She was just Elena. Quiet, mousy Elena. The woman who signed papers and sat at the end of the table. The woman I married because my father told me to.

So why did I feel like I was bleeding out?

My phone buzzed again. Victoria.

I didn't answer.

I thought about the divorce papers. They were sitting on my desk, signed. I hadn't filed them yet. I told myself I was too busy.

The truth was, looking at her signature-that shaky, jagged script-made me feel sick.

Ahead, I saw a sign for the exit to the Pack lands. I should turn. I should go home, fix the flowers, soothe Victoria, play the Alpha.

I slammed on the brakes.

The car fishtailed violently, tires screaming against the asphalt, smoke rising in the headlights. I came to a shuddering stop on the shoulder, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

I couldn't go back there. Not to that empty house.

I hit the steering wheel with the heel of my hand. Once. Twice.

I needed to find her. I needed to scream at her for leaving. I needed to drag her back and tell her she couldn't just quit.

I put the car in reverse, spinning it around on the narrow highway with a spray of gravel.

I wasn't going home. I was going hunting.