The Rejected Luna Returns as the Rival Alpha’s Mate

I stayed kneeling.

Blood soaked through my trousers. My hands were slick and torn. My pup’s name burned like a brand inside my chest, refusing to fade.

Malven lifted Rivelle in his arms as if she were spun from moon-glass. She curled into him, whimpering, clutching her womb like her spirit was leaking out.

Before leaving, he turned back.

Those eyes—once warm, once sworn to me under a full moon—were blades now.

“Don’t move,” he said flatly. “You don’t even deserve breath.”

I didn’t respond.

“You don’t deserve a bed.”

The door slammed. Silence devoured the chamber.

I don’t know how long I remained there. My legs felt petrified. My skull rang. My throat burned raw.

Then—the door creaked.

Light footsteps padded closer.

I didn’t look up until his shadow crossed mine.

“Why are you sitting like that?” Ryke asked.

He dangled a small blue rune-car between his fingers, swinging it idly. His sleepwear was spotless. Hair neatly combed. Eyes bright—rested, satisfied.

He crouched beside me, elbow on his knee, studying me like a stain on stone.

“My mom’s really good at pretending, isn’t she, witch?” he whispered, grinning.

The word cut clean through me.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

He pushed the toy car across the floor. The wheels clicked softly.

“Alpha Father always believes her,” Ryke said. “Every time.”

Then he stood and walked away, humming—as if he hadn’t crushed my pup’s remains hours earlier.

I bowed my head. My voice barely existed.

Soon.

Soon this would end. The severance scrolls were already with the Moon Council advocate. I only had to wait.

Then I would be free.

Then they would understand what it meant to lose everything.

***

Malven returned before dawn. He tossed a vial at my feet. It rolled and stopped. Pain draught. Unmarked.

“Try not to curse anyone next time,” he muttered, not looking at me.

He grabbed his cloak, then paused at the doorway.

“My parents’ bond-anniversary is this weekend. You’re still my mate in name. People will expect you.” His voice hardened. “Bring Elian.”

I felt nothing. Not rage. Not grief.

“You heard me,” he said. “Bring him. Clean him. Smile. You know how this pack works.”

Then he left—back to Rivelle, back to the healer’s den.

***

The anniversary arrived.

Malven didn’t allow me beside him. He sent me to the front seat with the driver, like hired hands.

Behind us, Rivelle leaned into him like a crowned Luna. Ryke sat tucked under her arm.

She whispered something. Malven laughed softly, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.

I looked down at my dress—black, coarse, ill-fitted. Everyone else wore enchanted silk and moon-gems. Rivelle wore white. Pearls cascading down her spine. Innocence crafted at great cost.

No one spoke to me before we arrived.

No one looked.

At the Moonclaw Estate, crystal-lenses flashed like lightning. Scribes and heralds crowded the gates. Malven stepped out first, adjusting his cuffs, the image of a devoted Alpha.

He opened Rivelle’s door himself.

She emerged as if the night belonged to her. Ryke followed, holding her hands.

I stepped out alone, gravel biting my soles.

“Speak only when spoken to,” Malven said quietly.

I nodded. And he didn’t look back.

The great hall gleamed with gold and dominance. Chandeliers hung like captured stars. Music flowed—soft, arrogant.

Malven raised his glass.

“Everyone,” he declared, “meet Rivelle Ashenfell. The she-wolf who will carry this bloodline forward.”

Applause thundered.

She dipped her head—humble and royal.

“And this,” he said, drawing Ryke forward, “is our future. The next Alpha heir.”

Malven’s parents embraced the boy as if he were a living crown.

I stood near the cloak racks. Unseen. Disposable.

Someone near the feast table whispered, “Who’s she?”

“Oh,” Malven’s mother said lightly, “just the former mate. She couldn’t even raise her own pup properly. Sickly thing she hid away. Moon knows what became of him.”

Rivelle pressed a hand to her chest.

“Elian is… still recovering,” she said softly. “Too weak to travel.” Then she turned to me, pity perfected. “Poor Viora… still mourning.”

She kissed Malven’s cheek.

My nails bit into my palms.

A servant stumbled. A silver serving tray crashed, echoing through the hall.

Laughter rose—Malven’s father loudest.

“We’re here to celebrate,” he boomed, then pointed at me. “Let her clean it. She’s used to that.”

Some guests laughed.

Rivelle stepped forward, voice sweet as venom.

“She used to host beautifully,” she said. “Perhaps she can help serve the moon-wine. Just until the staff recover.”

Malven said nothing. So I picked up the tray. I moved among the guests, offering crystal flutes. One servant met my eyes with quiet sympathy.

By the bar, someone whispered, “Is that the first mate? I heard she cursed the den.”

“With her dead pup’s ashes,” another replied. “Can you imagine?”

I kept walking. Calm. Steady.

They couldn’t take anything from me. I had already lost everything worth losing. Let them mock the ghost they thought I was. Soon, they would remember my name.

And when they did—they would learn it screaming.