They bullied my son, never once realizing I was the Luna

POV: Sarah

The man who ruled the werewolf underworld with an iron claw was currently losing a fight to a toddler's bowtie.

I watched my husband sigh as our five-year-old giggled.

He didn't know today was the day the human world would try to break our son.

Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our master bedroom, catching the dust motes dancing in the warm air. Ethan, the most feared Alpha in North America, was on his knees on the plush Persian rug. His broad shoulders, usually tense with the heavy weight of leading the Night Pack, were currently hunched over in pure, baffled frustration. He was dressed in his custom charcoal suit, ready for a day of ruthless boardroom negotiations and pack politics, but his massive hands—hands that could snap a rogue wolf’s neck without a second thought—were fumbling uselessly with a tiny strip of navy blue silk.

"I still don't understand why the Alpha heir has to wear a leash," Ethan grumbled, his deep voice vibrating in his chest. He tugged at the fabric, earning a bright, bubbly laugh from our son.

"It's not a leash, Daddy!" Milo chirped, wiggling his hips. "It's a bowtie. Mommy says it makes me look like a distinguished gentleman."

"You're a wolf," Ethan countered gently, finally managing to tie a somewhat crooked knot. "Wolves don't need to be distinguished. We just need to be strong."

There was a hesitant knock at the heavy mahogany door. I turned to see our pack's lead enforcer—a towering, heavily scarred man who usually handled our most violent territorial disputes—standing awkwardly in the doorway. He dropped to one knee, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered, and extended his massive hands outward.

Resting in his palms, trembling ever so slightly, was a bright yellow SpongeBob SquarePants bento box.

"The Little Alpha's lunch, Luna," he rumbled.

I couldn't help but smile, walking over to take the plastic box from him. "Thank you. You can rise."

I carried the lunchbox over to my men. Ethan stood up, towering over me, his glowing golden eyes softening the moment he looked at my face. I handed him the bento box and knelt in front of Milo. My beautiful, sweet boy. He had Ethan's dark, unruly hair but my bright hazel eyes. He was the absolute center of our universe, spoiled and fiercely loved by every single member of our pack. To the werewolves, he was undeniable royalty. To us, he was just our baby.

I pulled a thin, intricately engraved silver bracelet from my pocket. It didn't look like much—just a cheap, dull piece of jewelry to the untrained eye—but it was imbued with ancient pack magic.

"Give me your wrist, sweetie," I murmured.

Milo eagerly extended his chubby little arm. I snapped the bracelet into place. Instantly, the sweet, earthy scent of milk, rain, and wild pine that followed him everywhere vanished into thin air. The silver suppressed his wolf aura, locking away his supernatural strength and heavily dampening his animal instincts. It made him smell and feel completely, hopelessly human.

We had to do this. There were dangerous whispers of rival factions trying to locate the Night Pack's heir to use him as leverage. Until the threat was entirely neutralized, the safest place for Milo was hidden in plain sight, blending in with the elite, oblivious human children at the city's most prestigious private preschool.

"Remember the rules, Milo," I said softly, kissing his warm forehead. "You have to be a normal human boy today. No growling when you play, no running too fast, and definitely no shifting your eyes."

"I promise, Mommy!" Milo beamed, completely oblivious to the cruelty of the outside world. "Am I going to be a good human today?"

"The best," Ethan said, scooping him up for one last fierce, bone-crushing hug. "But remember, if anyone gives you trouble, you tell them exactly who your father is."

"Ethan," I chided, swatting his solid arm. "The whole point of this is that they don't know who you are."

The afternoon could not come fast enough. I stood on the sprawling front porch of our secluded estate, staring down the long driveway, waiting for the black SUV to bring my son home. I had spent the entire day imagining him painting with watercolors, sharing his snacks, and making his very first human friends. I wanted him to experience a normal, carefree childhood, far away from the blood, dominance, and politics of the pack.

The heavy car doors opened.

Milo ran up the driveway.

My breath caught painfully in my throat.

His expensive white dress shirt was completely ruined. It was smeared with thick, dark mud from the collar down to the hem. But what made my heart stutter and my blood run cold were the distinct, muddy shoeprints stamped directly across his chest and stomach. Someone had stepped on him. Someone had deliberately pushed my five-year-old down into the dirt and walked over him.

"Milo!" I gasped, rushing forward and falling to my knees on the pavement to check him for injuries. "Sweetheart, what happened? Who did this to you?"

I expected him to cry. I expected him to be terrified and begging to stay home. Instead, Milo threw his arms around my neck, smelling terribly like swamp water and damp earth, and giggled.

"Mommy, they liked me!" he announced proudly, doing a little excited wiggle that I instantly recognized as his way of pretending he was wagging a tail.

"They... liked you?" I repeated, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I brushed the drying dirt from his soft cheeks.

"Yeah!" His hazel eyes sparkled with genuine, unadulterated excitement. "They said I was the best dog today! I got to play on the ground, and they gave me all these cool friendship stamps!" He pointed down at the black, muddy footprints on his ruined shirt with a proud, gummy smile.

A cold, nauseating chill washed over me. Friendship stamps. In the pack, wolf pups played rough. They tackled, they pinned each other down, they playfully bit, and they wrestled in the mud for hours. Milo, in his beautifully innocent mind, thought the human children were just playing like wolves. He didn't understand the concept of malice. He didn't know that humans didn't step on each other out of affection.

"And look!" Milo shoved his chubby hand deep into his pocket and pulled something out. He held it up to the afternoon sunlight, his face glowing with pure joy.

It was a piece of broken glass. A jagged shard from a shattered beer bottle, carefully and meticulously washed clean.

"What is that, baby?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, choking on the lump in my throat.

"It's a present," Milo said seriously, his brow furrowing with absolute sincerity. "There is a boy in my class named Leo. He told me he likes shiny things. I found this in the mud near the big fence, and I washed it in the sink in the bathroom. I'm going to give it to him tomorrow so we can be packmates!"

I stared at the sharp, dangerous piece of glass sitting innocently in his little palm. He had spent his recess digging through the mud to find a gift for the boy who had stepped on his chest. My chest tightened with an agonizing, physical ache. He wasn't silently enduring the abuse. He simply didn't know he was being abused at all. Ethan and I had raised him with so much love, so much absolute adoration from the entire pack, that the concept of bullying was completely foreign to him.

"Okay, sweetie," I forced a trembling smile, leaning in to kiss his dirty cheek. "Let's get you inside for a warm bath."

That night, long after Ethan had fallen into a deep sleep beside me, I lay awake staring at the dark ceiling. I couldn't shake the heavy feeling of dread sitting in my stomach. I needed to see it for myself. I needed to know exactly what was happening behind the tall iron gates of that school.

The next morning, I dropped Milo off as usual, but I didn't drive back to the estate. I parked a few blocks away and walked back on foot, slipping silently through the dense woods that bordered the edge of the elite academy's playground. I masked my scent completely, suppressing my aura until I was nothing more than a ghost against the tall oak trees.

Recess began. The heavy double doors opened, and a loud flood of children in crisp, expensive uniforms poured out onto the manicured lawns. I scanned the chaotic crowd, my enhanced werewolf vision quickly locking onto my son.

Without his wolf traits, Milo looked so incredibly small. He was sitting entirely alone near a patch of dirt by the sandbox, carefully holding the yellow SpongeBob bento box I had packed for him that morning. He looked content, swinging his short legs, patiently waiting.

A few moments later, a group of older boys approached him. Leading them was a chubby, spoiled-looking boy with slicked-back hair and designer sneakers. Leo.

I gripped the rough bark of the tree, my knuckles turning stark white.

Leo marched right up to my son. He didn't say a word of greeting. He just pulled back his foot and kicked the yellow bento box as hard as he could. The plastic lid popped off on impact, and Milo's carefully cut sandwiches, fresh fruit, and snacks flew through the air, landing with a sickening splat into a deep, dirty puddle of mud.

"Eat it, dog," Leo sneered, crossing his arms over his chest while the boys behind him erupted into a chorus of cruel, mocking laughter.

The sound of their laughter grated against my eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. Every maternal instinct in my body screamed at me to jump the fence, to shift into my wolf form, and to tear those children apart until nothing remained. But I forced myself to freeze. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. I had to see how Milo would react. I had to know if he finally understood.

Milo looked at the ruined food floating in the muddy puddle. Then, he looked up at Leo.

There was no anger in my son's eyes. There were no tears of frustration. He simply blinked, assuming Leo must have slipped or made a clumsy mistake while trying to play.

Milo clumsily squatted down in the mud. He didn't try to salvage the food. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the piece of broken, washed glass. He held it up with both hands, offering it to the boy like a priceless treasure.

"Don't cry, Leo," my sweet, perfect boy said, his little voice carrying softly over the wind. "I know you didn't mean to drop my lunch. I brought you a shiny treasure. We can be packmates now."

Leo stared at the glass, his face twisting in absolute disgust.

"I don't want your garbage, you freak!"

Leo swung his hand down and slapped Milo's outstretched palm as hard as he could.

The sound of the slap echoed sharply in my ears. The piece of glass flew out of Milo's hand, but not before the sharp, jagged edge sliced right across his soft palm.

A bright line of crimson blood welled up on Milo's skin.

My son froze, staring down at his bleeding hand in pure confusion. He didn't cry out. He just looked completely and utterly lost, staring at his palm as if trying to figure out what rule of human friendship he had gotten wrong.

I felt my eyes flash a dangerous, glowing gold. The bark of the tree splintered and cracked under my crushing grip. They hadn't just bullied a poor boy. They had drawn the blood of the Alpha's heir, and I was going to make sure this entire school burned to the ground for it.