[Daphne’s POV]
Four days into being Luna, and I'm drowning in contradictions.
By day, Hector is everything a mate should be. He walks me through pack politics with patient explanations—who holds real power versus who just holds titles, which alliances matter, how to read the room during council meetings.
When I stumble over protocol, he corrects me gently. When I succeed, his praise is warm and genuine.
"You're a natural," he says after I mediate a dispute between two pack families over hunting territory. His hand settles on my lower back, proud and warm. "Born for this."
The pack treats me differently now.
She-wolves who once shoved me into mud now bow when I pass. Males who mocked my wolflessness now avert their eyes in respect.
Even Talia—bitter, beautiful Talia—is forced to lower her gaze and murmur "Luna" through clenched teeth when we cross paths.
The power should feel good.
The respect should fill the hollow places in my self-worth.
Instead, it feels like wearing someone else's skin.
By night, Hector transforms into something else entirely. A lover who knows exactly how to play my body like an instrument he's mastered.
His hands map every sensitive spot with methodical precision. The place behind my ear that makes me shiver, the spot on my inner thigh that makes me gasp. The angle that has me seeing stars within minutes.
He brings me to orgasm with practiced efficiency, multiple times each night. Then holds me close afterward while our mingled sweat cools. His fingers stroke through my hair as he whispers about our future.
"You'll be an incredible mother," he murmurs against my temple. "Strong sons. Beautiful daughters. A bloodline the pack will be proud of."
Something about the way he says 'bloodline' makes me uneasy, but the mate bond thrums with contentment, drowning out my concerns.
The bond itself grows stronger each day, roots digging deeper into my soul.
When Hector touches me, warmth spreads through my chest. When he's near, I feel protected in ways Connor never provided.
Safe. Cherished. Claimed.
This should be enough. Should be everything I wanted when I was the rejected, worthless omega no one looked at twice. But Xander...
Xander is everywhere and nowhere.
He avoids me during pack functions—never sitting at the head table, always positioning himself at the far end of the hall or outside entirely. But I catch him watching from the shadows.
His gaze burns across my skin with an intensity that makes the bond with Hector feel like a whisper compared to a scream.
I practice combat forms alone in the training grounds each morning now, and his scent lingers there. Something uniquely him, like he's been there recently.
Like he's keeping track of my progress even though he won't approach.
And the wildflowers.
They appear on my window ledge three mornings in a row—small bunches of white and purple blooms. The same kind we used to leave on graves when I was seven and he was twelve and he still looked at me like I mattered.
No note. No explanation.
Just flowers that say what he won't speak aloud.
The mate bond with Hector should have erased my awareness of Xander. That's how it works—once mated, other males fade to background noise. Their scents barely register, their presence meaningless.
My body should recognize only Hector now. But I'm hyperaware of Xander instead.
When he enters a room, even unseen, my skin prickles. When our eyes meet—those brief, searing moments before one of us looks away—heat floods between my thighs with visceral memory.
His mouth between my thighs. His hands on my skin. His voice rough with possession: ‘You belong to me.’
And something else is stirring inside me. Something that started when Xander kissed me during training and has been growing stronger ever since.
Late at night, when Hector sleeps beside me—one arm heavy across my waist, his breathing deep and even—I lie awake and feel it.
Something clawing at the inside of my chest, trying to break free.
Pulling me toward Xander even as Hector's mark burns on my neck. Even as his bond wraps around my soul. Even as logic screams this is impossible.
The pack meeting happens on the fifth day.
Council members gather to discuss winter preparations—food stores, patrol schedules, contingency plans. I sit beside Hector, trying to project confidence I don't feel, when Connor speaks from across the table.
"Perhaps the Luna has opinions on breeding schedules?" His smile is cruel, calculated. "After all, she's had extensive experience with Silvermoon males. Surely she can offer insights on which bloodlines produce the strongest offspring."
Talia giggles beside him. Several council members shift uncomfortably. Hector's hand tightens on my thigh—he's about to respond, to defend me, to handle this like he handles everything.
But something inside me snaps. "You rejected me publicly, Connor."
My voice carries through the hall with authority I didn't know I possessed. Luna command—the kind that makes wolves freeze. That demands obedience from pack members regardless of rank.
The room goes absolutely silent. Connor's smirk falters.
"But I'm still here." I stand, and Hector's hand falls away from my thigh. "I'm still standing. And I'm your Luna now, recognized by the pack, chosen by your Alpha. And you?"
I let my gaze rake over him with the same contempt he once showed me.
"You're still bitter. Still angry that the 'worthless' omega you discarded is now above you in every way that matters."
Connor's face flushes deep red—rage and humiliation warring across his features.
"Maybe," I continued, my voice dropping to something dangerous, "the problem was never me. Maybe you’re too weak to be anything more than a bitter child playing at being Alpha while real leaders—" I glance at Hector, at the council members watching with varying degrees of shock and approval, "—do the actual work."
The silence stretches while Connor sits frozen. His face murderous but his mouth shut.
Even Hector looks surprised—impressed, but surprised. His eyes hold something I can't quite read. Pride, yes. But also... calculation. Like he's reassessing what I'm capable of.
The meeting continues, but everything has shifted. Council members direct questions to me now, not just through Hector. They listen when I speak, weigh my opinions as valuable instead of decorative.
That night, Hector takes me with an intensity that borders on insanity.
He's rougher than usual—his hands gripping hard enough to bruise, his teeth marking my shoulders and breasts, his thrusts deep and demanding. But he still makes me come, still whispers praise even as he claims me.
"So proud of you," he growls against my throat. "My perfect Luna. So strong. So beautiful. Mine."
When it's over and he holds me close, stroking my hair, he murmurs more praise. How incredible I was today. How the pack respects me now. How I'll be an amazing leader at his side.
At his side. Not beside him—at his side.
Eventually his breathing evens out, his grip loosening as sleep claims him.
But I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my fingers tracing the mark on my neck.
It burns. Not painfully, but constantly—a reminder that I'm bonded, claimed, owned in ways that go beyond ceremony. The bond itself feels stronger each day, roots digging deeper, making the thought of leaving, of questioning, of wanting anything different feel like betraying something sacred.
But it doesn't feel right.
The wildflowers on my window ledge have wilted. But tomorrow morning, I know, there will be new ones.
I see you. I remember. I'm still here.
While Hector's mark keeps burning.