[Xander’s POV]
I'm being destroyed slowly.
Every day, I watch Daphne become more Luna—more his. She walks through the pack house with growing confidence, her posture straighter, her voice carrying authority she didn't have weeks ago. Pack members bow. She mediates disputes. She sits at my father's right hand during meals, his mark visible on her throat, his scent on her skin.
And the pull toward her grows stronger.
It should fade. When someone bonds with their mate, the connection to others dulls—becomes background noise, easily ignored. But what I feel for Daphne isn't dulling. It's intensifying. Like there's an incomplete bond trying to form despite pack law saying it's impossible, despite her already being claimed.
My wolf doesn't understand impossibility. My wolf just knows she's ours. Meant to be ours. And watching another male—even my own father—touch her, claim her, own her is driving us both insane.
During training sessions with younger wolves, I'm more brutal than ever.
I push them past exhaustion into breakdown. Make them fight when they can barely stand. Correct technique with harder hits than necessary, faster strikes than they can defend against. I'm not teaching anymore—I'm seeking pain. Theirs. Mine. Anything to distract from the constant ache in my chest where a bond should be.
"Again," I snarl at Marcus, a promising young warrior who's already bleeding from a split lip. "You're too slow. Too weak. Again!"
He stumbles through the form, and I knock him down harder than I should. He hits the ground with a grunt, and several wolves watching the session exchange worried glances.
"Xander." Caleb's voice cuts through my haze. "That's enough."
I ignore him, hauling Marcus up by his shirt. "Get up. We're not done—"
"Yes, you are." Caleb steps between us, his expression grim. "Everyone, dismissed. Training's over."
The younger wolves scatter gratefully. Marcus limps away, supported by friends, leaving me alone with Caleb in the training yard.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Caleb demands once we're alone.
"Training." I turn to the practice dummies, needing something to hit that won't bleed.
"You're going to kill someone." He follows, relentless. "Or yourself. And I'm not sure which would be worse."
My fist connects with the dummy's head. The wood cracks. "Maybe that's the point."
"This is about her, isn't it?" Caleb's known me since we were children—knows when I'm hiding behind violence. "The Luna?"
I slam another punch into the dummy. The stand splinters. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Too bad." He grabs my shoulder, forcing me to face him. "You're my best friend, and I'm watching you self-destruct. So we're talking about it."
The silence stretches. Then, quietly: "She made her choice, Xander. You need to accept—"
"There was no choice!" The words explode from me with weeks of suppressed rage. "My father swooped in when she was at her most vulnerable. Offered protection, status, everything she desperately needed after Connor destroyed her. How could she say no? What choice did she really have?"
Caleb's expression softens. "That doesn't mean—"
"She doesn't love him." My hands clench into fists. "She's just grateful. There's a difference. Gratitude isn't love. Safety isn't happiness. But she can't see it because she's been so starved for kindness that she mistakes his manipulation for care."
"Even if that's true," Caleb says carefully, "you can't fight against gratitude and pack law. Challenging an Alpha for his Luna means death or exile. You know this."
"I know." The admission costs me everything. Tastes like failure and resignation and the death of something I didn't know I was capable of feeling.
Caleb grips my shoulder. "Then let her go. For your own sake, let her go before this destroys you completely."
But I can't. That's the problem. I can't let go of something that feels written in my bones, inevitable as sunrise, right in ways that have nothing to do with pack law or ceremony or my father's claim.
That night, I return to the pack house late.
I've been patrolling the borders—anything to avoid the dining hall, the knowing looks, the sight of them together. But the pack house draws me back like gravity, and I wander the halls aimlessly, looking for somewhere my wolf will settle.
My feet carry me to the library.
The door is slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the darkened corridor. I should keep walking. Should go to my room, lock the door, sleep off this restless agony.
Instead, I push the door open.
Daphne sits at the large oak table, surrounded by books on pack history and Luna protocol. She's still dressed from dinner—a deep blue dress that makes her skin glow—but her hair is falling from its pins, exhaustion evident in the slump of her shoulders.
She looks up when I enter, and something passes between us. Recognition. Heat. The pull that shouldn't exist but does anyway.
"You shouldn't be here alone," I say quietly, not moving from the doorway.
"The house is full of people." She closes the book she's reading with careful precision.
"I meant you shouldn't be alone with me." I step inside despite my better judgment. "Your mate wouldn't approve."
She flinches at the word mate. I catch it—the tiny recoil, the flash of something in her eyes that looks like pain or guilt or confusion.
"Hector trusts me," she says, but her voice lacks conviction.
"Hector owns you." The words come out harsher than I intend. "There's a difference."
Her spine straightens, Luna authority rising. "He doesn't own me. He respects me, protects me—"
"He parades you." My control fractures, days of watching this performance finally breaking through. "You're a trophy, Daphne. A pretty prize he displays at council meetings and pack functions. Look what I claimed. Look what's mine. Look how powerful I am."
"Stop it." She stands, her hands trembling. "Stop punishing me for surviving."
"I'm not punishing you." I move closer despite every instinct screaming to keep distance. "I'm just opening your eyes, since, obviously, you're completely blind."
The slap comes so fast I don't see it coming.
Her palm connects with my cheek—sharp, stinging, full of fury and pain and everything she's been holding back. The sound echoes through the library like a gunshot.
We freeze. Both breathing hard. Her hand still raised, my face turned from the impact.
Then something breaks.
Suddenly we're kissing—desperate, furious, full of tension and denial and impossible want. Her hands fist in my hair, pulling me down to her level. My grip finds her hips, lifting her onto the table, books scattering.
She tastes like desperation and confusion and something underneath that's purely her. My wolf surges forward, recognizing mate even though she already bears another's mark. My hands span her waist, feeling her tremble, feeling her respond with the same desperate hunger.
We break apart, both gasping for air. Her lips are swollen, her pupils blown wide. My hands are still on her hips, holding her on the table, keeping her close.
"This can't happen," she whispers, but her hands are still tangled in my hair. "I'm mated to your father. This is—this is wrong—"
"It's already happening." I press my forehead against hers, breathing her in. "You feel it too. This bond that's trying to form between us. It shouldn't be possible, but it is."
"I'm mated to your father," she repeats, like saying it enough times will make it true. Will make this thing between us disappear.
"You're bonded to my father." I pull back enough to meet her eyes. "It's not the same thing." I step between her thighs, pressing her back against the table.
Not letting her go, even if she thinks she wants to.