The Alpha's Silent Luna
img img The Alpha's Silent Luna img Chapter 2 2
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Chapter 6 6 img
Chapter 7 7 img
Chapter 8 8 img
Chapter 9 9 img
Chapter 10 10 img
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Chapter 2 2

The sound of a heartbeat- Slow... Heavy... Steady. Annabelle lay awake in the dark, her body nestled beneath warm blankets, but her thoughts restless. She could still feel the ghost of Alfred's touch from the night before-the moment his hand closed around hers in front of the entire pack. The tension in his fingers. The possessive heat in his palm.

He had claimed her.

Not with a mark. Not with a kiss. But with a look- a defiance thrown into the faces of every wolf who dared question the bond between them.

And now, everything had changed. The pack knew who she was. But they didn't trust her. And Alfred... she didn't know if he trusted himself.

She sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The fire had gone out, leaving the room in a haze of soft shadows. The air smelled faintly of cedar and smoke. She pulled her robe tighter around her, padding silently across the wooden floor to the window. Snow drifted gently outside. The moon was low- bloated and golden as it dipped beyond the horizon.

She watched it for a long time, her fingers curled against the cold glass.

She hadn't shifted in almost eighteen months. Not since her mother died. Not since the village burned and she'd run with nothing but her scars and a soul that still trembled with each howl in the night. Her wolf had gone quiet after that.

Afraid.

Just like her.

But something was waking again. Slowly. Cautiously. It wasn't just the safety of the Alpha's territory. It was him. His presence. His command. His unwillingness to look away from her even when he clearly didn't know what to do with her. The bond between them hummed. Faint but alive.

She turned from the window and began to dress.

-

The training fields were alive with movement by midmorning. Warriors clashed in drills, their bodies slick with sweat as they shifted, spun, and struck under the watchful eyes of the Beta, Gavin. His voice barked over the clash of metal and muscle, commanding order like a second-in-command born of iron.

Annabelle lingered near the edge of the field, wrapped in a long coat. Some of the pack members glanced her way-some with curiosity, others with suspicion-but none spoke. None dared to approach.

Until Gavin noticed her.

He jogged toward her, wiping sweat from his brow. "Annabelle," he greeted, not warmly but not unkindly either. "Didn't expect to see you out here."

She offered him a small smile and held up her notepad.

Watching helps me understand.

He tilted his head, reading quickly. "Understand what?"

She scribbled again. Your Alpha. Your people. What you protect.

Gavin's expression changed-less guarded, more thoughtful.

"He sees more than he lets on," he said, nodding toward Alfred at the far end of the field. "Always has. Even when he doesn't say much."

She followed Gavin's gaze.

Alfred stood with his arms crossed, observing the warriors with a gaze that cut sharper than any blade. His black shirt clung to his torso, the faint outline of old scars peeking through. But it was the expression on his face that struck her-composed, but distant. As though a part of him was always somewhere else... Or with someone else. She turned away before he caught her staring.

"You should speak with him," Gavin said after a beat. "Even if you can't use your voice. He needs... grounding. Something to remind him this isn't just war and duty."

Do you think he regrets me? she wrote quickly.

Gavin frowned.

"No. I think he's afraid of what you mean to him."

Why?

"Because you didn't come in a dream, Annabelle," he said softly. "You walked in bleeding."

-

That afternoon, Alfred summoned her to his office. The room was dim, lined with books, maps, and relics of old wars. A fire burned low in the hearth, casting a muted glow over the worn leather armchairs and the massive desk that dominated the room.

He didn't stand when she entered.

He simply gestured to the chair across from him. She sat.

"I received word from one of the northern patrols," he said, voice clipped. "A rogue pack crossed into our borders last night near Hollow Ridge. The scouts tracked them for several hours. They lost them before dawn."

Annabelle's blood ran cold.

Hollow Ridge was barely twenty miles from where she'd been found.

"They could be the same ones who attacked your village," he continued. "We're not certain yet. But I want to be."

She nodded.

"I'm taking a team north at dusk."

She blinked in surprise. You're leading the mission yourself?

He raised an eyebrow. "You disapprove?"

She quickly shook her head. It's just dangerous.

Alfred leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. "Everything is dangerous, Annabelle. Especially anything worth protecting."

Her throat tightened.

You don't have to go alone.

"I won't be alone. Gavin, Rhea, and two trackers will come. We move silently. Swiftly."

She hesitated, then scribbled: Let me come.

The silence that followed was thick.

Alfred stood. "No."

I can help.

"You're not healed. You haven't shifted. You're not a warrior."

*But I know how they move. I know how they hunt.

His jaw clenched. He stepped closer, towering over her. "And if they recognize you? If they scent your blood and see the bond? You'll be dead before I can blink."

I'd rather die standing than hiding.

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then he walked away.

And said nothing.

-

That night, she stood by the gates anyway.

Dressed in dark clothing, a scarf wrapped around her throat, boots laced high. Her eyes met his as he approached the waiting horses.

Alfred stopped. "You're serious."

She nodded once.

He sighed. Deeply. "If anything happens-"

I'll run.

He smirked despite himself. "Of course you will."

-

The forest was different at night.

The trees whispered in languages older than memory. The wind carried secrets. And the wolves-silent and swift-moved like shadows beneath the pale eye of the moon.

Annabelle rode behind Gavin, her eyes constantly scanning the underbrush.

Alfred led at the front, his senses tuned to every sound.

By midnight, they reached the ridge. The scent hit her first. Ash. Blood. Wet fur.

She climbed down slowly, her knees aching as she approached the half-burned ruins of what looked like an abandoned outpost. The scent of rogue wolves clung to the charred wood like oil.

And then... something familiar.

Faint.

Her heart thudded. She moved toward a broken doorframe, kneeling beside it. Her fingers brushed a jagged mark carved into the wood.

She froze.

The same symbol.

A crescent slashed through by a claw.

She'd seen it before-on the wall of the home she'd grown up in. On the corpse of her mother. On the trees where her brother had died.

Her breath caught.

Alfred appeared beside her, crouching.

"What is it?" he asked.

She pointed to the mark.

Then scribbled quickly: They were hunting me. Not the village. Me.

He stared at her. "Why?"

I don't know.

His jaw tightened.

"Then it's time we found out."

-

They returned just before dawn.

Annabelle slept most of the day, dreams fragmented and stained in red.

By dusk, she was summoned again.

Alfred stood by the window, arms crossed, the fading light casting a glow across his face.

"They were hunting you," he said simply.

She nodded.

"We found one of them alive," he added.

Her eyes widened.

Alfred turned to her fully. "And he said a name before Gavin put him down."

Annabelle waited.

"Lowen," he said. "Does that mean anything to you?"

Her heart stopped.

She shook her head slowly.

But she was lying.

Because Lowen was her father's true name.

The one he'd buried when they ran from the old lands.

The one she hadn't spoken since she was six years old.

Alfred stepped closer. "Annabelle. What are you not telling me?"

She wrote, hand trembling.

If I tell you everything... will you still protect me?

He didn't hesitate.

"I already am."

And this time, when she looked into his eyes, she saw something new.

Not just duty.

Not just bond.

But choice.

The beginning of something neither of them could name.Yet.

---

The firelight flickered across the walls of Alfred's study, throwing their shadows in long, distorted lines. Annabelle sat motionless in the chair, her hands resting on her lap, the notepad untouched for the first time in hours.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

Lowen.

She hadn't heard that name in over a decade. Her father had made her promise to forget it when they went into hiding. He hadn't said why- only that the name carried death and secrets like a second skin. She hadn't questioned him then. She didn't get the chance. He was murdered by rogues when she was eight. Her mother followed two years later.

Annabelle had been running ever since.

Alfred poured himself a drink. The scent of whiskey curled through the air as he leaned against the window frame, watching her carefully.

"I think you know more than you're telling me," he said, not accusing, but direct.

She finally picked up the pencil.

I do.

He didn't blink.

But not everything. Not clearly. My memories... they've always been fragmented. Father never told me who he really was.

Alfred set the glass down. "You're saying this rogue attack- your village, your silence, all of it- is tied to your bloodline?"

Yes. Somehow. The mark they left-

She drew it again. The crescent slashed through by a claw.

He studied the image carefully.

"I've seen something like this before. In the archives beneath the old council hall," he murmured. "It's the symbol of a disbanded royal pack. Vanished after the Alpha War."

Annabelle's stomach twisted.

Alfred looked at her, hard. "You're descended from Alpha blood."

She nodded slowly.

He muttered a curse under his breath and turned away. "That makes things worse."

Why?

"Because that means you're not just a bonded Luna," he growled. "You're a threat. To them. To us. To everyone who remembers the old bloodlines."

Annabelle stood quickly, the notepad shaking in her hand.

I didn't ask for this.

"I know," he said.

Then don't treat me like I did. His jaw clenched, but he didn't argue. Instead, he crossed the room and stopped in front of her.

The bond pulsed between them, louder now. More present. It tugged at something in her core, drawing her closer even when fear coiled in her stomach like a viper.

"You understand what this means, don't you?" he asked.

She nodded.

"If word gets out-if anyone outside this pack finds out you're alive-"

They'll come for me.

"They'll come for us."

She looked up at him.

He didn't flinch. "And I will not lose another mate."

Her breath caught. He rarely used the word mate. Not since the first day. Not since he'd told her she couldn't possibly be the one he buried. Now he said it like a vow. Like a line drawn in blood.

"I need time," he said, voice hoarse. "Time to figure out how to protect you. How to protect the pack from what your past might drag back into our borders."

Then use me, she wrote. Don't hide me. Let me train. Let me shift again. Let me be useful.

He reached forward suddenly, his fingers brushing her scarred throat.

"You think this body is weak," he murmured. "But it's still standing."

She nodded.

"Then we start tomorrow."

The next morning, dawn broke in gold and silver across the eastern ridge. Annabelle stood in the training field beside Gavin and a slender, sharp-eyed woman named Rhea-the pack's second Beta and weapons trainer. Her hair was braided back tightly, and her expression held no warmth.

"She's never shifted?" Rhea asked, arms crossed.

"Not in over a year," Alfred replied from the edge of the clearing.

Rhea snorted. "Then she's no use in a fight."

Annabelle stepped forward. I don't need to shift to fight.

"Oh?" Rhea smirked. "Show me."

Annabelle nodded once.

The next few minutes were brutal. Rhea moved like wind, striking fast and sharp. Annabelle was slower, rusty, but determined. She dodged what she could, blocked what she couldn't, and absorbed every hit like it fed her fury.

She didn't shift.

But her instincts stirred.

Her wolf-slumbering so long-growled faintly from within. As if awakening to the taste of fire again.

By the end, Annabelle stood breathless and bruised but unbowed.

Rhea circled her once, then nodded in approval. "She learns."

Alfred's eyes burned with something close to pride.

And something else.

Possession.

-

The days passed. Annabelle trained at dawn, learned pack law by day, and sketched at night. Her body grew stronger. Faster. Her reflexes sharpened. She was still mute, still recovering, but the haunted look she wore the night she arrived had begun to fade.

So had Alfred's distance.

One night, they stood on the balcony overlooking the valley. Moonlight bathed the trees in silver.

"You're different than I expected," he said suddenly.

She raised a brow and scribbled: And what did you expect?

"A broken girl with a cursed bond."

You still think the bond is a curse?

"No," he admitted. "Not anymore."

She turned toward him, the breeze catching the edges of her hair.

Then what is it?

He was quiet for a moment.

Then: "A second chance I don't deserve."

Maybe we both don't. But we got it anyway. He didn't speak again. Just reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered against her skin.

And she didn't flinch.

-

But peace never lasts long in a werewolf's world. Two weeks later, a message arrived in blood. A body- dumped just outside the Crescent Vale borders. A rogue wolf, throat slashed open, and carved into his chest, a familiar mark:

The Crescent with the Claw. Annabelle stared at it in horror. Gavin's face paled. Alfred read the message attached. His expression turned to stone.

"They know she's alive."

            
            

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