Replaced By A Fake: The True Luna's Revenge

The sound of my bone snapping echoed through the bathroom like a gunshot.

Austen didn't even blink as he broke my hand for the ninety-sixth time.

His reason? I was in the shower and missed a call from Joyce, the woman he believes saved his life fifteen years ago.

But the nightmare didn't end there. When Joyce cut her own arm with glass and framed me for poisoning her, Austen didn't check the evidence.

He dragged me to the damp basement and picked up a mechanical drill coated in pure silver.

"This hand threw the vase," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm.

He drilled a hole straight through my palm.

He gave Joyce the precious healing serum for a tiny scratch, while leaving me with permanent nerve damage, claiming my pain was the only way to pay his life debt to her.

He calls this justice. He calls me the villain.

But he is a blind, arrogant fool.

He doesn't know that fifteen years ago, it was me who crawled into that burning car. It was my White Wolf blood that healed him. Joyce just stole the credit when I passed out.

Looking at the smoking hole in my hand, the last ember of love finally died.

I opened my secure server and messaged his sworn enemy, Alpha Dalton.

"I have the fortress blueprints. The price is extraction."

Tonight, his submissive wife dies, and the Architect goes rogue.

Chapter 1

Alana POV:

The sound of bone surrendering to force was louder than I expected. It cracked through the silence of the master bathroom like a gunshot-a wet, sickening snap.

I fell to my knees, clutching my left hand. The pain was blinding, a white-hot spike driving straight into my nervous system. It wasn't just physical; it was the crushing weight of his Alpha aura, a gravitational force designed to make every instinct in my body scream submit.

"You didn't answer her call, Alana," Austen said.

His voice was flat, clinical. He stood over me, adjusting his cufflinks, looking at me not as his wife, but as an inconvenience on his schedule.

"I... I was in the shower," I gasped, sweat stinging my eyes as my body tried to knit the shattered metacarpals back together. But I was weak. My healing was sluggish, suppressed by years of stress.

"Joyce needed her medication. Because you were 'in the shower,' she had a panic attack. She could have died."

He stepped over me and walked out. He didn't look back.

I curled into a ball on the cold floor. My phone buzzed. Joyce.

It was a selfie. She was holding a glass of champagne, and on her finger sat a ring made of moonstone-a relic supposed to amplify healing. The Blood Moon Pack heirloom. My birthright.

Look at how it glows, Alana, the text read. My skin feels so soft. Does your hand hurt? Don't worry, Austen is coming to comfort me now.

A sob caught in my throat. I wanted to scream, but the air around me suddenly grew heavy again. Austen's voice sliced through my mind, an intrusive, icy broadcast.

Clean yourself up. You smell like distress. It upsets Joyce.

The Mind-Link. For most, a tool for love. For me, a leash.

I dragged myself up. The pain in my hand throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I needed to know why. Why did he hate me so much? I had done everything. I had hidden my true nature, my White Wolf lineage, just to be the obedient Omega he wanted.

I slipped out of the bathroom. The house was quiet. Austen had left for the guest wing.

I moved like a ghost toward his study. I knew about the audio logs. Austen was a tech mogul; he recorded everything, a habit born of paranoia. I sat at his desk, bypassing his biometric encryption with a few keystrokes from my good hand. I designed these firewalls. Breaking them was like opening a door I'd locked myself.

I found the file dated today. Play.

Austen's voice filled the room, sounding weary. "I broke her hand today. The ninety-sixth punishment."

Pause.

"It makes me sick," the recording continued. "Every time I hurt her, my wolf howls. He scratches at the back of my mind, calling her Mate. But I have to suppress him. I owe Joyce a life debt. She pulled me from the burning wreckage when the Rogues attacked fifteen years ago. She lost her ability to shift because she burned her core to save me."

I froze.

"Alana is the price I pay," Austen's voice said. "Her pain pays my debt to Joyce. Justice is more important than the Moon Goddess's pairing."

The recording ended.

Justice? He called this justice?

Fifteen years ago. The Rogue attack on the highway.

Memory hit me like a physical blow. I was seven. The burning car. The boy with dark hair, chest crushed. The smell of gasoline and copper.

I didn't run. I crawled into the wreckage. I placed my small hands on his chest. I felt the strange, silver fire of my White Wolf blood-a lineage hunted to near extinction-pour out of me. I pushed every ounce of my life force into him until the darkness took me.

When I woke up in the hospital, my parents swore me to secrecy. They will hunt you, they said.

Joyce hadn't saved him. Joyce had found us after I passed out. She had stolen my miracle.

"You fool," I whispered. "You blind, arrogant idiot."

A sharp pain twisted in my gut. Rejection. My inner wolf, usually dormant, lifted her head. She was a creature of snow and starlight, and she was weeping.

He punishes us for saving him, she whimpered.

I couldn't stay. If I stayed, he would kill me, piece by piece, believing he was righteous.

I opened a secure browser.

To: Alpha Dalton, Silver Creek Pack.

From: The Architect.

Subject: The Fortress Blueprints.

I have the designs for the anti-Rogue bastions you wanted. The price is extraction.

Dalton was Austen's sworn enemy. Ruthless, but fair.

Send.

I looked down at my hand. Swollen. Purple. The pain brought clarity. Austen didn't just break my bones; he broke the illusion.

I wasn't his wife. I was his scapegoat.

The scapegoat was going rogue.

Alana POV:

The reply came within three minutes.

Consider it done. I'll be there.

I deleted the message, wiped the RAM, and scrubbed the router logs. One hour. One hour to erase three years.

I went to the bedroom and pulled out the Divorce Agreement. In our world, legal divorce was messy, but a Mate Rejection was spiritual law. I needed to sign the legal papers first to untangle our assets, to show him I wanted nothing from his blood money.

I placed the papers on his desk, hidden under a stack of reports.

Just as I turned to leave, the front door slammed.

My scent spiked with fear. He wasn't supposed to be back.

"Alana!"

The Alpha Command in his voice hit my knees like a sledgehammer. I bit my tongue until I tasted copper to stay standing.

Austen walked in. Agitated. Dark hair messy. Eyes flashing gold. His wolf was fighting for control.

He stopped, nostrils flaring. He was inhaling my scent. Rain and jasmine. To him, it was heroin. I saw his pupils dilate. He took a step toward me, reaching out.

Mate, his wolf seemed to whisper.

For a second, the air crackled with the bond. The undeniable pull.

Then, a high-pitched scream shattered the moment.

"Austen! Help me! She put glass in it!"

Joyce.

Austen's face hardened. The gold vanished, replaced by steel gray. He pushed past me, slamming my shoulder into the doorframe.

We ran to the guest room. Joyce was on the floor, clutching her arm. Blood oozed between her fingers. Beside her, a shattered vase.

"I just wanted to talk to her," Joyce sobbed, playing the victim with Oscar-worthy precision. "I asked if her hand was okay, and she... she threw the vase at me. She called me a leech."

"I didn't," I said, voice shaking. "I haven't seen her all night."

"Liar!" Joyce shrieked. She revealed a shallow cut on her forearm. "Look what she did!"

I smelled it then. The faint, acrid scent of Wolfsbane on the glass. Stale. Pre-applied. She had laced the glass before cutting herself.

Austen turned to me. The temperature dropped.

"You used Wolfsbane?" he growled.

"Austen, use your nose! The scent is stale! She put it there herself!" I pleaded.

Austen grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. His grip was bruising. "My wolf wants to rip the throat out of anyone who accuses you."

A flicker of hope.

"But my wolf is an animal guided by biology. I am guided by honor. You attacked the woman who saved my life."

"I saved your life!" I screamed. The truth ripped out of me.

Austen froze. Then, he laughed. Dark. Hollow. "You? You were a child. You passed out from fear in the backseat. Joyce carried both of us."

He shoved me away. "Stay here. I need to get the antidote."

He turned to Joyce, voice softening. "I'll be right back."

He left.

I stood there, panting. Joyce stopped crying instantly. The tears evaporated. She looked at me, a smirk curling her lips.

"You're pathetic," she whispered. "I own his guilt, Alana. Which means I own him."

"I'm leaving," I said quietly. "You can have him. You deserve each other."

I turned to the door. I had to get to the access road.

Blocked.

A massive Beta warrior stood there, holding a cloth dripping with liquid. Metallic. Sharp.

High-concentration liquid Silver.

"Alpha's orders," the Beta grunted. "Containment."

"No," I gasped.

He lunged. I tried to dodge, but my broken hand slowed me down. He clamped the cloth over my face.

The silver burned like acid. My lungs seized. The last thing I saw was Joyce, checking her nails.

"Make sure you tie her tight," she said. "We have a long night ahead."

Alana POV:

I woke to the sound of a motor whirring. A high-pitched mechanical whine.

I was strapped to a metal chair in the basement. Damp concrete. Rust. My head felt heavy, throbbing from the silver fumes.

"Ninety-seven," a voice said.

Austen stood at a workbench. He was adjusting a tool.

"Please," I croaked. "Austen, stop. I signed the papers. I'm leaving."

He turned. In his hand was a handheld mechanical drill. The bit wasn't steel; it was coated in shimmering, pure silver.

"You don't get to leave," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Not until you learn. You tried to poison her with Wolfsbane. An eye for an eye. But since you heal..."

He walked toward me.

"No, Austen! Check the security logs! Look at the evidence!"

He grabbed my left hand-the one he had already crushed.

"This hand threw the vase," he said.

"I didn't!"

He didn't hesitate. He pressed the spinning drill bit into the center of my palm.

The scream tore from my throat, raw and animalistic.

It wasn't just pain; it was violation. The silver burned through skin, muscle, and bone, cauterizing as it went, preventing regeneration. It felt like he was pouring molten lava directly into my marrow.

My inner wolf howled, slamming against the mental walls, but the silver neutralized her.

Austen held the drill there. Five seconds. Ten. An eternity.

When he pulled it back, there was a neat, smoking hole through my hand.

I slumped, gasping, vision blurring.

The door opened. Dr. Evans, the Pack Healer, hurried in holding a vial of glowing green liquid. Regeneration Serum. Elder Tree extract. Priceless.

"Alpha," Dr. Evans said, looking at my hand with horror. "She needs this. The silver damage... it could be permanent nerve damage."

Austen took the vial. The green light reflected in his cold eyes.

"Joyce has a scar on her arm," Austen said. "She heals slowly. She needs this to ensure there is no mark."

"But Alpha... Joyce's wound is a scratch. Alana's hand is destroyed."

"Give it to Joyce," Austen commanded. The Alpha tone brooked no argument.

"Yes, Alpha."

Austen walked over to me. He took a silver knife and sliced his own palm.

"We share this," he whispered, holding his bleeding hand near my face. The scent of pine and rain was now nauseating. "I bleed when you bleed. This is our penance."

"You are insane," I whispered. "You aren't my mate. You're my executioner."

He flinched. A crack in the mask. But he sealed it quickly.

"I am saving your soul."

For two days, I was kept in the medical wing. Austen played the devoted husband. Feeding me soup. Stroking my hair. It was psychological torture. He refused to look at the hole he had drilled.

On the third morning, a text. He read it and stood up.

"Joyce is sad," he said. "She needs me."

He left.

I waited five minutes. I dragged my IV stand to the door.

Down the hall, Joyce stood by the window. Austen walked up to her. She threw her arms around him.

"I was so scared," she cried, loud enough for the whole floor to hear. "I thought you chose her."

"Never," Austen said. He kissed her.

Deep. Hungry. A public claim.

My stomach turned. I retched.

I looked down at my right hand. The Luna Candidate ring. A promise.

I pulled it off.

My knuckle was swollen, but I yanked until skin tore.

I walked to the biohazard bin. Bloody gauze. Needles.

I dropped the ring inside.

Clink.

The sound of a chain breaking.

I climbed back into bed. My inner wolf went silent. Hibernation. The first stage of a severed bond.

When Austen returned, he paused. Sniffed the air.

"Where is your ring?"

"I don't know," I lied, staring at the wall. "Must have fallen off when I was writhing in pain."

I heard his breath hitch. His wolf growled low, sensing the loss.

I didn't care. The Alana who loved him died in the basement.