Page 15 of Alpha's Revenge Luna

I can’t sleep. The unusual sensation of restlessness lingers in my bones, a vague discomfort prickling at the edges of my mind. Emery. The thought of her engulfs me, the sweet, almost addictive taste of her blood still clinging to my tongue.

She moves next to me, her sleep-disturbed movements stirring something primal within me.

The soft curve of her ass brushes against my groin, invoking an uncomfortable arousal that seems to pulsate through me.

My nostrils flare, taking in her scent as she tries to roll over.

However, the handcuff attaching our wrists prevent her.

Reaching into my pocket, I retrieve the key and unlock it.

After I set the handcuffs aside on the bedside dresser, her beautiful eyes flutter open, and they remind me of the color of blue.

They are open, but she is far from awake, her eyes vacant of consciousness.

She smiles in her sleep, making me wonder if it’s my scent that she is picking up on because I know she wouldn’t smile at me willingly.

“What is it?” I murmur, watching as she sniffs me.

Her eyes flutter shut, and she starts drifting off deeply into sleep.

This proves my thoughts, her instincts, unrestrained by her waking mind, recognize me in some way.

Her pulse thrums softly against my lips, her very essence drawing me in.

I want her, need to claim her, but something holds me back.

These feelings are foreign to me, a concept I can’t seem to understand in the slightest. Protectiveness toward her flares up, mingling with an urge to dominate and love her.

These foreign feelings breed guilt in their wake.

Anastasia, my late Luna, my son’s mother, and Emery are polar opposites.

Anastasia might not have loved me, and I certainly didn’t love her, but we had an agreement, a semblance of a bond forged from mutual need.

The memory of her tugs at my conscience, making Emery’s presence in my arms feel like a violation.

A flood of memories engulfs me as my thoughts drift back to the catastrophic event that wiped out half my pack.

Our picturesque town tainted with blood and death.

The first mangled body we stumbled upon is forever ingrained in my mind.

My gut had known something was off, the wind carried an unfamiliar scent, and the air tasted different.

Every instinct was screaming at me, but I ignored them.

I believed it was my paranoia as we hadn’t had an attack in seven years.

We had become complacent, and it nearly cost me our pack.

I hate to think of what would have happened had we not turned around when we did.

We would have come home to no pack at all.

I’ve always questioned time; it seems almost unfathomable to me how people were always in such a rush.

I suppose immortality removes the fear of running out of it.

Until that night, time was something I took for granted.

It was that night when I realized twenty minutes was all it took to wipe out half of my people; all those lives wiped out, wasted, leaving nothing behind except a body count.

It took twenty minutes for our lives to be irrevocably changed forever.

I’ve never questioned time so much in life, except that night.

I questioned my decision to attend the business meeting despite something churning in my gut to cancel.

I question every mistake. Those twenty minutes it took to run back here might as well have been hours or years.

Each second ticking away was another life taken.

The memory of that fateful night floods my brain, unraveling a reel of horrific images.

Bodies were strewn about the streets, red splattered against the white snow.

Howls of pain mixed in with the scent of death in the air.

Then finding Anastasia, her limp body cold in the snow as she tried to flee the pack house.

Now, there are so few of us left. The entire town since then has taken sanctuary within its confines.

Everyone is scared; and there seems to be strength in what small numbers we have.

Scared because now we are outnumbered, and another attack could happen at any moment, especially after word spreads.

It’s just a matter of time before someone else comes for my pack.

Emery stirs beside me, and I can feel her peering up at me through half-lidded eyes.

She’s still groggy from sleep, so she doesn’t do anything else apart from staring at me for a moment before closing her eyes again and falling asleep once more.

Her presence does something to me that I don’t understand.

The urge to protect her overwhelms me as I wrap my arms around her petite frame, inhaling deeply to take in her scent mixed with mine.

It’s soothing and comforting. Anastasia’s face flashes before my eyes and guilt washes over me in waves.

I shouldn’t be having these feelings for someone else when I should still be mourning my late Luna and the mother of my son. A son I would never meet.

My grip on Emery loosens as thoughts of Anastasia press down on my heart, an invisible weight making breathing difficult. What little space between us is quickly filled by Emery drawing closer to me in search of warmth and comfort without even realizing what she’s doing or why she’s doing it.

Much like the way I feel about Emery now. There’s an instinct there I can’t quite comprehend. Something tugs at me, and I don’t understand why it bothers me, but it does.

I can’t ignore the pull between us, a bond slowly forming, becoming more potent with each passing second. She keeps stirring, wriggling again in her sleep, the pull to her stronger as she tries to move closer.

At first, I believe she is seeking out warmth as she nestles closer, her nails scratching my chest as she moves closer.

Since most run from me, I find it amusing as she does, nose sniffing, hands pawing, touching.

She’s yet to shift, or to fully understand what’s happening between us.

But I know, and I can’t help but wonder how intense our bond will be once her wolf awakens.

Her nails dig into my chest as she moves, and I roll my eyes, knowing it’s my scent she craves and not me.

I have to remind myself of this as I grip her arm and pull her onto my chest. Almost instantly she wriggles higher, burying her nose in my neck, her legs draped over me.

I let out a breath, trying not to think of her body so warm and welcoming rubbing against me as she moves trying to get comfortable.

Her breathing evens out, and my fingers trail up her spine when finally she stops moving and starts snoring softly, the sound almost a purr.

But something is certainly amiss with Emery. Maybe it’s a bit of a shock that is nagging at me. I didn’t believe mates existed, heck I don’t even know anyone who has actually found a fated mate; they are that rare.

Perhaps Deacon knows what I can’t seem to figure out about her.

Deacon is another anomaly I wasn’t expecting, but then again, I haven’t met another Hybrid, so I wasn’t certain if I even had a wolf.

Imagine my own surprise when I learned that indeed I do.

Deacon’s bloodlust is just as untamable as mine.

Sensing my thoughts, he comes forward and answers the question that is stopping sleep from taking me.

“She isn’t of Alpha blood,” Deacon, my wolf, voices out his opinion, sensing the question warring in my mind.

“Two Alphas raised her,” I retort, defending the notion I’d begun to accept.

“She may have had two Alphas raise her, but they definitely aren’t her parents,” Deacon states, his tone as cold as ice. I try to make sense of what he is implying.

“Are you surprised?” he questions, sensing my disbelief.

“I am because she’s so defiant, so unafraid to challenge me,” I confess.

A silence falls between us, Deacon contemplating my words. “Environment, mindset. All these things come into play but besides the strange taste of her blood. If she were Alpha-born, we would struggle to command her. She was commanded easily. Almost effortlessly.”

I have to admit. He has a point. Emery possesses the traits of an Alpha-born, but my commands seem to hold their sway over her with little effort.

If she were an Alpha she would have some resistance.

Her lack of though can be dangerous, commanding her could seriously hurt her or kill her if I used too much of my aura on her.

And her defiance? It doesn’t irk me as it should.

Instead, I find amusement in her defiance.

It makes me want to push her buttons just to see her tiny claws come out.

Whereas if she was an Alpha, I’d want to kill her, and it’s why I’ve struggled with previous attempts at trying to find a chosen, high-born mate; I’ve killed each one except Anastasia.

Anastasia was brought up completely differently from Emery, making me believe there is truth to Deacon’s words, mindset, and environment.

Anastasia was submissive due to her volatile upbringing.

There is a reason no packs have two Alpha males; it would be a bloodbath.

The fact she also submitted so easily and gave in seems to be more of an “Omega trait,” Deacon offers, and I press my lips together; she certainly fits the profile.

This observation leaves me pondering. It raises more questions than it answers. “Well, that leaves me with less information about her. If she isn’t their daughter, then whose daughter is she?”

“I could take a guess, but that means her parents are dead. However, getting her to believe or even doubt her childhood won’t be easy. She’s brainwashed into thinking they’re her parents.” The implications hit me like a ton of bricks.

“Which means she was taken as a baby.”

“It explains why her scent differed so vastly from her brother’s.” Being a Hybrid, I have an enhanced sense of smell. Sometimes, werewolves struggle to identify family as their sense of smell is not as acute.

As the realization sets in, I’m left with a sleeping Emery in my arms and a mind full of unsettling questions. She isn’t of Alpha blood, her parents are not her real parents, and I’ve potentially got a mate that’s oblivious to who she is and also oblivious to our bond until she shifts.

I let out a sigh, my thoughts running wild. We’ll be able to learn more in a few days once she shifts.

“What if she never shifts?” Deacon asks.

“Pardon?” I ask him.

“Shouldn’t we be able to sense her wolf? I sense nothing,” he adds. But I was sure I sensed her wolf, saw the flash of her eyes, and how does that explain her reaction to the bond?”

Deacon appears to question his words.

“True, maybe it is our paranoia setting in, fear of losing her,”

“Or maybe we worry she’ll be as defenseless as Anastasia,” I tell him. If anything, this makes the situation even more complicated.

As I gaze down at Emery’s sleeping face, all these worries seem trivial in comparison to the warmth and comfort that engulfs me whenever she is near. The pull toward her is undeniable, and regardless of what happens next, I’m certain nothing could change how much I need her.