The Last Luna

The iron bars of my cage bit into my skin with bitter cold.

I gripped them until my knuckles went white, surrounded by one hundred and forty-nine other Southern she-wolves just like me. Some wept openly, others trembled like leaves, and a few had already surrendered to numb resignation. We all knew what tonight would bring—Northern Alphas would choose us like prized livestock at market.

Moonlight filtered through the forest canopy, casting silver shadows across the clearing they called the "Auction Grounds."

"Number 117, step forward."

The guard's key grated in my lock. I drew a steadying breath and forced my spine straight.

For ten years—since I'd survived the massacre that claimed my pack when I was thirteen—I'd known this moment would come. I'd stolen Lily Holloway's identity, voluntarily entered the debt servant registry, all to infiltrate the beating heart of the Northern Alliance.

Revenge demanded patience. And survival.

I stepped from my cage onto the display platform. Blinding spotlights made it impossible to see past their glare, but I could feel them—a sea of Alpha wolves below, watching with hungry, predatory eyes that seemed to strip me bare.

Two Alphas began snarling at each other, their voices rising dangerously. I caught fragments—"Silverton bloodline" and "purest Southern Beta"—that made my heart stutter. Had they recognized me? No, impossible. I'd masked my scent with suppressants and changed my eye color. They were simply appraising my breeding potential.

The argument exploded into violence. One Alpha's fist cracked against another's jaw, spraying blood. I stumbled backward instinctively, but someone crashed into my cage, sending me tumbling to the forest floor.

Then the entire world went silent.

Not quiet—silent. An oppressive, suffocating stillness that pressed against my lungs. Every Alpha in the clearing dropped their gaze, even the two who'd been fighting moments before fell to their knees in submission.

I felt it then—a wave of Alpha dominance so powerful it nearly drove me to my belly.

I looked up and saw him.

He moved through the crowd like death itself, wearing a black coat that billowed behind him. His shirt was open at the throat, revealing the corded muscle beneath. Dark hair caught the moonlight like obsidian, but his eyes—God, his eyes were molten silver, sharp as blade edges, achingly familiar.

My breath died in my throat.

It couldn't be. Dante was dead, had been for ten years. I'd seen his broken body myself, hanging from walls like a warning.

But this Northern Alpha approaching me—his silhouette, the sharp angles of his face, even the predatory grace of his stride—it was like staring at a ghost.

He stopped before me. Those silver eyes looked down without a trace of warmth, cold as winter starlight.

"Mine."

One word, rumbling from deep in his chest, carrying absolute possession and undeniable command.

I stared up at him, my mind fracturing. That's when I noticed the necklace at his throat—a wolf fang carved with the letters "D.S." My heart nearly stopped. Dante's fang. The same one he'd lost to a Northern whelp in a border skirmish.

This wolf was that whelp.

Ten years ago, at nineteen, he'd claimed Dante's fang as a trophy. Now, at twenty-nine, he was claiming Dante's intended mate as well.

Fate was a cruel bitch.

He extended his hand, palm up. After a heartbeat's hesitation, I placed mine against it. His fingers closed around mine—large, warm, gripping with just enough pressure to remind me I belonged to him now.

"What do they call you?" he asked.

We sat in his black SUV as the forest blurred past the windows. I occupied the passenger seat while he drove, the interior saturated with his scent—cedar and smoke, wild and dangerous. It was familiar yet wrong. Dante had smelled of pine and morning frost, cleaner somehow.

"Lily Holloway," I managed, surprised by how steady my voice sounded.

He glanced at me, silver eyes gleaming in the dashboard light. "I'll call you Sage. I don't care for Lily."

I nodded mutely.

Names didn't matter anymore. Seraphina Silverton had died ten years ago in a pool of her family's blood.

"Do you know who I am?" The question came suddenly, cutting through the engine's purr.

"Kieran Ashford, Supreme Alpha of the Northern Alliance." The name tasted like ash on my tongue. Every Southern wolf knew it—the legendary Alpha who'd unified the entire West Coast in a decade of blood and conquest. One of the wolves who'd orchestrated my family's destruction.

He seemed satisfied and fell silent again. The quiet gave me time to think, to wonder why he'd chosen me. Random selection? Or had he somehow recognized the Silverton bloodline beneath my carefully constructed mask?

If it was the latter, I'd be dead before dawn.

The SUV entered downtown Seattle's gleaming heart, stopping before a tower of glass and steel. Ashford Tower—Northern Alliance headquarters. Kieran bypassed the main entrance, leading me to a private elevator that climbed toward the stars.

The penthouse doors opened to reveal something beyond luxury.

Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased Seattle's glittering sprawl, the city lights like fallen stars. But what stopped my heart cold was the massive oil painting dominating the living room wall.

A portrait of a she-wolf.

She wore flowing white silk, chestnut hair cascading over bare shoulders, amber eyes gazing out with devastating tenderness. Her face... God, her face was almost a mirror of my own.

I knew exactly who she was. Celeste Thorne—Kieran's former fiancée, now mated to his half-brother.

So that was it. I hadn't been chosen for my bloodline or my body. I'd been selected for this face, to be her replacement, her echo.

The irony cut deep—he was Dante's replacement too.

We were each other's shadows, destined to wound one another in this twisted game.

Kieran moved behind me, silent as smoke. I felt his breath ghost across my nape, his fingers barely brushing my shoulder, raising goosebumps along my skin.

"Take off your clothes." The command was soft, almost gentle, but absolute.

I turned to face him. Those silver eyes held no heat, no desire—only a bottomless emptiness that made my soul ache.

He was looking at me but not seeing me. He was looking through me at the she-wolf in white silk on his wall.

My hands moved to my buttons. One, two, three. The cool air kissed my exposed skin, raising a shiver I couldn't suppress. He stood motionless as carved marble, watching without truly seeing.

My clothes pooled at my feet, moonlight painting my bare skin silver.

Kieran finally moved, approaching with predatory grace. His fingers traced my cheek, light as butterfly wings, reverent as prayer.

"You'll survive this," he whispered, seemingly to me but perhaps to himself. "Obey me, and you'll want for nothing."

I didn't answer. Survival had never been about obedience—it required endurance, cunning, and the infinite patience to wait for the perfect moment to strike.

He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me toward the bedroom like a bride.

Or a sacrifice.