Emma stood frozen as Brandon's voice cut through the tension of the chamber. "What would you do if I claim your lips right now?" he asked again, low and teasing. She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again, trying to find words that wouldn't betray her racing heartbeat. His gaze held her captive—soft, yet commanding—and she struggled to keep any involuntary reaction at bay.
"N…nothing," Emma finally whispered, the words trembling on her lips as if admitting them aloud made them more dangerous. Brandon leaned closer, tilting his head. The heat from his presence pressed against her resolve. Then, before she could retreat, his lips brushed hers. The kiss was gentle, like a summer breeze stirring through autumn leaves, teasing her senses, but she clenched her hands, refusing to let him see her fall. Slowly, inevitably, she began to respond—tiny, hesitant movements—until the pull of his challenge became irresistible.
The countdown to the grand business gala had dwindled to mere hours. Emma's chest lifted with a strange, giddy exhilaration she hadn't expected. No one could know why her pulse raced—especially not her gossiping omegas—and part of that excitement was embarrassingly childish, almost shameful in its innocence.
Emma had never left Dark Moon Pack since birth. Her world had been confined to the bustling streets, towering offices, and narrow alleyways of the moonclan, living quietly under the watchful eyes of her pack adoptive elders. The thought of venturing into the world beyond the city stirred a mix of thrill and guilt. Being both the adopted daughter and the house's keeper made every adventure feel like a theft. But the larger obstacle was money; flying anywhere, especially by pack private aircraft, was a luxury far beyond her reach.
Naomi and Paige fussed over her hair relentlessly, braiding, curling, and teasing it until Emma almost forgot the world outside the mirrors. She imagined the private aircraft waiting, smooth and silent in its elegance. Her heart skipped wildly at the thought of stepping aboard for the first time. She pictured leaving the weight of her humble past thousands of feet below, her childhood insecurities reduced to mere dust in the sky.
Finally, Naomi and Paige stepped back, hands trembling from overwork. Emma's reflection was almost unrecognizable: long, flowing mermaid waves framed her face, each strand catching the light with intricate precision. She looked… breathtaking. Almost like she belonged to a world far above her own.
"Alpha's mate," Bernard called from the doorway, his tone clipped yet deferential. Emma turned, her stomach fluttering.
"Bernard," she echoed, testing the word on her tongue like it was foreign yet familiar.
"It's time, Luna."
Emma nodded, forcing herself to move gracefully. Naomi and Paige did some final touches, and she rose, a strange warmth blooming in her chest. She could almost imagine herself as an alpha's Luna, even if reality threatened to pull her down at any moment.
Naomi led her toward the elevator, the soft click of her heels on the marble floor echoing like a drumbeat. Minutes later, they arrived at the terrace roof—and Emma froze.
Ten armed wolves in worriors' uniforms patrolled the area, each one a shadow of discipline and danger. Brandon's own pack guards flanked the edges, weapons glinting under the terrace lights.
Her gaze drifted past the soldiers to a solo violinist, gracefully entertaining Brandon and three elegant she -wolves who laughed quietly at his side. None of them noticed Emma, though she could feel Brandon's eyes—his attention drawn elsewhere, fixated on the music and the smoke curling from his royal courtesan cigar. The display of wealth, the effortless command, the polished refinement of everyone around him—it all pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating.
An inferiority complex clawed at her chest. She felt small, unworthy, painfully aware of the gaps between their packs.
"Oh God… I can't do this… this howling union won't work," she whispered, a tremor threading through her voice.
"Is it them?" Naomi murmured softly, leaning close.
Emma shook her head, words tumbling in fragments. "The she-wolves… the… sophistication… the… everything!" Her hands twisted the fabric of her gown as if it could shield her from the weight of their packs.
"Move forward, he's waiting for you," Naomi instructed firmly, her voice a tether pulling Emma back to the moment.
Emma exhaled sharply, thoughts racing. Perhaps retreating to her chamber was the only refuge. There, she could focus on her novel, on the dream of writing a bestseller that could lift her from this invisible cage of wealth and expectation. She didn't need Brandon's approval, she decided, or the oppressive standards of a pack she felt unworthy to enter.
The elevator ride back to her chamber was silent. Emma felt Brandon's absence like a weight pressing against her back. She wasn't proud, not humiliated—he simply ignored her, or worse, let her doubt herself without a second thought.
"Naomi, please… go. I want to be left alone," Emma said when the elevator opened.
"Alright, Luna," Naomi bowed and retreated, leaving Emma to the solitude she craved. Tears traced silent paths down her cheeks as she moved toward her window.
Through the glass, she wondered why Brandon had claimed her at all. His glances had once hinted at affection, yet now, in the presence of others, he was cold and untouchable.
"Alpha's mate," Bernard called again.
"I'm not going," Emma replied, without turning to see him.
"What happened?" he asked, cautious but persistent.
"I changed my mind," she said flatly.
"The—"
"I don't want to go with you. Or anyone. Just… leave me," she interrupted.
Bernard muttered under his breath and withdrew. Blade slaps echoed faintly from the terrace below, a subtle reminder that Brandon's presence and patience were calculated. Emma's earlier hope that he might care, that he might rescue her from her own insecurities, dissolved entirely.
"Henceforth," she whispered, pacing the chamber, "I will stop regarding Brandon as my alpha. I will stop regarding myself his Luna. No more shared meals, no more polite conversation, no more illusions of equality. I'll focus on my novel and return to staff quarters. This… this bonding cannot survive."
She stripped her heels, shedding the suffocating elegance, and replaced them with a simple gown. Her resolve solidified. She would retrieve her manuscripts, bury herself in work, and chase success on her own terms.
The credit card Brandon had given her felt foreign in her hand. She refused his cars—they were too pristine, too alien, too emblematic of a life that wasn't hers.
"Are you going out?" Bernard asked, materializing like a shadow from nowhere.
"Yes," she said, bristling.
"In that case, I need to call the driver immediately."
"No. Just a cab. Inform me when he comes; I'll be in the den," Emma said, irritation threading her voice.
"You're going with guards," Bernard reminded her, tone firm.
"Will you ever allow me a sliver of freedom?" Emma snapped. "You make me feel like a prisoner."
"You are not a prisoner," Bernard replied evenly.
"Then why do you always oppose my decisions or decides for me?"
"If anything happens to you, I lose my job."
"Well, Brandon doesn't care about me! He never has!"
"Are you sure of that?"
"I need a cab!" she roared, marching toward the lounge with purpose, determination sparking in her veins.
Once seated on the sofa, Emma's mind raced. She envisioned her future: a novel that conquered charts, an apartment she could call her own, a life untouched by Brandon's whims. Her claws of resentment and ambition coiled tightly, propelling her forward.
Bernard announced the cab's arrival. Emma snatched her clutch and moved with deliberate steps toward the door, leaving Brandon's opulent, suffocating pack behind—for now.