Page 10 of Lunar's Ruined Alpha

Her golden blonde hair is long, tied back in a loose braid that falls to her waist. Little pieces have escaped from the plait, curling around her face. She looks flushed, almost feverish, her brown eyes darker than I remember. Or maybe it’s that her pupils are blown. Either way, I can tell that there’s something wrong with her, and even though I was the one who rejected her, there’s an innate need within me to protect her.

Except, she’s now standing so close to Henry Whiterose that one might think she’s seeking protection from him. Against me. Is that why she’s here? Did she claim amnesty with them? Did she join them?

No, that would change her scent. She’s still pure Greenbriar, through and through.

Alina swipes her hand across her forehead. I notice the light sheen of sweat. The exhausted flutter of her eyelashes.

She needs to shift. Fucking hell, how long has it been since she’s shifted? She looks like she’s been denying her nature for months. Honestly, she shouldn’t even be standing upright at this point. But why would she do that to herself? As far as I knew, Alina used to love being in her wolf form.

“Are you ill?” The words are out before I can stop them.

Alina’s lips part in surprise at my question, but her gaze hardens.

It’s only then that I realize they are the first words I’ve spoken directly to her in ten years.

Instead of answering, she looks down at her other hand, which has been clenching the handles of two empty mugs this entire time.

She clears her throat and addresses Henry instead of me. “Let me go get another pot for you. I’ll be right back.”

Irritation flares up my spine at the way she speaks with reverence to an Alpha that isn’t me. I choke it back down. I’m a grown man, and the Whiteroses are our allies. I don’t need to be barking at an old man over her.

Henry, who is wise and powerful enough to sense the rejected bond between us from this close proximity, knows better than to reach out and touch her in front of me. Still, he waves a hand in her general direction, and it makes my skin crawl with primal possessiveness.

“Don’t worry about it,” Henry assures her. “You really do look unwell. Zahra is right. Perhaps you should sit down?”

The curly-haired girl with dark brown skin steps toward Alina.

As she moves, the air in the restaurant shifts. A draft from a crack in a nearby window wafts through the space, stirring up the Whiterose scent and strengthening the aroma of my Mate’s telltale scent.

Yet, still, it’s easy enough to tell that she and I are not the only Greenbriars in here.

Alina’s breath catches, as if she knows what I’ve picked up on.

My eyes flash to hers. “Who else is here?”

When she left the pack, she was alone. Nobody went with her. No one knew that she intended to leave in the first place. One minute, she was there. The next minute, she wasn’t. She had no accomplices, and she was also very good at covering her own scent, which made her impossible to track.

Not that I didn’t try. In spite of Kseniya’s prophecy, and against my father’s advice to simply let her go, I spent years trying to find her. Whenever I could get away from the pack, I’d run far and wide, going deeper into the Appalachians in one direction and all the way to the Atlantic in the other. I had to be careful not to infringe on established shifter territory, though, and I never imagined that Alina would hide among another pack. That was my mistake. One of many.

I knew I couldn’t have her. I knew that she was destined to ruinme. But I couldn’t just let her disappear. In recent years, however, I’d started to give up hope that I’d ever see her again.

Fate has interesting timing.

“Ah,” says Henry, soft and thoughtful. He nods to himself, gaze flicking from me to Alina, and then to a spot just past her. “I see.”

Alina straightens her spine, shrugging off her curly-haired friend’s touch.

I glance at the Alpha, but he’s frowning at something in the far corner of the restaurant.

No, not something. Someone.

I rise to my feet, pushing the chair back roughly as I gaze past the curious onlookers and see a young boy slumped down lazily in a chair at a table mostly concealed by shadows and the bulk of the curving bar.

“No,” I think I hear Alina say.

The boy is maybe eight or nine years old. Scrawny, but with the awkwardly long limbs of a kid who will be much taller in a couple of years. He has dark hair and pale skin, and Alina’s pert little nose. He’s completely unaware of my stare, absorbed in what looks like a vintage comic book.

My shifter sight kicks in as I drink in the details from a distance.

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