Fated To The Alpha, Stolen By His Brother

Manor was too small of a word. Castle was closer but still underselling it. Thunderfang Keep was a white-stone fortress carved into a mountain.

The walls climbed in tiers, each level set deeper into the mountain than the last, and the highest tower disappeared into low cloud cover. Nova stared at it until her neck hurt from looking up.

Glowing ivy climbed the columns. Steaming fountains flanked the entrance, their water heated from geothermal vents beneath the mountain.

Inside the entrance hall, the ceiling vaulted high enough that Nova’s breath echoed. A woman stood waiting on the grand staircase with a crown on her head.

Nova knew who she was before the recognition finished forming. The High Luna. Derek and Alpha Thunderfang’s grandmother.

She descended the steps. Her pace was unhurried. Every footfall landed with the measured confidence of a woman who understood that people waited for her and the waiting was part of the experience.

Behind Nova, Sierra and Maria were chattering in whispers that were doing a poor job of being whispers.

”I want Nova’s hair.”

”It glows, Maria.”

”I know. I want it.”

”You have fire hair.”

”I want both.”

The woman stopped in front of them. Her eyes passed over Nova without comment.

Nova’s instincts fired. She dipped, low and respectful.

”High Luna,” she said softly.

The High Luna turned to Derek and kissed both of his cheeks, one and then the other, with the practiced formality of a woman for whom affection had a protocol and the protocol was non-negotiable.

”You look dreadful, Grandson. The bags under your eyes have bags of their own. I trust the voyage was productive and not merely dramatic, though the reports I’ve received suggest an abundance of the latter.”

”The reports are accurate and also incomplete,” Derek replied. ”If my bags bother you, don’t look at Landon. He’s worse.”

The High Luna moved to Alpha Thunderfang. Nova hadn’t expected acknowledgment. High Lunas didn’t acknowledge slaves.

Starborne’s High Luna had passed away before Nova was born, but Nova had read extensively about the role. The High Luna was the spine of a pack when the Alpha was the sword. She handled internal politics, managed alliances and favors, kept the ranked families in line, and maintained the social architecture that allowed the Alpha to focus on war and governance without his house catching fire behind him. A good High Luna was worth three generals and a treasury. A great one was worth the pack itself.

This woman was every bit the part. The posture. The crown worn like it weighed nothing. The way she moved through a room and the room rearranged itself around her. Nova admired her in a genuine way that had nothing to do with obligation and everything to do with recognition.

She turned to look at Derek and what she saw made her stomach drop. He looked upset. He glanced down, noticing Nova looking at him, and took her hand. Without a word, he lifted it and pressed his lips to her knuckles. The gesture melted something in Nova’s chest.

The High Luna pressed a kiss to both of Alpha Thunderfang’s cheeks, identical to Derek’s greeting, the same formality, the same protocol, the same affection measured in increments that had been standardized generations ago.

Then her gaze shifted to Celeste and something in her expression softened by exactly one degree, which for this woman was the equivalent of a standing ovation.

”Your mate is beautiful, Landon.” She kissed both of Celeste’s cheeks, one and then the other, the gesture carrying the warmth she had given her grandsons. ”She shall sit next to me at dinner. We have much to discuss.”

”High Luna, I would be honored.” Celeste’s voice was honey and humility.

”Call me Gran,” the High Luna said immediately.

”Thank you for welcoming me into your home, Gran,” Celeste said. ”It is more beautiful than anything I imagined, and I can see where the Thunderfang men get their elegance.”

The woman who had called Nova a whore four blocks ago, who had mimicked her in a singsong voice, who had told Derek his mate would be throwing herself at men, was standing in front of the High Luna with clasped hands and dewy eyes and a smile so warm it could have heated the fountains outside.

Nova watched the performance with the quiet appreciation of a woman who had been on the receiving end of Celeste’s public face for years and still found the speed of the transition impressive.

It was genuinely masterful. If cruelty was Celeste’s left hand, charm was her right, and the woman was ambidextrous.

The High Luna kissed both of Maria’s cheeks next. Then Tavian’s. Then Sierra’s. Then Sebastian’s. Each greeting was measured, formal, and warm in the specific way that a High Luna’s warmth communicated you belong here, said once and meant permanently.

Nova did not take offense. Offense required expectation and Nova had arrived with none.

Derek’s jaw worked and his suit climbed brighter. He was upset. He gave Nova’s hand a squeeze that was more grip than tenderness and led her away to the corridor. Nova wanted to say something. Anything. A joke, a redirect, something that made him shake his head and grin. Seeing him upset was something she wasn’t willing to do.

”Derek, dear, where are you going?”

The High Luna’s voice carried across the entrance hall with the effortless projection of a woman who had never needed to raise her volume because every room she entered had already decided to listen.

Derek didn’t stop initially. Not until he looked down at Nova.

This was his grandmother. This was his home. He was storming out of his own entrance hall in front of his entire ranked circle upset. And Nova had a sinking feeling it was because of her.

He stopped. His jaw worked once, twice, the muscles jumping beneath his skin like they were negotiating with his teeth over what was allowed to come out. Then he turned.

”I am taking my mate to freshen up, Gran.”

The word mate landed in the entrance hall and every head that had been politely pretending not to watch abandoned the pretense. Maria froze mid-whisper to Sierra. Sebastian developed a sudden interest in the ceiling. Tavian looked at the floor with the focus of a man memorizing the stone work.

”Her quarters are in the other direction,” the High Luna said. The correction was gentle. Surgical without the word. The tone of a woman who knew exactly where Nova’s quarters were and they weren’t anywhere near her grandson’s.

Derek’s suit pulsed brighter. The blue tracery was climbing his neck now.

”I am taking her on a tour,” he gritted.

”Dinner is at seven thirty.”

”Yes, Gran. We will be there.”

”’We?’”