His Defiant Wolfless Mate's Secret Awakening

Alexa Gibson POV: The silk of the dress is against my skin. The crimson dress was a symbol of the pack's status.

It's a beautiful dress for tonight's annual banquet.But when I stood before the fulllength mirror in the bedroom, the dress looked more like a costume.

My eyes drifted upward, past the delicate neckline, to the bare skin of my neck and shoulder. It was smooth, unblemished. Empty. The place where his mark should be.

Kaleb said they were waiting.

That my body was too weak, too fragile.Actually, I am not completely devoid of wolflike qualities; it's just that my wolfishness is too weak, so I am dismissed as having none at all.

He said it with such concern in his eyes. I'd believed him. Being mated to the Alpha Kaleb Slater, was a miracle the Moon Goddess had bestowed upon a wolfless girl like me.

I should be grateful. I turned away from the mirror, a sigh escaping my lips.

On the kingsized bed, Kaleb's customtailored suit jacket was tossed carelessly over a pile of pillows. I picked up the jacket.

I carried the jacket to the ironing board I'd set up earlier. The heavy steam iron hissed to life in my hand. As I laid the jacket out, something on the nightstand caught my eye.

Kaleb's phone. It lit up, a notification glowing in the dimming evening light. But the name was impossible to miss. Cynthia Ryan. My heart gave a strange, sharp pang.

I didn't mean to look. The preview of the message was stark against the dark screen: "Kaleb, are you really bringing her tonight?" My fingers tightened on the handle of the iron.

Cynthia. The brilliant, powerful shewolf Kaleb had grown up with. The one everyone, including his mother, thought he would choose as his Luna.

I picked up the phone, my only thought to place it back on the charger where it belonged. Just as my fingers brushed the cool glass screen, a searing pain shot through my temples.

A gasp tore from my throat. My head swam. Our broken, pathetic excuse for a mate bond was activated. And then, through the pain, came the whisper. Not a whisper of love.

Not a sweet nothing meant for his mate. It was Kaleb's voice, clear as if he were standing right beside me, but it wasn't speaking to me.

It was in my head, a shard of a conversation. He was speaking to his Beta, Mark.

The first fragment of his thoughts sliced through me: "...Mark, I told you, accepting the bond was the only way to make Cynthia see what she lost." My body went rigid.

The iron in my hand stilled. No. The second thought was a death blow, delivered with a casual cruelty that stole the air from my lungs: "No, she's just a replacement.

Alexa knows her place." A placeholder. The third thought is about Cynthia Ryan. "Cynthia is brilliant, she's the future of this pack.

I'm funding her new research project at the institute." A sickening, acrid smell filled the air. Smoke. I looked down.

The iron, forgotten in my hand, had been pressed against the chest of the suit. A dark, scorched brand now marred the perfect fabric. An ugly, irreparable burn.

I snatched the iron away with a cry, stumbling backward. My heel caught on the leg of the vanity. I flailed, my hand swept across the polished surface.

A crystal bottle of perfume, tumbled to the floor. The bedroom door swung open. Kaleb stood there, magnificent in his tailored trousers and crisp white shirt.

His eyes, the color of warm amber, took in the scene. The shattered glass. Me. His brow furrowed, the signature crease of annoyance appearing between his eyes.

He didn't ask if I was okay. His gaze fixed on the ruined suit in my hand. "Alexa, what is wrong with you?" His voice was sharp, impatient. I lifted my head.

I looked at him—this man I thought was my destiny, my world, my love. My lips parted, but no sound came out.

The pain from the bond, it was all a thick, suffocating sludge in my throat. He saw my shattered expression, and the impatience in his eyes deepened into disdain.

With a disgusted sigh, he strode to the walkin closet and pulled out another, identical suit.

As he shrugged into the suit, he spoke without looking at me, his voice as cold as a winter night. "Clean this up." I watched his back, the broad, powerful shoulders that I had once thought were my sanctuary.

Now, they just looked cold. He adjusted his tie in the mirror, giving me a cursory glance.

His eyes, however, lingered on my reflection, cold and calculating. "And you," he said, his voice dropping to a low, cutting tone, "you're not coming tonight." My breath hitched. "What?" The word was a fragile whisper, barely audible. "Look at yourself, Alexa," he gestured vaguely at the ruined suit in my hand, then at the shattered glass on the floor. "You're a mess.

Unstable. This isn't the image I need by my side tonight.

Not when the pack leaders are gathering, not when Cynthia will be there." He paused, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Besides, you've already ruined one suit.

I can't trust you not to cause another scene." He turned fully, his gaze sweeping over my crimson dress, now feeling like a mockery. "Stay here. Clean up your mess.

Perhaps you can learn to control yourself." He didn't wait for a response, simply turned back to the mirror, adjusting his tie with meticulous care. "I'm leaving.

The banquet's waiting." The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the wreckage of our room. I slowly sank to the floor, my knees giving way.

My hand reached out, and my fingers closed around a shard of the broken perfume bottle. The sharp edge bit into my skin, welled up and dripped onto the pristine white carpet.

I looked at my reflection in a larger piece of shattered glass on the floor.

Alexa Gibson POV: I cleaned up the glass. I picked up each shard, my fingers numb to the sharp edges.

The small cut on my index finger had stopped bleeding, leaving a thin, red line. I didn't go to the banquet. After the broken glass was cleaned up, I took off that deep red gown.

I changed into my oldest jeans and a worn gray Tshirt. The burnt suit jacket was still on the ironing board.

I folded it carefully, the scorched mark facing inward, and placed it inside a garment bag.

I zipped it shut, the sound final, and pushed it into the deepest, darkest corner of the walkin closet. Burying my love for Kaleb.

I sat by the window all night, watching the moon traverse the sky. The next morning, a soft knock came at the door. It wasn't Kaleb. It was Mark, his Beta.

He stood there, holding a beautifully wrapped gift box, his eyes refusing to meet mine. "The Alpha asked me to give this to you," he mumbled, his gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder.

I took the box without a word and closed the door in his face. The box was from a highend boutique, tied with a satin ribbon. I tore it open.

Inside, nestled in layers of tissue paper, was a scarf. It was made of the finest silk, shimmering with an iridescent sheen.

The brand name, "Sylvana," was embroidered in delicate silver thread at the corner. I lifted it. The silk was cool and weightless against my fingers. A scent wafted from it.

Kaleb's scent, cedar and musk, was there. But underneath it, woven into the very fibers, was another fragrance. Something exotic and sweet that I didn't recognize.

It wasn't my perfume. A bitter laugh threatened to bubble up my throat. A guilt gift. An expensive yet perfunctory trinket, meant to appease my temper from the night before.

I dropped the scarf on the coffee table as if it were contaminated and opened my laptop. The brand was unfamiliar. "Sylvana." The search results loaded instantly.

It was an exclusive, incredibly expensive designer brand, famous for infusing their silks with signature, longlasting fragrances. Luxury for the elite.

I clicked on the official website. And my blood ran cold. The face of the brand, splashed across the homepage in a stunning, largerthanlife photograph, was Cynthia Ryan.

She was laughing, her head thrown back, a cascade of a dozen different Sylvana scarves swirling around her like a rainbow. Her smile was confident.

My eyes locked onto one scarf in particular, a shimmering piece draped elegantly around her long, graceful neck. It was identical to the one lying on my coffee table.

Rage, hot and acidic, churned in my stomach. He hadn't even bothered to pick something out for me. He'd just grabbed a piece from his mistress's latest campaign.

My fingers flew across my phone's screen, composing a message to Chloe Miller, a colleague at Carlisle Enterprises I often consulted for information.

I'd taken a lowlevel administrative job there after the mating, something to keep me busy. "Chloe, can you help me check something about the brand 'Sylvana'?" Chloe was a gossip savant, a walking encyclopedia of luxury brands and highsociety drama.

Her reply was almost instantaneous. "Alexa! Oh my god, why are you asking about Sylvana?" Her voice was a rush of excitement. "That's Cynthia Ryan's new big deal!

Her grandfather, Professor Julian Ryan, apparently pulled some major strings to get her that campaign.

It's all anyone was talking about last night." I stood very still. "Last night?" "Yeah, at the pack banquet! You missed it! Cynthia was there, looking like a goddess.

She was wearing the signature scarf from the collection, and Alpha Kaleb even made a toast and publicly complimented her impeccable taste.

Everyone said they looked like the perfect power couple." The air was punched from my lungs.

The one he had praised her on, in front of the entire pack, while I was at home, shattered. "Thanks, Chloe," I managed, my voice a strangled whisper. "That's all I needed." I hung up the phone.

I stared at the scarf on the table. The beautiful, expensive, lying piece of silk.

It was a symbol of his betrayal, a trophy from his victory with another woman, now presented to me as a pathetic apology. I picked it up, my fingers recoiling from the feel of it.

I walked to the grand stone fireplace that dominated the living room. With a flick of a switch, flames roared to life.

Without a moment's hesitation, I tossed the scarf into the fire. The delicate silk curled instantly, turning black at the edges. I watched until there was nothing left but ash.

Kaleb came home late. He looked tired but pleased with himself, a faint smile playing on his lips.

He saw me sitting on the sofa in the dark and walked over, his arms reaching for me in a gesture that was both proprietary and automatic. "Did you like my gift?" His voice was a low, rumbling murmur, a tone of condescending affection he probably thought was charming. "I thought of you when I saw it." My body went rigid.

I shifted, just enough so that his hands landed on the empty cushion beside me. I turned to face him.

I looked up into his handsome, lying face, and for the first time, he saw the ice in my eyes. "Gift?" I asked, my voice flat and empty. "I didn't receive any gift." He froze, his arms dropping.

He frowned, that familiar crease appearing between his brows. "Alexa, stop being childish." I stood up, putting more distance between us.

The smell of his cologne, mingled with the faint, lingering scent of Cynthia's perfume that clung to him, made my stomach turn. "I'm tired," I said, my voice devoid of all emotion. "I'll be sleeping in the guest room from now on."

Alexa Gibson POV: I moved into the guest room. I packed a small bag with my essentials and walked into the elegantly appointed room at the end of the hall.

The first thing I did was find the instruction manual for the electronic keypad on the door and set a new, fourdigit code. A code only I knew.

The next morning, I was woken not by the sun, but by the sound of furious pounding on my door. "Alexa! Open this door!" Kaleb's voice was a low growl, laced with disbelief and fury.

The handle rattled violently. A wave of pressure slammed against my mind. Open the door. Now. It was his Alpha command, sent through our fractured mindlink. The pounding stopped.

I heard him let out a frustrated hiss of breath, then the sound of his heavy footsteps retreating down the hall.

He believed that a day or two of his cold shoulder would have me begging for forgiveness at his feet. I spent the day working.

I pulled out the encrypted laptop I kept hidden in my luggage, a sleek, matte black device that held my real life. Not the life of Alexa Slater, the wolfless Luna, but Dr.

Alexa Gibson, lead architect of Project Prometheus.

The screen filled with complex algorithms and lines of code, a language I understood far better than the passiveaggressive signals of pack life.

Here, in this world of logic and data, I was powerful. The shrill ring of my phone shattered the quiet concentration. The caller ID read 'Elza Slater'. Kaleb's mother.

I let it ring twice before answering. "Alexa." Her voice was as brittle and cold as a sheet of ice. "There is a family dinner tonight at the manor.

Be ready at seven." "I'm not feeling well, Elza," I said, my own voice calm and even. "Cynthia will be joining us," she continued, as if I hadn't spoken.

Her tone was deliberately pointed. "We are welcoming her as the new consulting expert for the pack's investment portfolio. It is an important occasion.

Your presence as Luna is required." Cynthia. Of course. A welcome dinner for the other woman, and I was expected to attend and play the gracious hostess.

The audacity was breathtaking. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Elza, but as I said, I'm not well.

I won't be coming tonight." The silence on the other end of the line was heavy, vibrating with indignation. "Not feeling well? Alexa, this isn't a request. It's your duty!

You will be there!" "No," I said simply. And I hung up. My finger hovered over the screen, then I blocked her number.

Hours later, the guest room door didn't just open, it exploded inward. The wood around the lock splintered as Kaleb kicked it clean off its hinges.

He stood there, chest heaving, his amber eyes blazing with fury. I was sitting on the bed, headphones on, still deep in my work.

I calmly closed the laptop, slid my headphones down around my neck, and looked at him. He stormed into the room.

He ripped the headphones from my neck, his face inches from mine. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he roared, his voice bouncing off the walls. "Disrespecting my mother and boycotting the pack dinner?" I met his furious gaze without flinching. "I told your mother I wasn't feeling well." He let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. "You think I can't tell when you're lying?

What is this, Alexa? What is this childish tantrum all about?" I rose slowly from the bed, forcing him to take a step back.

I looked him straight in the eye. "Kaleb, you should ask yourself.

Is this dinner really about welcoming a 'consulting expert'?" A flicker of something—guilt? annoyance?—crossed his face. He wasn't used to being challenged.

He was used to my quiet compliance. His hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist like a manacle. His grip was bruising. "I don't care what it's about. You are my Luna.

You will go." I didn't struggle.

I just looked down at his hand on my arm, then back up at his face. "Do you really want to drag a hostile Luna to a party for your mistress?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. "Are you sure that's the impression you want to make, Alpha?" The word 'mistress' hung in the air between us, ugly and undeniable.

His grip loosened fractionally. He stared at me, truly seeing me for the first time in days. And he didn't recognize the woman looking back at him.

The fear and adoration were gone, replaced by something cold and hard he couldn't name.

He let go of my wrist as if it had burned him. "Fine," he snarled, his pride forcing him to regain control. "Stay here and be pathetic.

But you will apologize to my mother tomorrow." He turned and stalked out of the room, slamming the broken door against its shattered frame.

I stood there, rubbing the red marks on my wrist. I didn't feel pathetic. I felt a sliver of freedom.

In that very interval，through the broken remnants of our bond, Scenes from the dinner party intruded into my thoughts.

I felt a surge of triumph , a sense of someone being paraded around—Cynthia. I caught the ghostly echo of a question about the Luna.

And then I felt the smooth, practiced texture of Kaleb's lie: "Alexa is a bit under the weather.

She sends her apologies." It was followed by a wave of saccharine, false concern from Cynthia. "Oh, I hope she's alright.

Maybe I should visit her tomorrow." The final impression was a venomous whisper, a feeling of pure contempt I could feel even from miles away: "A wolfless creature who can't even perform her duties.

She's not fit to be Luna." I closed my eyes. I had my work.