Chapter 2: The Luna

The dining hall falls into a hushed silence as the Luna of the pack makes her entrance. Dozens of eyes snap toward her, following her every step as she glides through the gathered crowd with an air of quiet authority. She wasn’t invited to tonight’s celebration, and judging by the storm brewing in her emerald gaze, she isn’t pleased about it. Pausing beside a standing omega maid, she plucks a champagne flute from the tray with effortless grace, her movements fluid—like a swan gliding across the surface of a still lake. Despite the deep furrow of disapproval between her brows, Camilla is as breathtaking as ever. Her sleek black hair is pulled into a high, unforgiving ponytail, the long strands cascading down her exposed back, visible through the sheer mesh of her silk-green dress. A thin leather belt cinches her waist, accentuating the graceful curves of her slender frame. She lifts the glass to her red lips, her sharp green eyes sweeping across the hall. A slight downturn of her mouth betrays her distaste as she takes in every female omega in the room. Then, at last, her gaze lands on me. A tight, invisible hand seems to squeeze my lungs, forcing the air from them. The weight of her hatred settles over me like a suffocating fog. She loathes me. Oh, how she loathes me. And that bitter, burning hatred seeps into my skin like acid, corroding me from the inside out. Without breaking eye contact, Camilla tosses the now-empty champagne flute back at the maid. The poor girl fumbles, barely managing to catch it before it shatters against the marble floor. Then, she moves—stalking toward me with slow, deliberate steps. The corners of her lips twitch ever so slightly, a movement so faint most wouldn’t notice. But I do. She’s itching to bare her fangs at me. "What are you doing?" Luna finally asks, her voice laced with feigned confusion as she arches a perfectly sculpted brow. "All the omegas in this house serve, yet here you are, standing around, sipping your masters’ champagne?" A prickle of unease runs down my spine. I shift nervously in my seat, my fingers tightening around the empty flute as my gaze flickers toward Damien. His jaw is clenched, thick black brows drawn together in quiet frustration. She knows why I’m here. When I’m with Damien, I’m not a servant—I’m a guest. But Camilla needs this. She needs to remind everyone of her place, to reassert her dominance in front of this crowd. And what better way to do that than by putting someone else down? "Well?" she presses, folding her arms across her chest, her emerald eyes glinting with impatience."Look at me when I’m talking to you!" Her voice sharpens just enough to make me flinch, a deliberate sting meant to unsettle me. I swallow hard, my pulse hammering as I turn back to face her. My hands are clammy, trembling slightly as I force my silver eyes to meet hers. "Camilla." Damien’s voice cuts through the tension, smooth yet firm. He rises from his seat at last, his steps slow and measured as he approaches us. "This is a party. Let’s not ruin the mood." Camilla doesn’t move, her expression unreadable as she waits for him to draw closer. Whatever she wants to say next isn’t meant for prying ears. Her lips barely part, but her words strike like a blade, whispered just low enough for only Damien and me to hear. "A party at my pack house. The one I wasn’t invited to. But your whore was." The music continues to play, the soft melody of strings masking the venom in her voice. Damien’s expression darkens—just for a second—before he smooths it over with practiced indifference. But I see it. And so does she. I watch them, my heartbeat pounding in my throat, every nerve in my body set ablaze with anxiety. I despise this silent war they wage against each other, because the rest of us are forced to suffer its consequences every single day. "Watch your tongue," Damien warns in a low, measured voice. Camilla smirks, unbothered. Her glare swings back to me, but her next words are aimed at her husband, each syllable dripping with menace. "I will not be disrespected like this. I am the Luna of this pack. Your official mate." She tilts her head just enough to expose the mark on her neck, a blatant reminder of her position. Damien grunts but says nothing, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. Then, without sparing me a second glance, she steps closer, her gaze sweeping over my evening dress with barely concealed disdain. "Go back to your quarters, change your clothes, and get to work." I freeze. My body urges me to obey, but my mind falters. Damien was the one who invited me as a guest tonight. I shouldn’t have to leave. Desperation tightens my chest as I glance at him, silently pleading for him to intervene. He exhales, the weight of the situation pressing down on him, and then—subtly, almost imperceptibly—he nods. I swallow hard. "Kaya." His voice finally addresses me directly, but it offers no solace. "Follow the orders of your Luna." The air leaves my lungs in a quiet sigh of defeat. Shoulders heavy with disappointment, I lower my gaze and nod obediently before rising from my seat. As I walk away, the weight of Alpha Steven’s greedy stare lingers on my back like an unwelcome touch. I reach the doors just as Camilla’s voice drifts through the hall. "May I steal you from your party? There’s something important I need to discuss with you." Damien sighs—loudly this time, his frustration evident even over the music and my hurried steps. His reply is thick with resignation. "Very well. Let’s talk." The sound of their footsteps echoes behind me, measured and deliberate. They’re following me toward the exit. Panic flares in my chest. I quicken my pace, nearly storming out of the dining hall. Whatever happens, I do not want to get in trouble with her.