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Chapter 1:
The water was freezing.
It bit into Aria’s fingers as she scrubbed the bloodstains from the tunic. Her knuckles were raw, her wrists were aching, but still she didn’t stop. The garment was drenched with something dark, from the shoulders to the hem, the unmistakable scent of Alpha King Lucien Nightfall, and the metallic smell of blood that could never seem to be washed out of his clothes.
She did not dare to ask whose blood was splattered so gruesomely on his clothes, when they had been given to her.
After all, servants were not curious. They cleaned, they obeyed, and they definitely kept quiet.
But worst of it all, was the fact she was an omega.
Fat. Dirty. Silent. Powerless.
Words whispered by the other servants like a curse, or worse… a fact.
Her exaggerated shape, her wild hair which was constantly falling on her face, her limp, all of it just made her a living, breathing target.
“Any slower, and you’ll be here till the next full moon,” called a voice from behind.
She flinched, already knowing who it was without having to turn around.
Talia.
The rumored mistress of Alpha Lucien himself. The perfect she-wolf; graceful, cruel, everything Aria wasn’t or couldn’t be. And mean in that inhuman way, women with too much power and too little kindness were.
Her heels clicked across the wet stone floor, each step sounding louder in her ears. “I would have thought you'd have gotten faster at chores, not lazier.” she said, her tone dripping with amusement.
Aria didn’t answer. She wrung the tunic, watching red swirl through the water.
Talia’s perfume hit next, something sharp and expensive that clashed with the blood-soaked air. “You seem to have missed a spot,” she said, standing beside her. “How about I point it to you?” She jabbed a finger against Aria’s shoulder, and before she realized what was happening, suddenly, her boot struck Aria’s ribs. HARD.
The impact knocked the breath out of her. The bucket tipped, spilling bloody water over the floor, and getting the hem of her skirt wet.
Laughter echoed behind Talia. Two other she-wolves lingered nearby, enjoying the show. Aria remained motionless, her jaw set, her hands shaking as she curled them tightly into fists in her skirt.
“Didn’t you hear her?” one said. “You missed a spot.”
Aria steadied herself on shaking knees, staring at the red water, slowly spreading across the tiles. “I’ll clean it,” she murmured.
“Oh, I know you will.” Talia leaned closer, smiling sweetly. “Tell me, dog… do you enjoy serving him like this? Scrubbing his filth? Smelling like blood?”
Aria swallowed hard, still not meeting her gaze. “It’s my duty.”
The kick came faster this time, catching her in the side. “Pathetic,” Talia hissed. “You don’t even fight back. And that’s why you’ll always be at the bottom!”
The other women laughed, cruel and shrill. Aria’s wolf stirred faintly beneath her skin, weak, frightened, whispering to stay still. To survive.
So all she could do, was lower her head.
“Did you think that by pretending to be a rock people would forget that you exist?” Talia taunted. “Pitiful. You are a waste of a wolf.”
She said nothing, bending down to gather the spilled clothes with trembling hands, her hair falling like a curtain over her face.
“Look at her,” Talia sneered. “Can’t even do anything right.”
“Leave her,” one of the others said, sounding bored. “The Rite’s tonight. Let's not waste energy on trash.”
Talia’s grin widened. “The Moon Rite,” she repeated, tossing her head back as she laughed. “Maybe the Moongoddess will pair her with the garbage collector.”
They laughed all the way out, their voices echoing down the hall until silence returned.
Aria stayed kneeling long after they were gone, her ribs throbbing where the boots had landed. She pressed a hand to her side, breathing shallowly. The bucket was overturned, her palms were bleeding, and her pride, what little she had left, was a shredded thing.
When she finally stood, her reflection in the water caught her off guard. Pale. Wild hair. Eyes too tired to hold anger.
“Happy birthday to me,” she muttered softly. Eighteen.
No one had remembered. Not that she even expected them to.
By nightfall, the Silverstone Pack assembled in the Great Hollow, a large, airy space bounded on every side by ancient trees whose trunks were hewn with the symbols of the Moon Goddess.
Silvery flame flickered in lanterns. The air, full of expectation, magic, and olden custom. Wolves shifting restlessly as the full moon climbed higher. The Moon Rite, the sacred ceremony that revealed fated mates, was about to begin. Every year, the Goddess marked pairs in silver light. And every year, Aria watched from the shadows, alone.
She shouldn’t have been there. Servants weren’t allowed near the inner ring. She tried to resist, but something had pulled her forward anyway, curiosity, maybe. Hope, though she toldd herself that wasn’t it.
Aria stood at the edge of the crowd, hidden beneath an oversized cloak, her eyes drawn to the man standing at the center.
Alpha Lucien Nightfall.
Tall. Commanding. He was a warrior through and through. His presence alone, was enough to hush hundreds. Power radiated off him like heat, his dark hair tousled nicely, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. The entire pack bowed their heads as he spoke.
“Tonight, the Goddess chooses,” he said, voice steady and deep. “May her light reveal those who are worthy of it.”
Worthy.
The word sliced through Aria like a knife.
The moon rose, its silver glow spilling over the pack. The mist began to gather, thin streams of light drifting through the clearing, curling around wolves, wrapping them together as fated pairs gasped, laughed, wept. Bonds formed in flashes of light.
Until one broke through the crowd and struck her.
A line of silver light, leaped across the moon and hit her in the chest, bursting in a flame outward about her. It spread, racing down her arms, curling around her like smoke. Her wolf whimpered in her, breaking loose, and cried out one word into the silence:
Mate. hands of Aria, sinking into her skin like some fangs. She flinched, rubbing the blood-streaked tunic given to her to clean harder. The garment was drenched at the shoulders to the hem, with the unmistakable aroma of Alpha King Lucien Nightfall, and the metallic visit of blood which never seemed to be washed out of his clothes.
She could not ask whose blood. Omegas were not curious. They obeyed.
She was only the omega maid.
Fat. Dirty. Silent. Powerless.
It was whispered as a curse by the other servants or worse still, as a fact.
Her exaggerated shape, her wild hair which was constantly falling on her face, her limp it all made her a moving target.
However, it was not only her looks. It was the silence, the manner in which she never talked unless she was spoken to. The manner in which she looked at the ground. The manner in which she survived.
Aria cleaned more.
One sneered voice said behind:
“You missed a spot.”
Aria flinched. It was the voice of Talia that she knew. Lady, snappy, aristocratic. Rumoured mistress of Lucien himself. And mean in that inhuman fashion women with too much power and too little kindness are sometimes mean.
“You missed a spot,” said Talia, her voice slithering nearer.
Talia landed a sharp sting on Aria with her well-polished boot, on the ribs. The bucket ran over and got the hem of Aria wet.
The other servants laughed, but Aria made no movement. She remained motionless with her jaw set and her hands shaking as they curled up in her skirt into fists.
“Do you think that by standing like a rock people would forget that you exist?” Talia taunted. “Pitiful. You are a waste of a wolf.”
The wolf had awakened within Aria like a dream half recollected and very ancient. But it was too far down, too smashed. There was nothing Aria could do but to lower her head.
“Sorry I am,” she said.
“You are,” Talia tossed her hair back over her shoulder and laughed. “Hurry on, dog. It is the Moon Rite to-night. No, I do not want to miss the ceremony in which I am not invited.”
The hallways rang with the dying steps of Talia, and Aria exhaled a long breath that she did not know she was holding.
She looked towards the shattered moonlight which fell through the tall windows of the servant wing.
It was a Moon Rite to-night the night of mate revelations. When the Moonlight Bond awoke in the full moon and showed destined pairs in the pack.
But that did not make a difference to a woman like her. Omegas were unnoticed. They were not selected by anybody.
She dipped her hands back into the water.
Aria was eighteen tonight.
None remembered that. Not that she did; now that she does.
A weak throb arose in her breast, as of some melody of a different world. Her wolf, the wolf not yet named, the wolf whose shadow she still bore slipped uneasily within her.
There was something coming. Other than pain or humiliation. Yet she could not call it.
In the evening, the whole Silverstone Pack assembled in the Great Hollow a large, airy space bounded on every side by ancient trees whose trunks were hewn with the symbols of the Moon Goddess.
Silvery flame flickered in lanterns. The air was full of expectation, magic, and olden custom.
Aria was in the very back, crouching beneath a black cloak that was too large, in the shadows.
Servants were not admitted into the inner ring, though she could not resist. There was something which had drawn her on.
Her breath caught at the movement of Lucien towards her. The Silverstone Pack alpha male.
He was a warrior through and through. Big-shouldered, tall, raven-black hair brushed off his cold, commanding features. Affirmation of his presence alone quenched the multitude.
He looked over the crowd coldly with those blue eyes of his. And when he said so the world stood still.
“Welcome the Moonlight to-night,” he said, in a voice as keen as a blade. “May she bless her choice.”
As the full moon rose fuller, a hush fell upon the clearing. The Moonlight Bond woke up.
Silver mist blew in the air and lay on wolves in the crowd. Gasps, low growls, laughs, and tears followed as lovers were revealed. Others were happy to embrace. Others struggled against the attraction of the bond.
And the light fell on Aria.
A line of silver fire leaped across the moon and smote her in the chest, bursting in a flame outward about her. Her wolf whimpered in her, breaking loose, crying out one word into the silence:
Mate.
And her attention leaped to Lucien.
He stiffened. His head was turned. His eyes looked at hers. Time stopped.
All eyes were on Aria the fat, filthy maid as the bond established between them.
The wolf of Lucien howled, and it broke the walls which the Alpha had made.
She belonged to him. Fated.
The whole pack sat struck with amazement.
Then Lucien laughed.
Neither was it a gentle snicker. The silence was broken like glass with the roar of cruel, cold, mocking laughter.
“You think I am going to believe this?” he snarled. “This thing? This grease-ball, wretched cur?”
At that, gasps went through the pack.
Aria lost her knees and did not fall.
The voice of Lucien was loud, harsh, and remorseless.
“This is the will of the Moon? This… servant? This useless animal?”
Aria could feel tears in her eyes, but she did not allow them to come out. Not here. Not before him.
Lucien faced the audience and lifted up the hand of Talia.
“It is my choice. A Luna of strength and value. Not this dross.”
And so he did refuse her.
The relationship sputtered, broken not completely, but broken. Damaged. Scarred.
Aria was broken-hearted. It was the kind of a love that throbbed like an ulcer that cannot be healed.
She ran away. Dashed across the forest, across the fog, across the cries of her wolf to her not to leave.
She had no recollection of the length of time she ran. Her legs were shredded and bleeding, her lungs ached, her cloak caught all the branches.
However, she did not stop until her body gave up somewhere way past the Silverstone border.
She did not even notice the rogue wolves until it was too late. Yellow eyes. Snarling teeth. Dirty claws.
She shrieked. And then they jumped.
And then…
A gleam of silver. A roar so deep it tore the sky. Blur of fur and teeth.
And silence then.
She closed her eyes up at the man who had rescued her.
Over her towered a huge, blood-stained wolf. His eyes did not resemble Lucien, not cruelly bloodthirsty, but old, and wild.
Before her, he changed to a man.
Strong. Broad. Crazy locks and a scar on his brow.
He gazed at her as though she were some treasure.
“Not yet. You are not supposed to die,” he said quietly. “Not when the Moon lives yet.”
And then the blackness got her.
