The Dark Moon's Chosen Mate

Lila’s POV

“Just finish the race, Lila. Don't embarrass us more than you already have,” my mother hissed, her fingers digging into my arm like steel hooks.

“If I go out there, I am going to get crushed,” I replied, staring at the bright yellow jersey hanging on the rack. The number seven was printed on the back, belonging to our star runner, Sarah, who had mysteriously broken her ankle twenty minutes ago. “Who benefits from putting a shifterless human on the biggest track of the decade?”

My mother smoothed down her suit jacket and scoffed. “The elders need a full roster for the television contracts. You are filling space, nothing more.”

She turned on her heel and strode out of the prep tent, leaving the heavy fabric flap swinging in her wake. I picked up the jersey and pulled it over my head.

My arms slid into the sleeves with unnerving ease. I paused, feeling the seams along my shoulders. The length hit right at my hips and the waist fit tightly around my ribs without a single inch of excess fabric. Sarah was six feet tall with broad shoulders. I was 5'6" and lean.

Someone had custom-tailored this jersey for my body days ago.

“You don't have to do this, Lila,” my younger brother Dorian said, slipping into the tent. He looked at my chest, his blue-gray eyes filled with worry. “I can go to Alpha Jaxen right now and tell him you aren't ready.”

“Jaxen wouldn't care if I ran barefoot on broken glass, Dorian,” I answered, pulling my dark hair back into a tight ponytail. “He would probably just tell me to keep my knees up.”

Dorian stepped closer and unclasped a thin silver band from his wrist. “Take this, then. It's my lucky one from the junior regionals.”

“You keep your luck. You are actually going to need it today,” I said with a faint smile, but he pressed the band firmly into my palm anyway.

Outside, the stadium ground shook as tens of thousands of spectators chanted Jaxen’s name.

Jaxen! Jaxen! Jaxen!

“He's running in the first heat,” Dorian murmured, watching me carefully. “He looks focused.”

“He always looks focused,” I said, trying to ignore the sudden warmth blooming behind my sternum. The mate bond had been humming softly since sunrise, completely unaware that the man on the other end wished it didn't exist.

Two guards opened the tent flap and motioned for me to step out. I walked toward the tunnel where the other Ironhowl runners were gathering. As I took my place near the rear of the group, a strange scent hit my nose.

It wasn't the usual smell of sweat and track chalk. It was sharp and metallic, like copper wire burning underground. The wolves around me smelled off, their natural scents hidden beneath a strange chemical sharpness that made my throat itch.

“Look at the mascot,” a runner from a northern pack sneered, glancing back at me. “Did Ironhowl run out of actual shifters?”

“Just save some breath for the track,” I replied, locking my eyes forward.

We filed onto the track under the blinding stadium lights. The crowd's roar was a physical wall of sound. Giant screens above the field zoomed in on each competitor, stopping on my face for a long, painful five seconds. The announcers' voices boomed over the loudspeakers.

“And in lane six, a late substitution for Ironhowl... Lila Quinn! A human running on human feet against the fastest wolves on the continent!”

Laughter rippled through the lower stands. I looked up toward the Alpha box perched high above the finish line. Jaxen stood at the glass railing, his broad shoulders squared and his jaw set like concrete.

For a brief second, his amber eyes met mine. The bond in my chest spiked with sudden, violent heat, pulling at my lungs. Jaxen didn't blink. He simply turned his face back toward the track officials.

“Runners to your marks,” the official's voice echoed through the stadium.

I dropped into a crouch on the synthetic track. My heart hammered against my ribs, not from fear, but from the absurd reality of the moment.

The starter pistol cracked.

Within two strides, the other seven runners shifted into their massive wolf forms, their paws tearing into the track as they exploded forward in a blur of gray and black fur. I pushed off my blocks with everything I had, my running shoes slapping against the track.

By the first turn, they were fifty yards ahead of me.

“Lila Quinn is already falling behind!” the announcer barked, his voice dripping with amusement. “Is she running or taking a casual Sunday stroll?”

The crowd chuckled. I kept my chin up, my breathing steady, my eyes fixed on the empty track ahead of me. I ran one lap, then two. By the third lap, the lead wolf lapped me, brushing past my side so fast the wind nearly knocked me sideways.

I crossed the finish line a full minute after the race ended, dragging my legs through the tape while scattered applause and mocking whistles echoed from the seats. I bent over, hands on my knees, fighting for air.

A pair of polished black boots appeared in my peripheral vision.

I straightened slowly. Jaxen stood right in front of me, surrounded by news camera crews and live broadcast lights. His amber eyes were cold, devoid of the heat I had felt through the bond just minutes earlier.

“Jaxen, don't do this here,” I whispered, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.

“Lila Quinn,” Jaxen said, his voice carrying clearly into the directional microphones hovering above us. “You have proven today that you cannot carry the weight of this pack.”

“Jaxen, please,” I said, stepping closer. “Not on television.”

“I, Jaxen Dray, Alpha of the Ironhowl Pack, reject you, Lila Quinn,” he stated clearly, his tone as flat as an iron board. “You are not worthy of being my mate.”

A sharp, tearing sensation ripped through the center of my chest, as if a thick cord inside my ribs had been sliced with a hot blade. I gasped, stumbling back a step as the warmth of the bond drained away, replaced by an empty, freezing cold.

The stadium erupted into massive cheers. High in the executive box, my mother quietly turned her back to the window and stepped out of sight. Beside her, the pack elders nodded in silent approval.

“Lila!” Dorian's voice screamed from the sidelines. He tried to shove past two security guards to reach me, but they grabbed his arms and held him back. “Jaxen, you bastard!”

Jaxen didn't even look at Dorian. He gave me one last glance, turned his back and walked toward the press zone without looking back once.

Three hours later, I stood in the pack house holding a single canvas duffel bag. Elder Thomas stood in the hallway, his arms folded over his chest.

“Your pack privileges are revoked, effective immediately,” Thomas said smoothly. “You have until midnight to leave Ironhowl territory. If you are caught on pack land after the deadline, you will be treated as a trespasser.”

“I grew up here,” I said softly, looking past him at the family photos hanging on the wood-paneled walls.

“And now you are leaving,” Thomas replied, stepping aside to point toward the door. “Go.”

I walked out the rear exit without another word. As I crossed the lawn toward the forest boundary, I looked up at the main office window. A tall silhouette stood behind the glass, watching me walk away. I didn't stop.

I stepped into the shadows of the tree line. The temperature had dropped drastically and the night sky looked strangely wrong. Above the canopy, the full moon was rising, but its bright edges were turning dark, swallowed by a strange, ink-black shadow.

A low, vibrating sound echoed through the deep woods, like a heavy breath scraping against dry leaves.

“You've finally stopped running from us, little one,” a voice

rasped from the dark, sounding less like a person and more like a dozen voices speaking in unison…