The Alpha's Silent Luna

The forest was silent. Not the natural, peaceful hush of nature- but an oppressive silence, the kind that settles over a grave. Fresh snow muffled everything, clinging to bare branches like ghosts of breath once exhaled. Only the rhythmic crunch of footsteps, one faltering after another, broke the stillness.

Annabelle Lowe stumbled, her fingers clutching at a blood-soaked cloth pressed against her ribs. Crimson stained the whiteness beneath her, her breath ragged and visible in the frigid moonlight. Each step was a war between willpower and weakness, and she was quickly losing.

She hadn't meant to trespass. The forest had been her escape- until it became her executioner. Rogues had ambushed the small settlement she'd taken shelter in the night before, and by dawn, it had burned to ash. She didn't remember running. She only remembered pain. Fire. Teeth. Screams.

And then... nothing.

Until she woke up hours later, alone in the snow, her voice stolen by a wound to her throat that hadn't fully healed despite her partial werewolf lineage.

Her wolf was weak. Silent. Like her. Now, she was on foreign land- deep inside the territory of the Crescent Vale Pack. Their reputation preceded them. Ruthless. Isolationist. Loyal only to their Alpha. No one crossed into their woods and left unscathed. But Annabelle wasn't just trespassing. She was dying.

A branch snapped behind her. She didn't stop to check. Panic surged through her- dull and muffled under her haze of pain- but enough to make her legs move. She stumbled downhill blindly, crashing through the undergrowth, heart beating thunder against her ribs.

She didn't get far. A deep growl, ancient and primal, cut through the air. It came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. A warning. Her legs buckled. She fell hard, her knees slamming into the frozen ground. She tried to scream, but no sound came- only a soft wheeze that tore at her throat.

Then, there were footsteps. Heavier. Measured. A man stepped into view, emerging from the darkness like a shadow given flesh. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His dark coat blended into the woods behind him. The moon crowned his head like a halo, casting sharp light over a face carved from stone-strong jawline, dark brows drawn tight, and eyes that shimmered with something ancient and feral.

Alpha Alfred Stephens.

Annabelle had seen portraits in stolen newspapers. Heard whispered warnings. But nothing compared to the real thing. He radiated power- his presence so dominant, the air itself felt heavy.

He stopped a few feet away from her, his eyes narrowed, expression unreadable.

"You're bleeding on my land."

His voice was deep. Controlled. And laced with authority that demanded obedience.

Annabelle tried to speak, to explain, but her lips parted and no sound came. Her throat moved, but only a broken rasp slipped out. She flinched, clutching her side.

His gaze flicked to the blood. Then back to her face. A small crease formed between his brows, as if he couldn't decide whether to help her or finish what the forest started.

"You're mute," he said bluntly, crouching.

She nodded, weakly.

"You smell of rogues."

She shook her head, frantically. No. Not one of them. Never.

But the damage was done. She could see the way he bristled, muscles coiling like a predator preparing to strike. His wolf was just beneath the surface- restless.

Her eyes met his.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then his nostrils flared. A look crossed his face- wild, disbelieving, primal.

Mate.

Annabelle's breath hitched. She knew what he'd scented. The bond. The ancient thread that tied souls together beyond will or reason. She had never imagined she'd find hers- not in the middle of death. Not while bleeding into a stranger's snow.

He stood up slowly, his jaw clenched. "You're not supposed to exist."

Her brows furrowed. He stepped closer. Towered over her.

"I buried my mate three years ago."

Annabelle froze. Confusion warred with exhaustion. Then... how?

"You can't be her." His voice dropped, thick with something too raw to name. "But the bond says otherwise."

He looked furious. With her. With the moon. With fate. But even then, he bent down and scooped her into his arms like she weighed nothing. She flinched, expecting pain, expecting teeth, but none came. His arms were solid and warm, and his scent- evergreen and smoke- coiled around her senses.

Annabelle's head dropped against his chest, her body giving out.

She passed out to the sound of his heartbeat- and the unspoken promise of something far more dangerous than death.

-

When Annabelle woke, warmth wrapped around her like a cocoon. She was in a large room, fire crackling in a stone hearth. The bed beneath her was soft, the blankets thick. She blinked slowly, wincing at the dull ache in her side. Her wounds were bandaged. A low growl snapped her to alertness. She turned her head. He was there.

Alfred Stephens stood with his back to the fireplace, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching her like she was both puzzle and threat. He hadn't changed- still clad in black, his hair tousled as if he'd been pacing.

"You heal slower than most," he said, voice gruff. "Even for a half-blood."

She sat up slightly, flinching. He didn't move to help. Just watched.

"I should've let you die in that forest."

Annabelle looked down, stung.

"But I didn't." He stepped closer. "Because the moment I touched you, I felt the bond. And I don't ignore the moon's will."

She nodded slowly.

He stared at her. "That doesn't mean I trust you."

Annabelle met his gaze. Steady. Quiet.

"I want answers," he said. "You can't speak- but you will communicate."

He tossed a notepad onto the bed beside her, along with a pencil. She reached for it hesitantly. He turned away, pacing.

"I had a mate once," he said after a long silence. "She died in childbirth. Or so I thought. Now you show up. Same bond. Different face."

Annabelle's fingers trembled as she wrote. I don't know why. I didn't ask for this either. He read it, then nodded slowly.

"No," he muttered. "None of us did."

-

Over the next few days, she stayed in the Alpha's house. Not as a guest. Not exactly as a prisoner. His Beta- Gavin- checked in daily, bringing her food and water. The healer came twice. But Alfred was always nearby. Watching. Judging. Questioning. She learned he was more than a leader- he was a protector. And a man at war with his own fate. She wrote pages of answers.

Name: Annabelle Lowe. Age: 21. Origin: Borderland settlement. Family: Gone. Status: Omega. Mute- due to scar tissue in vocal cords.

He said little in return, only asking about the rogues, her past, her wolf. She hadn't shifted in over a year. Alfred didn't understand that. Couldn't.

"You're a Luna," he said one night. "Even if you weren't born into it."

She shook her head. He didn't argue. But neither did he turn her away.

-

One night, she woke to howling. Dozens of voices in the distance, raised to the moon. She stood at the window, staring out over the snowy expanse. From here, she could see the pack- scattered cabins tucked into the trees, smoke rising gently from chimneys.

Behind her, Alfred's voice came- quiet this time.

"They're calling me to the Run."

She turned. He stood shirtless, his back scarred, muscles tensed. His wolf was close- she could feel it. Wild and restless under his skin.

"It's tradition," he said. "Every full moon, the Alpha leads the Run. But now..." He stepped toward her. "Now they sense a Luna. They sense you."

Her heart thudded.

"I don't know what game fate's playing," he murmured, brushing a finger down her arm, "but if you're meant to stand beside me, we need answers."

Annabelle met his gaze, then nodded. Not because she was ready. But because something deep within her had already chosen him. And fate... fate never asked permission.

Annabelle stood in the doorway of her room long after Alfred left for the Run.

The howls echoed across the hills, rising and falling like waves of grief and glory. Her chest ached- not with pain, but with something heavier, something ancient. The pull of the pack. Of belonging. Of the bond.

She wasn't part of them. Not yet. But the way her wolf stirred- weak though she was- said she could be.

Her fingers brushed the notepad still clutched in her hand. She wrote often now. It became her voice, her lifeline, and slowly, Alfred started reading between the lines. Even if his gaze hardened when he saw her writing about things he didn't like- about loneliness, about fear, about the mark that tied them together.

The house was quiet now.

Too quiet.

Annabelle wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders and stepped away from the window. Every sound made her flinch. She hated this feeling- of being hunted, even when she was safe. The trauma of running never really left your bones. It only curled deeper.

She wandered into the study. Books lined the shelves- heavy tomes about pack law, wolf heritage, treaties between clans that dated back centuries. A thick, leather-bound volume caught her eye.

Crescent Vale: A Legacy of Blood and Oath.

She pulled it down and flipped through the brittle pages. Sketched portraits of past Alphas stared back at her- men and women with eyes like storms and spines carved from war. Alfred's father was near the back: Dominic Stephens, a towering figure with the same squared jaw and piercing eyes.

Alfred came next.

His official portrait looked nothing like the man who'd carried her out of the forest. He looked... colder in the painting. Detached. But still noble. Still powerful.

A hand closed the book gently.

She startled.

Alfred stood beside her, fresh snow still clinging to his boots, the night's chill curling off his coat. His gaze dropped to the book, then to her face.

"Curious?" he asked.

She nodded slowly.

He took the book and slid it back into place. "My father believed legacy was more important than love. I disagreed." His voice softened. "I buried the woman I loved and still ended up with his throne. Legacy won anyway."

Annabelle scribbled a question.

Did you love her?

He hesitated. Then nodded once. "In the way a young man loves. Fiercely. Blindly. We were bonded, but we were also foolish." A pause. "The mating bond doesn't guarantee harmony. Only connection."

She looked away.

Alfred noticed. "And you? Have you felt the bond before?"

She shook her head.

"Then you don't know how it burns."

His voice was low, bitter. He poured himself a drink from the nearby cart, the clink of ice echoing in the still room. He took a sip, then leaned against the desk.

"You should rest."

But she didn't move. Instead, she reached for the pad again.

Why am I here, Alfred?

He stiffened at the use of his name. She rarely used it.

"I don't know," he said finally. "The moon gave me a second chance- or cursed me with it. I haven't decided."

Annabelle stood slowly. Walked toward him. Each step deliberate.

Do you want me to stay? she wrote, holding the words out to him.

He looked down. Then up. His eyes were unreadable.

"I don't know," he repeated. "But until I do, you will."

Then he left.

And she stood alone in a room full of ghosts.

-

Days passed.

The snow melted into slush. The air sharpened. Annabelle healed slowly but surely. She explored the manor- never beyond the gates- and began helping in the kitchen, scribbling recipes or gently assisting the older cook, Marla, who muttered to herself but softened each time Annabelle smiled. The pack remained distant. They'd heard whispers. A mute omega. An outsider. The Alpha's new bond.

Some stared when she walked through the halls. Others looked away. But she didn't care. Not really. She was too busy watching Alfred. He trained in the mornings- shirt off, sweat glistening across his chest as he sparred with warriors twice his size and still made them yield. His power was unmatched. His control, terrifying. But beneath that... there was something wounded.

Annabelle began sketching him. She wasn't sure why. Maybe to understand him. Maybe because her hands remembered the language her throat forgot. She'd hide the drawings when he passed. But sometimes, she'd catch him glancing at them- at her.

Something simmered between them. Always. The bond pulled. Tugged. Whispers of dreams neither of them voiced. Until one evening, when everything shifted.

-

The pack had gathered for the quarterly tribunal. Disputes were settled. Alliances renewed. It was a public affair, one she'd been told not to attend. But curiosity won. Annabelle lingered in the shadows near the edge of the hall, watching from behind a stone column. Alfred sat in the Alpha's chair, flanked by Gavin and two Betas. His presence commanded the room.

But when a warrior from a neighboring pack stood and questioned the Alpha's claim to a "mute, half-blood Luna," the air changed.

Alfred didn't move at first. Then slowly- dangerously- he stood.

"Say that again," he said coldly.

The warrior faltered. "I-I only meant- rumors say you've taken in a -"

"A woman who bled on my land, yes. Who is marked by the bond, yes. Who is under my protection, yes."

A hush fell.

"And if you or anyone else believes the moon makes mistakes," Alfred said, voice low and lethal, "you are free to challenge me for the right to question it."

No one moved.

No one spoke.

The warrior bowed his head and retreated. Alfred didn't sit again. He turned, eyes narrowing as they landed on her in the shadows. She stepped forward before she could think. And every head in the room turned with her. She wasn't supposed to speak. So she didn't. But she walked calmly across the floor, back straight, chin high. And when she reached him, she did the only thing she could. She took his hand. Gasps echoed around them.

Alfred stiffened. Then, slowly, he looked down at their joined fingers. His jaw clenched. His eyes burned into hers. But he didn't pull away. He turned back to the crowd.

"This is your Luna," he said. "Whether you accept it or not."

Annabelle squeezed his hand. And for the first time... he squeezed back.

-

Later that night, as the fire cracked low in the hearth, he came to her room.

He didn't speak. Just stood in the doorway, watching her sketch. Finally, she wrote a question.

Will it always be like this?

He stepped inside. Closed the door behind him.

"No," he said. "It will be worse before it's better."

She nodded.

Then wrote another question.

Do you hate me?

His eyes flashed. "No."

Do you regret me?

A pause.

"No."

Then what do you feel?

He exhaled, a sound like defeat and desire mixed.

"Like I've been given something precious I'm not sure I deserve."

She stood, walked to him. She took his hand again. And this time, when he pulled her gently into his arms, she let herself melt into the safety of his warmth. No words... Only silence.