A Christmas Luna and Her Big Bad Wolf

2

Royal Alpha Roar.

The winter of Christmas holds no charm when an arrogant Frostfang like me stirs and plots. I am at the highest point of the Moon Grave castle, watching the so-called memorial of Quinn—my dead mate, the mother of my son.

The viper of my gaze coils around two foolish males who think they are clever with gossip. They’re not alone. To the left, another pair debates my every move, you would think they live in the Moon grave castle with me. To the right, a cluster of women pick apart my one-year-old son’s life, wondering if the “dark cloud” hanging over him is my doing. The seated guests are busy in theories that says I’ve f****d a thousand women after the death of Quinn.

And then there’s Quinn’s so-called friends, the ones who conveniently flaunt their college ties to her memory. They are speculating whether I’ll name a new Luna for as tradition states— “a Luna position can only be empty for a year”. By the awe in their voices, I see they care little about the ‘Christmas beast’ rumour. They would marry a Christmas beast if it meant unlimited private jets, a passport to any country on a whim, fame that lingers like perfume and the kind of money that could turn dreams into playthings.

I don’t blame them. They have no idea the depths of how wicked and malevolent I truly can be.

Let’s see, should I crush them, twist their necks like kindling for a fire? Perhaps, I’ll let the red that runs through their veins paint a perfect snowman. I could do that, couldn’t I? Do I break their hands and use them as skates on the ice-covered lawn? Should I run a cold scar on their faces so they can remember what happened on this night?

My claws move in and out. Oh, boy…they are a cutting edge. They like to cut and s***h, tear and rip.

By the count of one, it hits me—a scent so potent it practically punches the air around me. It’s like bergamot, yet sweet and sinful, like vanilla cream folded into the richest dessert imaginable. No, not just a dessert—a blasphemous and forbidden indulgence, the kind that feels like a sin to even think about. And then it deepens, wrapping me in something maddening. A scent so wicked it smells like warm s*x. Vanilla s*x.

It spreads through me like wildfire, igniting every nerve, every vein, until I feel like a tree overtaken by creeping, burning vines. My hands tremble at my sides and my wolf, Perilous, crackles, snarls, claws at me with a need so fierce it feels like I’m seconds from losing control.

“I want it!” His guttural demand claws against my insides as though punishing me for not already claiming whatever—or whoever—it is.

I scan the thousands of guests below—searching, hunting for the source of this intoxicating ambrosia. Teeth grits as I descend the castle’s heights and my form is already threatening to shift.

I was drawn by the buzzing lights, but now here she is—on her knees, pulsing before me. Hate. Loathe. Odium. Abhorrence. Every wretched synonym for hatred burns in me for the daughter of Milton Morgan. I’ve wove his downfall with strategy. I enlisted the most powerful attorneys in the country, paid off every capable lawyer to steer clear of this case, and crushed any hope he had of a fair trial. Milton Morgan was found guilty of his negligence leading to Quinn’s death. But even his sentence feels too merciful. The man deserves to suffer so deeply he’d claw his own heart out if he could.

I am repulsed that the moon goddess thought it was a good idea to bind me to her as a second-chance mate. Is this a cosmic ploy to soften me during this cursed season? If so, the goddess has miscalculated! She’ll regret placing this fragile creature in my path because now, her suffering will rival her father’s.

I could lie and tell myself she is nothing special, just another face among many. But that would be a lie. Her eyes are a puzzle I cannot solve—are they doe-like or siren-sharp? Her skin is either butter-soft or pale like whipped cream. Yet, her face is a masterpiece of serenity: lips like ripe red beets, cheeks a soft peach, untouched by the tears cascading from her raven-hued gaze.

Her hair is—goodness, how can something so mundane become so captivating? Her hair is a river of dark silk pooling on the floor of her trembling form. It’s maddening, how she draws my attention against will. The Moon Goddess may have painted her too perfectly, but even divine artistry won’t save her from what’s to come.

Her face is so lithe, if I handle her with wrath, I will crumble her.

“I—will.” She stutters. I almost didn’t hear her.

But of course, she will. She has no choice—anything to save her father.

“But—Quinn was my friend. How can I be your mate?”

The moment Quinn’s name leaves her lips, a raw, explosive rage overtakes me. In a blink, I have her by the neck, lifted from the floor and pressing her against the wall.

“You will never speak her name again! I hear even a whisper of it, even in the quiet of your breath, you will regret it.” I roar as a coming thunder.

Her wide, terrified eyes shut tight and she nods frantically.

“I won’t. I swear, I won’t.” Her hands clench weakly at mine as I grip the collar of her coat and she spills apologizes.

The door opens behind me.

“Royal Alpha,”

“The tribunals are speaking outside,” the familiar voice that can only be my ever loyal butler continues, unfazed. “The guests claim they heard you both call each other ‘mate.’ You can’t reject her. The traditions—”

“I know what the damn traditions say!” I finally turning my glare on him.

“And who said I’m rejecting her?” I add, getting into something far more sinister. I ease away from her, loosening my grip as I step back. Her pale face is flushed an almost unnatural red. Her chest rises and falls in uneven breaths—whether from fear or the cold, I don’t know. Maybe both.

“You—you’re accepting her?” Mason’s words come out like he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing.

“Of course, I am.” I brush a non-existent dust from my coat.

“My first wish is simple: you accept this mate bond. Or do you say no?”

I steer the question to her. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

I click my tongue. “Oh, come on. I’m not a monster. I’m your mate. Surely you’ll say yes.”

“Y-yes. I—I accept.” She wipes her cheek.

Of course, she will do anything to save her father.

“Get me the Fang priest!”

Mason doesn’t hesitate. He slips out to fulfil my order. I won’t even give her a second to breathe, not until I’ve started to set the stage for Milton Morgan’s true punishment.

“Priest?” she croaks as tears shimmer in her eyes.

I smirk at her naivety.

“Well, you’ve accepted, haven’t you? That means we bond.” I wink at her.

The door opens again and Mason returns. Before I can give the next order, I pivot toward the entryway and snarl, “Open the doors wide! Let everyone witness this moment. Let them see as I crown myself a new Luna!”

Outside, the tribunal members and nosy onlookers peek in.

“But, Royal Alpha, we can arrange a grand ceremony—set a date. The entire country, journalists, media outlets, even governmental offices will be informed. Your second bonding is a monumental event! We cannot—"

“Are you mad?” I cut him off sharply, turning my glare to Mason. “Why did you bring me a faulty Elder?”

“Do as the Royal Alpha commands!” Mason barks.

“The bonding ceremony,” I say, stepping closer to the priest, “is simply the recitation of bond vows followed by the mark that declares I’ve claimed her. Is it not?”

“Well... yes, but your mother, your siblings—they’re unaware of this. They should be—”

I don’t bother to respond. I The weight of my stare alone seems to press into him, a promise of what will happen if he doesn’t comply.

“There is no ring…”

“You can give her one after you bond us.” I use my fingers to beckon the shaking girl who moves from the wall and begins to walk towards me.

The old priest begins to recite the matrimony vows. I look down at her, far above her height…I look at the rabbit she is. Quinn is my only mate! The Moon Goddess can send me a hundred chances, a thousand, but none of them will be Quinn. This one... she will serve her purpose as a tool, a weapon for this season.

With face the colour of a snow, Perilous finds interest in her and bids me to touch her but I have touched her enough for tonight.

“Mark her. Mark her for us!” Perilous pulses like an impatient dog.

“Dear, your name is?”

The priest asks.

“Serayah.” Perilous answers before her lips can even part, as though claiming her before she even speaks. He sears her name in my chest. Her name fits her face, delicate and pale like a porcelain doll.

“Your vows—” The werewolf priest asks of me.

“Just seal the damn bond!” I bark and everyone—including the rabbit before me—jumps in unison.

“And in the presence of the Moon Goddess, I write your names in the sky…”

I scratch my nose in boredom as the old priest speaks. After standing through the experience for wholesome minutes, he finally says “Now, place your wolf mark on her, Royal Alpha...”

She lifts her hand instinctively to her chest as if that would save her. She’s wearing a black coat and I can't even see the skin I need to mark.

“Take off your coat.” I command.

“Please…”

She looks between me, Mason, the priest, and the tribunals watching from the door. The desperation in her gaze is almost pathetic.

“Please? Don’t beg. You make it sound like I forced you into this bond. The vows have been made. Now take it off… or—” I let that threat rest in her spine.

Like a good girl, she pulls at the tie of the coat, slipping it from her neck before easing it off.

Underneath, she is wearing a white tank top that reveals her arms, her neck, shoulders... All of it a perfect canvas for a thousand marks.

“Don’t be afraid. His mark won’t hurt you…you are mates,” the priest offers in what I can only assume is an attempt at comfort. I smile darkly. Really? As if it’s not within my power to decide whether the mark is agony or bliss.

She takes a step back.

Then another, shuddering even before I’ve begun.

I pull her into my grasp, undoing every space she tried to create. I lean, breath ghosting over her neck, the perfect place to leave a mark she will never forget.

But then, that damned scent hits me again—bold, sweet, blasphemous. It weaves through my senses like a drug, throwing off my intention. My teeth hovers to strike, but instead of sinking them into her skin with vengeance, my wolf, Perilous, overrides me.

Before I realize it, my tongue brushes against her skin first, tasting her. The warmth of her pulse against my lips is maddening. One of her hands grasps at my arm, fingers digging into my bicep as if bracing for the pain she’s certain is coming.

But pain doesn’t come.

To my own frustration, I leave a painless mark—a love bite rather than the savage brand I’d envisioned. It’s soft, searing in its intimacy and entirely against what I devised.