TASTE OF A BROKEN LUNA

“Are you crying?”

The gravel in Dominic Hale’s voice vibrated through the phone, hitting Jess Whitman right in the center of her chest. She choked back a sob, her knuckles white as she gripped the cold metal of the park bench. Around her, the scents of the California night—damp earth, exhaust, and the faint, metallic tang of shifting gears—felt suffocating.

“I dialed the wrong number, Dominic. Go back to your team meetings or your supermodel of the week. I didn’t mean to buzz you.”

“Jess. Where are you?” The tone wasn't a question; it was a command, the kind an Alpha used when he scented blood in the air.

“I’m fine. I’m just—I’m in a park. Near Michael’s place.”

“Why aren't you in Michael’s place? It’s midnight. The Crescent Moon territory isn't safe for a lone wolf after dark, especially one who hasn't shifted yet.”

Jess let out a jagged, watery laugh. “Michael’s currently busy being knotted by some blonde omic-wannabe in his bedroom. So yeah, the park felt a bit more spacious.”

The silence on the other end was heavy, pulsing with a sudden, sharp heat she could practically feel through the speaker. Dominic wasn't just her brother’s best friend; he was the Alpha heir of the Northstar Pack, a man whose presence usually felt like an oncoming thunderstorm.

“Stay put,” Dominic growled. “Don't move a muscle. I’m three minutes out.”

“Dominic, wait—”

The line went dead. Jess shoved the phone into the pocket of her hoodie, her skin still crawling. She could still see it—the way Michael Reynolds, the man she’d thought was her fated mate despite her delayed shift, had looked at that girl. The way his claws had lightly raked the girl’s hips in a way he’d never done with Jess. You’re too fragile, Jess. You’re too human, Jess.

The roar of a high-performance engine cut through the quiet of the street. A black SUV slammed into the curb, the tires screeching against the asphalt. The door hadn't even fully closed before Dominic was out, moving with a predatory grace that made the shadows seem to shrink away from him. He wasn't in a jersey or a suit; he was in a charcoal henley that strained against shoulders that looked wide enough to carry the weight of the entire pack.

He stopped three feet from her, his nostrils flaring as he caught her scent—salt, heartbreak, and the lingering, foul stench of Michael’s cologne.

“He touched you,” Dominic said, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with a low, sub-vocal snarl.

“He’s an asshole, Dom. It happens.” Jess tried to stand, but her knees felt like water.

Dominic was there in a heartbeat, his hands steadying her. His touch was electric, a searing contrast to the night air. “He’s a dead man. I’ll tear his throat out for this.”

“No,” Jess snapped, finding a spark of her old fire. “He’s not worth the blood on your claws. I dumped him. I punched him. I think I broke his