The White Luna: Claimed By The Cursed King

The flowers at my feet were still fresh when Roland looked me in the eye and chose someone else.

Three hundred pack members watched. Three hundred witnesses to the moment Alpha Roland of Ironveil Pack pressed his hand to the chest of Cecile Voss, a woman who had never held a sword, never bled for this pack, never done anything except exist softly in Roland's peripheral vision for the last six months.

Three hundred people watched him sever our mate bond in front of the Moon Goddess altar.

And not one of them said a word.

"I, Roland Voss, Alpha of Ironveil, hereby reject you, Nadia Ashford, as my Luna and my mate."

The words hit like a blade between the ribs. Not metaphorically. The bond snapping felt exactly like being stabbed, a white-hot tear that started in my chest and ripped outward to my fingertips. My knees wanted to buckle. I had taken silver-laced arrows in battle. I had fought three rogues bare-handed in the Northern Woods and walked out with my throat still intact. I had bled for this pack more times than I could count.

I did not buckle.

I locked my knees and I breathed through it.

"Nadia Ashford." Roland's voice dropped lower, shaped for ceremony but stripped of any warmth. "You are released from your bond, your title, and your place in this pack. By pack law, you have seventy-two hours to vacate Ironveil territory."

Cecile stood beside him in ivory silk, her eyes cast downward with practiced modesty. She wasn't gloating. She didn't need to. The altar flowers, the guests, the ceremony, all of it had been arranged around her while I was still wearing the Luna crest on my chest like it meant something.

I had been the last to know.

That was the part that burned worse than the bond snap. Somewhere behind me, I heard a soft sound, half sob, half gasp. Probably Mara, my second-in-command, the only woman in this pack who had ever actually watched my back. The rest of them were silent in that particular way that meant they had known too. Or suspected. Or simply hadn't cared enough to warn me.

Roland finally looked at me directly. I had loved that face once. Strong jaw, grey eyes, the kind of authority that made younger wolves stand straighter when he entered a room. Now I catalogued it the way I catalogued an opponent before a fight. Searching for weakness. Finding plenty.

"This doesn't have to be difficult," he said, quiet enough that only the front rows could hear. "You've served Ironveil well. Leave with your dignity."

My dignity.

I almost laughed.

Instead, I reached up and unclipped the Luna crest from my chest. The silver was cold in my palm. I had worn it for two years. I had earned it in blood and strategy and night patrols while Roland slept warm in the Alpha house. I looked at it for exactly one second.

Then I set it