Chapter 30
Alpha Floyd stood motionless before the floor–to–ceiling windows of his study, the soft. rustle of leaves outside the only sound breaking the stillness. His knuckles tapped rhythmically on the dark mahogany desk, sharp and impatient.
Laid out in front of him were photographs- freshly delivered by his Beta, Elmer. Each one. hit like a blade, slicing through the controlled facade of the Alpha.
“Are you absolutely sure it’s her?” His voice was
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gravelly, low–coiled with tension just beneath.
the surface.
Elmer wiped the sweat from his brow, not daring to meet his Alpha’s eyes. “Positive. Luna Jillian has opened a bookstore in Ashenclaw Pack. It’s not doing well… but these photos were taken just last week.”
Floyd’s gaze dropped to the pictures.
Jillian stood outside a quaint little bookshop. called Moonbeam, the light filtering through the sycamore leaves above, casting soft shadows on her face. She wore a simple linen dress, her hair now trimmed just below the shoulders. She was crouched down, speaking to a little girl–no older than five.
Her smile was gentle. Familiar. A version of her he hadn’t seen in years.
But what made Floyd’s jaw tighten wasn’t just Jillian’s expression–it was the man standing beside her. Tall, composed, protective. He
held the child in his arms as if it were the most
natural thing in the world. His gaze lingered on Jillian with quiet affection, a warmth that made Floyd’s wolf snarl within.
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“And who the hell is this?” Floyd asked, his fingertip pressing hard into the photo–right on
the man’s face.
“That’s Alpha George,” Elmer answered. carefully. “He and the Luna were classmates in university. The little girl is his late sister’s daughter. They reconnected by chance after
Jillian moved to Ashenclaw. From what we
observed, they spend a lot of time together… but nothing inappropriate.”
Alpha Floyd’s expression darkened. “And she’s
close with the child?”
Elmer nodded. “Very. She takes her out often, and Alpha George usually joins them.”
“Enough.” Floyd cut him off with a wave of his hand, his chest tightening with something sharp and foreign–bitterness.
How dare she? How dare she smile at another man’s pup like that? That soft gaze used to be his. Hers belonged to him.
The study door suddenly slammed open.
Yolanda and Leon barreled inside barefoot,
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their cheeks still streaked with dried tears.
“Daddy!” Yolanda flung herself into his arms. “Wilona said you found Mommy. Is it true?”
Floyd looked down at his daughter, then at the photo still clutched in his hand–Jillian, smiling gently at someone else’s child.
Three months. Three full moons had passed,
and she hadn’t once reached out to her own
pups. And yet… there she was. Laughing.
Content.
Leon tugged at the hem of Floyd’s suit jacket, his voice small. “Can we go see Mommy? We
miss her so much…”
Their voices—raw and fragile–scraped across Floyd’s heart like claws.
He stared at the image of Jillian, flanked by the man and child. Then he gave a cold.
“Prepare the jet,” he told Elmer, gently brushing a tear from Yolanda’s cheek. “We’re going to bring Mommy home.”
No matter how far she ran, she was still his mate. She was still the Luna of Shadowborn
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Pack. And Floyd refused to believe she truly cared for that soft–spoken Alpha George. This -all of this–had to be her way of getting back at him. He’d neglected her, yes. He’d made mistakes. But Jillian had loved him once–so
deeply she’d endured six years of silence.
If he brought the children, she would soften. She always had. She never could bear to see
them hurt.
Meanwhile, in Ashenclaw Pack, the Mud Fun
pottery studio was filled with the scent of clay and the sound of laughter.
Jillian sat at a long wooden table, sleeves rolled up, her fingers shaping a damp lump of earth. Beside her, little Cecilia giggled, her face streaked with mud and joy.
“Look, Sister Jillian! I made a bunny!” she chirped, holding up a very lopsided creation.
Jillian leaned closer, smiling. “It is a bunny….
though I think it’s missing a nose.” With a chuckle, she reached over and dabbed a spot of
clay on Cecilia’s real one.
The girl squealed with delight and grabbed at
glob of clay for retaliation.
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Their laughter filled the sun–drenched studio.
From the other side of the room, Alpha George approached, balancing three cups of hot tea. Clay dust clung to his apron, and a smudge dotted the edge of his glasses.
“You two,” he said, amused, “is this a pottery
studio or a battlefield?”
He set the mugs down, then pulled out a cloth and gently wiped a streak of clay from Jillian’s cheek. His fingers hesitated–lingering just a second too long.
Jillian’s breath caught.
George quickly pulled back, clearing his throat as a soft pink rose in his ears.
Cecilia, ever observant, blinked up at them.
“Sister Jillian, I’m so happy! I wish we could
always live together. You, me, and Uncle Alpha George!”
Jillian’s smile faltered.
She looked up–met George’s gaze.
There it was again. That flicker of unspoken
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There it was again. That flicker of unspoken hope, as gentle and steady as the man himself.
Her heart stuttered… and then sank. Images of Floyd and the children flashed in her mind. Yolanda’s sleepy voice. Leon’s mischievous grin. The way they used to look at her before everything shattered.
Her smile dimmed. Her gaze dropped.
Before she could speak, George slid a small clay bowl toward his niece. “Cecilia, what do you think of this one?”
Instantly distracted, the child gasped with delight and forgot her previous question.
Jillian exhaled quietly and traced a finger along the rim of her own bowl, rough and unfinished.
Just like her life. Just like her heart.
There was warmth here–quiet, honest warmth -but it was tangled with a bitter ache. And though George never pushed, never crossed the line… she could feel his patience. His longing.
But some things weren’t so simple.
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Some bonds–no matter how trayed–were forged in blood, scent, and moonlight.
And they were not so easily severed.
