Hunting My Outcast Luna

Eleven: Alpha Ronan

The journey to Bloodmoon Pack is longer than expected. The further we run, the heavier the air feels—charged, uneasy, like a storm waiting to break. I slow down and shift back into my human form. My wolf paces beneath my skin, restless in a way I can’t explain. Every breath tastes different, the scent of the land shifting the closer we get. The forests lining the path grew darker, the trees gnarled and bent, twisted by something unnatural.

Alex notices it too. He keeps pace beside me, his silver wolf glancing toward the trees, ears flicking. Shifting back.

Alex notices it too. He runs beside me, his gaze flicking toward the trees. "You feel that?"

I nod, keeping my pace steady. "Yeah. Something's wrong with this land."

Xzavier snorts from behind us. "Or maybe you two are just paranoid. Not every dark forest is hiding something sinister, you know."

Alex shoots him a look. "Tell that to your instincts, dumbass. You don’t feel how quiet it is?"

I don’t need to look at Xzavier to know his smirk falters. He does feel it. He just doesn’t want to admit it.

We push forward, cutting through Bellamy’s lands quickly, sparing us from traveling through unclaimed territory for too long. But the last 20-mile stretch forces us through rogue lands—empty, silent, unsettling. There should be something here. Stragglers. Scouts. The stench of rogues marking whatever piece of land they’ve claimed.

But there’s nothing.

It’s unnatural.

The sun is dipping below the trees by the time we reach Bloodmoon’s borders.

Patrols watch us with wary eyes as we pass. Bloodmoon has always been different—more militarized than most packs. Here, strength is valued over honor, and loyalty is bought with power. It’s why I’ve never trusted Grant.

The iron gates creak open, revealing a courtyard lined with warriors in rigid formation. They stand shoulder to shoulder, too disciplined, too rehearsed. It feels staged. Like they’re putting on a show.

Alex mutters under his breath, “Damn, what’s with the welcome party?”

Xzavier stretches, exaggerated and lazy. "Guess they rolled out the carpet just for us. We should feel honored."

I don’t laugh. My eyes are on the man at the center of it all. Alpha Grant.

He stands at ease, smug as ever, arms crossed over his chest like he already knows the outcome of this meeting.

"Alpha Ronan," he greets, stepping forward. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

I dismount, letting my gaze scan the area before settling on him. "The King sent me," I say flatly. "You know why I’m here."

Grant’s smirk doesn’t falter, but there’s something calculating in his eyes. "Ah, yes. The runaway." He clicked his tongue. "She caused quite the stir. Stole something from us—something valuable."

I let the words hang between us. He wants me to ask what, but I don’t take the bait.

“Where did she go?” I ask instead.

Grant sighs dramatically, as if this is all beneath him. “If we knew, we wouldn’t need you, would we?” He gestures toward the main hall. “Come inside. We’ll talk.”

I glanced at Alex and Xzavier, giving them a silent command. Stay sharp.

We follow Grant inside. The Bloodmoon packhouse is more a fortress than a home, built from dark stone that seems to absorb the light. Torches flicker in sconces along the walls, casting long shadows that dance like ghosts.

Something is wrong.

I expect to see pack members moving through the halls—servants, warriors off-duty, even children. But the halls are empty.

Alex notices it too. He leans in slightly. "Where the hell is everyone?"

I didn’t answer. I don’t like this. I don’t like any of it.

And I sure as hell don’t trust Grant.

Grant leads us back outside, down a narrow path past the training grounds filled with warriors. Some pause mid-spar to watch us pass, their eyes filled with curiosity or wariness. I don't miss the way they lower their gazes when Grant walks by.

We stop in front of a stone building, the entrance leading underground like a cellar. The air here is thick, unmoving. Old.

I glanced at Grant. “What is this?”

His smile is sharp, predatory. "This is where my family has kept the enchanted weapon for generations. And well—” He pushes the door open. “You can see it’s gone.”

The scent of dust and stale air fills my lungs as I step inside. The dim lantern light casts long shadows against the stone walls, but I see it immediately—something is off.

If a powerful weapon had been kept here, I would feel something. Magic leaves a trace, an imprint, even long after it’s gone. But there’s nothing. No pull, no lingering energy, not even the faintest hum of power.

I kneeled beside the pedestal where the weapon supposedly sat, brushing my fingers across its surface. The dust is undisturbed. No imprint remains.

This place has been empty for a long time.

I turn to Grant. “You said she stole something.” My voice is slow, measured. Testing him. “What was it?”

Grant’s smirk falters. “A weapon. One of great importance.”

A lie.

It’s in the way his shoulders stiffen, the slight shift in his stance. He’s waiting to see if I’ll challenge him. I file the information away.

“Interesting,” I murmured, brushing my fingers over the pedestal again, keeping my expression neutral. “Who was this girl to you? And why would she want to steal from you?”

His jaw tenses. “A nobody,” he says too quickly.A stray we took in. She repaid our kindness with betrayal.”

Lies again. Before I can press further, the sound of approaching footsteps echoes in the corridor. A warrior steps into the room, his posture stiff, reluctant.

“This is Kellan,” Grant says, motioning toward him. “One of the guards assigned to watch over the weapon. He was on duty the night she ran. Figured you might find some use for him while looking for her.” His smirk returns, wicked with amusement. “Word has it they knew each other.”

Kellan’s jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, but he doesn’t refute it.

Kellan looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“She is dangerous,” he says after a moment. Then, softer, as if only meant for himself. “Never seems to die. Always finds a way to win.”

My frown deepens. There’s something strange about the way he says it—not just as an observation, but almost… unsettled. As if it’s something he’s tried to understand and failed.

I frown. “What does that even mean?”

Grant shrugs, unconcerned. “Oh, Alpha Ronan, once the matter with the girl is settled, you should join us for Fight Night.”

“Fight Night?”

“Yes. The girl was the star. No wolf, yet she defeated a feral. Impressive, really.” He watched me closely.

I stiffen.

“They don’t exist anymore.” The words leave my mouth before I can fully think them through, my voice sharper than intended.

Grant raises a brow, amused. “Oh?” He watches me closely now, like a predator waiting to see how its prey reacts. “Say, Alpha—have you encountered any ferals lately? They seem to be appearing more and more.”

A cold tension coils in my chest. Ferals haven’t been seen in generations. They were nothing more than cautionary tales, warnings of what happens when wolves fall too far into magic’s instability. The kind of thing elders whispered about in hushed voices, a relic of a past long buried.

But Grant—he’s speaking like they’re real. Like they never left.

I school my features, keeping my voice carefully neutral. “No,” I say. “I haven’t.”

Grant’s smirk lingers, stretching just a little wider. He doesn’t believe me. Or maybe he does, and he just enjoys watching me second-guess myself.

“Interesting,” he muses.

Then, as if the moment never happened, he clapped a hand on Kellan’s shoulder. “He can take you to where she slipped through the border. Might as well start there.”

Kellan stiffens under his touch. It’s subtle, but I catch it—the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches, his hands curling ever so slightly. He doesn’t like Grant.

As we walk away, I note how Kellan watches his Alpha. Like a man who hates his leader.

Good to know.

As we turned to leave, I glanced at Kellan again. There’s something about the way he carries himself, something rigid, forced. Like a man caught in a cage he can’t break out of.

And something tells me that if I push hard enough…

He just might be willing to crack it open.

Once we’re out of earshot, I open my mouth to start my questioning—but before I can say anything, Kellan speaks first.

“Her name is Zarya,” he says quietly. “And she didn’t steal anything.”

I didn’t respond right away. I watched him, waiting, letting the silence stretch between us.

Kellan exhales, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “She has no wolf,” he continues, voice tight. “And this pack didn’t take kindly to that. She was forced to fight. Every time she won, the stakes got higher. I don’t blame her for running. But I can promise you—she didn’t steal anything.”