The Luna's Shadow

CHAPTER 1

“Why—” bash. “The f**k—” kick. “Can’t you—” slap. “Get anything right?”

My father’s voice raged as he loomed over me, each word punctuated by a blow. Drunk or not, he pronounced every word perfectly, and he made sure to hit me between them, like the timing of it would somehow drive his point home. All because his dinner was cold. He hadn’t even told me when he’d be home—how the hell was I supposed to know when to have his meal ready?

He’d woken me in the middle of the night, dragged me down the stairs by my hair, and shoved me into the kitchen. Dinner wasn’t ready. Little did he know, it was in the microwave. I had made it. He just didn’t come home on time.

When he finally finished, he grabbed another beer from the fridge, flopped onto the couch, and turned on the TV. I stayed on the cold kitchen floor, barely able to move, staring at the ceiling and wondering how long this torture would last.

Only a few more months, I told myself. A couple of months until I turn eighteen. Then I’m out of here. There’s nothing he can do.

I tried to take a deep breath—but quickly realized it was a bad idea. My ribs screamed in protest. I must’ve broken a few, breathing was a chore, each inhale stabbing me.

When I heard his breathing even out on the couch, I knew he’d passed out. Slowly, painfully, I grabbed a fallen chair for leverage and hoisted myself upright, testing my legs. Step by step, I made my way up the stairs to our wing of the packhouse—the one reserved for Dad and me since he was the Beta. My room was down the hall.

I collapsed onto my bed and checked the time. 5 a.m. There was no point going back to sleep.

I lingered a little longer, letting myself melt into the bed. Dad had designed my room to look like a princess’ sanctuary—a showpiece for how “loving” he was. He treated me worse than trash, worse than a dog, but the bed was big, soft, and comforting, if only for a few minutes.

Eventually, I forced myself up and made my way to the en-suite. Clothes off, thrown into the hamper. And then I faced the mirror.

I was covered in black and blue bruises, fresh cuts from last night, old bruises still healing underneath. My body had always been malnourished; I didn’t heal like a werewolf should. But I was used to it.

Ever since Mom died when I was six, Dad’s abuse had escalated, slowly, relentlessly, until this was the worst of it—beatings that left me barely able to move or even look at myself in the mirror.

I took a quick, stinging shower and washed my long snow-blonde hair. Emerging, I slid into black tights, a loose shirt, and my hoodie. Comfortable. Protective. My armor.

As I stuffed books into my bag, my bedroom door slammed open. I jumped so high I nearly hit the ceiling.

Dad stood there. Surprisingly, he was upright.

“Hurry up. Pack breakfast is starting.” His words slurred.

How was he going to explain this to the pack elders? Honestly, I didn’t care.

Bag slung over my shoulder, we descended the hallways together. When I slowed, he grabbed my arm and yanked me forward, aggravating my ribs with every step.

“Quit your complaining. What’s the matter with you?” he snarled. Drunk as he was, he probably wouldn’t remember this by tomorrow.

We entered the main part of the packhouse. Dad straightened his clothes, smoothed his thinning gray hair, and adjusted his goatee before stepping into the large dining room where the pack’s elite ate every morning—the Alpha, his daughter Bella, the elders, influential members like the doctor.

There were multiple tables and a buffet piled high with food. I almost drooled as Dad loaded a plate high for himself and handed me a second plate—just toast and a single pancake.

Bella sat at a window table by herself. The Alpha’s second-born and only daughter, my best friend since diapers, my age.

“I see you’ve brought the hoodie out again,” she whispered. I slid onto the bench, wincing slightly. Everyone knew what the hoodie meant—bruises, hiding the abuse.

“I didn’t realize I ever put it away,” I murmured.

“Well, I’m glad I don’t have to wear mine today,” she replied.

“Your dad easing up?” I asked, curious, a twinge of jealousy.

“Yep. My brother’s coming home today.” She beamed.

Elation spread through me. “Ethan’s finally coming home?” I asked, and she nodded. The smile wouldn’t leave her face, and neither did mine.

Bella glanced around the room, suspicious. I followed her gaze. Heads turned, eyes flicked my way.

Dad tried to mask his cruelty, but no one was fooled. Drunk or sober, he was dangerous—quick to start fights, unbearable to deal with. Recently, he’d been drinking more, and people whispered about what happened in our apartment—but no one dared confront the Beta. The Alpha would back him up, and any defiance meant expulsion… or worse.

Leaving the pack wasn’t an option. Those who tried? Warriors were sent after them. Entire families killed. Children included. That fear was why our pack dominated the East Coast—the strongest, the most ruthless. Warriors trained endlessly. Girls weren’t allowed to train.

We lived in the stone ages, ruled by barbaric tradition. She-wolves were valued only for finding mates and producing pups. Insulting, degrading—but the Alpha’s word was law.