Chapter 1 Dreams in Crimson

Lyra POV

I jolted awake, dawn's delicate light stretching across the sky outside my window, casting long, melancholic shadows through the room I'd called home for two years—Dominic's territory, Crimson Pine Pack. Nestled in the rolling hills east of Vancouver, Washington, this was meant to be my sanctuary. Yet, even after two years, it remained an alien place, a cage of unspoken promises.

My palms pressed against my eyelids, desperate to banish the recurring nightmare—a vivid recollection of the night that shattered my world.

In my mind's eye, the scent of blood hung heavy, my wolf whining with primal dread as danger closed in. My father’s command pierced the chaos: "Run, Lyra!" His eyes, blazing with the fierce gold of our Alpha bloodline, urged me to flee as howls tore through our territory.

Beside me, my brother Jason shifted into his formidable wolf form, leading me away through our pack mind-link. Behind us, Father transformed into his massive gray wolf, standing resolute against the invaders.

I couldn't resist one last glance, witnessing through wolf eyes as enemy jaws descended upon him, the pack bond snapping with a psychic agony that nearly felled me. Jason urged survival, but soon we were hunted—Alpha's children, marked for death.

A scarred wolf struck my hind leg, the searing pain forcing me to stumble. Jason stood over me, commanding me to hide as he drew the pursuers away.

Hours passed in a dense thicket, but he never returned. I ran, wounded and alone, until I collapsed in a clearing, surrounded by triumphant foes.

Then, a man—Dominic—emerged, his amber eyes locking with mine, a profound recognition vibrating through me: "Mate!"

He cloaked me in his shirt, his scent of pine and rain enveloping me, and drove off my attackers with primal ferocity. In my reverie, I fantasized Dominic marking me on the spot, claiming me as his own, but he never did.

Two years had passed since Dominic's rescue—two years of an unclaimed mate bond, of separate bedrooms in this sprawling Alpha house, of waiting for him to mark me as his Luna beyond mere title.

What am I doing wrong? Dominic was always maintaining a careful distance—bringing me tea at dawn but leaving it outside my door, sharing pack business in clipped tones, and occasionally checking on me after nightmares with clinical detachment. Yet, he never stayed, always retreating with a gentle, "You need time to heal. I won’t rush you."

But I was ready, had been for months, and every attempt to show him was met with a chaste kiss on my forehead and his withdrawal to his quarters or the forbidden cabin in the woods behind Alpha House, a place off-limits by his Alpha command.

I sighed, slipping from bed to face the tired reflection in the bathroom mirror, green eyes shadowed by sleeplessness.

For a year, community college literature classes among oblivious humans and a quiet search for Jason—whose bond I never felt snap completely—offered distraction and fleeting hope. A human friend, unaware he aided a werewolf, promised to discreetly search for my brother.

Today was the full moon, the night of the Moon Gathering. Despite my title as Luna, I bore no true duties until last month, when Dominic reluctantly allowed me to assist with pack ceremony preparations—simple tasks that nonetheless gave me a semblance of purpose in a pack that never fully embraced me.

Eager to begin, I dressed and headed to the pack hall, only to be halted by Marcus, Dominic's Beta, his severe expression unreadable. "Alpha requests you remain in your quarters today and rest," he stated, the Alpha command in his tone undeniable.

My wolf bristled, but I nodded, forcing a smile. "Of course. If that’s what Alpha wants."

Returning to Alpha House, a fragile hope flickered. Perhaps tonight would be different. Perhaps tonight would be the night.

I spent hours preparing, bathing in lavender and wild rose, donning a deep emerald dress to accentuate my eyes, styling my brown hair in soft waves as Dominic once casually admired.

Yet, as pack members departed for the Gathering, the house fell silent. Hours passed, the moon rising high, its pull on my wolf intensifying, and I remained alone.

Past midnight, the front door slammed open. Dominic stumbled in, reeking of whiskey and an unplaceable medicinal scent, his amber eyes unfocused, movements erratic.

"You're still up," he slurred. "Good."

My heart plummeted; this was not the tender moment I'd envisioned. "You're drunk," I accused.

"Not drunk enough," he retorted with a harsh laugh, advancing with predatory intent. "You look beautiful."

His familiar tenderness was tainted by a desperate edge I’d never seen. He seized my wrist, pulling me close, his scent of pine and earth corrupted by alcohol and despair.

"Not like this," I protested, pushing against his chest, torn between longing and dismay. "You're not yourself."

"I am exactly myself," he growled, eyes flashing crimson. The mate bond pulsed insistently, ignored for too long, as his bruising kiss pinned me against the wall.

My wolf urged submission while my human side recoiled. "Maybe this is what we need," she pleaded.

I didn't resist as he lifted me, carrying me to his bedroom—a forbidden threshold I’d never crossed. Two years of waiting culminated in this: a drunken, desperate union. Caught between the bond’s pull, my wolf’s desire, and a foolish hope for change, my resistance waned.

"Dominic, is this what you really want?" I whispered as his hands roughly tore off my carefully chosen dress.

"Yes! I want to fuck you!" he growled, his cock thrusting rapidly inside me. His climax hit, cum shooting into me as he shouted, "Don't get me wrong, babe. I married that Lyra just because she was still useful to us! Every time I look at her, I think of you, Isabella..."

What? Tormented by the pleasure of my climax and his words, I tried to push Dominic away but couldn't. Tears streamed silently down my face. I should have been screaming in ecstasy, but shock and grief left me voiceless. Because I was the Lyra he referred to as "still useful"...

And a question lingered like a wound: who the hell is Isabella?