Rejected by The Beta

There was no celebration.

No firepit roaring beneath the stars. No drums echoing through the woods, no unified howl raised in victory or mourning. The packhouse remained hushed, a stillness hanging over the walls like fog — unnatural and too intentional.

The fire in the Beta wing's hearth flickered low, more for appearance than warmth. Shadows crept along the wainscoting, and the smell of aged scotch lingered in the heavy air — thick, smoky, bitter. The room felt like it was holding its breath.

Kael sat in the high-backed leather chair like it was a cage. His spine was rigid, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Every part of him screamed to leave — to run until the walls, the room, the lies, were behind him. But he stayed.

Because he had to know what came next.

Mera reclined beside him on the velvet settee, all grace and quiet conquest. She was dressed in pale gold silk that clung to her figure like it had been stitched in ambition. Her dark curls framed her face in loose waves, her lips glossed with a perfect sheen. She hadn't spoken much since arriving — she didn't need to. Her presence was the statement.

She looked every inch the picture of control.

Kael hated how easily she fit into the room that Dwyn never had.

Beta Parker stood behind the polished bar, rolling the amber liquid in his glass like it held omens. The firelight caught the rim, casting a halo across his fingers — though there was nothing saintly about the man.

"It's done," he said finally, voice cold and precise. "The blemish has been removed."

Kael's fingers curled into the armrest.

"Her name," he said through gritted teeth, "is Dwyn."

Parker didn't so much as blink. "Names don't matter. Blood does. Legacy does. And the pack's future can't hinge on a wild-card with shadowed lineage and unknown instincts. She was a stain, and now—she's gone."

"She was loyal," Kael growled. "To the pack. To me."

Mera's smile was soft and cutting. "And yet, she left."

"She didn't leave," he snapped. "You all forced her out."

Across the room, Kael's mother, Leora, stood with her arms folded. She'd remained silent until now, but her voice broke the tension like a winter blade. "This wasn't Alpha-sanctioned. You think Duskthorn won't see through this?"

Parker let out a quiet scoff. "Duskthorn's eyes haven't been sharp in years. He let a ghost's memory steer his judgment for too long. The girl was a remnant of that grief. This... was mercy."

"Mercy?" Leora repeated, venom softening her voice. "You call political manipulation mercy now?"

"It's a transition," Parker replied calmly, like he was discussing crop rotation. "And one the pack needed. They've felt it. The Alpha's been ruled by his heart since Naia died, and he clung to her daughter out of guilt, not strategy."

"She wasn't just her daughter," Kael said, standing slowly. "She was the strategy. She would've given her life for this pack."

"Exactly," Parker said, eyes gleaming. "And that's what frightened me."

Kael's pulse surged.

Across from him, Mera's hand drifted to rest lightly on his arm. Her nails were painted pearl. Her touch was too light to be affectionate — it was performative. Possessive. She was already rehearsing her role.

"The pack is watching us," she said softly, looking up at him with practiced concern. "They see strength now. Unity. You and I together? That's what they need."

"Need or were told they need?" Kael asked, his voice dropping to a quiet edge.

She didn't answer.

Parker did. "The Alpha won't live forever. And when his reign ends — naturally or not — the Beta bloodline will already be positioned to take over. The wolves respect tradition. They'll follow the ones who look like order."

"And you think that's you," Leora said bitterly. "Or her?"

Mera's eyes glittered. "The pack wants a Luna they can believe in. A future Beta they can trust."

Kael stared down at Mera's hand. It was warm. Steady.

But the warmth felt wrong. Artificial.

Her scent—sweet lavender and something cloying underneath—made his wolf uneasy. Too polished. Too curated.

Like everything else in this room.

"You think this is over?" he murmured.

Parker stepped forward, standing just behind Kael, and said with chilling certainty:

"This is just the beginning."

Leora turned her back on them, walking to the window, though the curtains were still drawn. Her voice floated back through the stillness, soft but laced with steel.

"You've made your move. But don't mistake silence for surrender. Duskthorn's quiet now, yes. But that won't last."

Kael didn't say another word.

But as the fire snapped behind him and the future of Crescent Howl was plotted like a chessboard, he felt something stir deep in his gut — not loyalty, not doubt.

Loss.

Real and sharp and still so loud inside him.

Dwyn's scent had faded from the halls.

But not from him.

And he knew — as sure as bone and blood — that this story wasn't done.

Not even close.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

A month since Dwyn left....

They always come when the weather shifts.

As if the mist loosens their tongues. As if the rain softens my patience.

It was the kind of gray morning that soaked into your bones — not from cold, but from memory. The kind that pressed its weight against your shoulders and made ghosts feel closer than the living. Outside my office window, the forest sat still. Silent. Watching.

I stood with my arms behind my back, eyes trained on the tree line. The glass fogged softly beneath my breath. The hearth behind me crackled low and steady — not enough to warm the room, just enough to remind me that something still burned.

I heard the door open before the scent hit me.

Didn't need to turn.

"Close it behind you," I said.

There was a pause, then the soft snick of wood and latch. Parker's scent drifted in — too clean, too sharp, like lemon oil and stale pride. He always wore the same cologne. I used to think it was discipline. Now I know it's vanity.

"I assume this isn't a social visit," I murmured.

He stepped in like he belonged, like my office was just another hallway he was waiting to repaint in his image.

"The pack's been murmuring."

"They always do."

"This time," he said, smooth as river stone, "they're wondering about leadership. About the future."

I finally turned.

"Then let me be clear," I said. "There is no question about the future."

He didn't flinch. Not yet. But I saw the flicker — the faint crack in his confidence. The kind that comes when a man realizes he might be stepping into fire and not finding water on the other side.

"You named Dwyn your heir," he said, tone measured. "But she's... gone."

"She's exactly where I asked her to be," I replied. "Learning. Breathing. Becoming."

Parker's jaw twitched. "She's a girl."

"And?" I raised a brow.

"The role of Alpha—"

"Isn't defined by gender," I snapped. "It's defined by strength. By wisdom. By loyalty. If you've forgotten that, you've been Beta far too long."

He exhaled through his nose, masking frustration as thoughtfulness. "If Kael had mated her—"

"Then he would have become Luna," I said. "Her consort. Her partner. He would have stood at her side. Not above her. Never above her."

Parker's mouth curled. "You'd have the pack bow to a female Alpha?"

"They already do," I said, stepping forward. "She was born to this role. Her blood carries the weight of this forest, of Naia, of my name. She was made, tempered by loss, and still she walks with her head high. What's more Alpha than that?"

"She's emotional," he pushed. "Unstable."

I stared at him.

"She's young," I said quietly. "And even now, she has more control than your son did on the day he marked another girl while my daughter lay bleeding inside."

That shut him up.

For a moment.

Then his voice dropped into something colder. "You think they'll follow her just because you said so?"

"No," I said. "They'll follow her because they'll see the fire in her and remember who lit it. Because when the storm comes — and it will — she won't just stand. She'll lead."

Parker's face hardened. "Kael and Mera—"

"Are children playing with matches," I said. "They think claiming each other makes them leaders. But leadership is forged in loss. In responsibility. In sacrifice. And my daughter—my heir—has known all three."

He stepped forward, closer to my desk. "You're letting grief speak for you."

"No," I said. "I'm letting legacy define me. I'm building the future I want my pack to survive in."

He looked at me like I was a relic. Like I was the one clinging to something lost.

"You're making a mistake," he said.

I smiled then. Cold. Sharp.

"And yet," I said, "I'm still Alpha."

Parker didn't respond. He just turned and left, his footsteps too loud on the floorboards, like they didn't quite belong here anymore.

When the door shut behind him, I sat at the old oak desk and leaned back in the chair that had seen three generations of leaders. My father's carving still etched into the armrest. A reminder of who came before.

Upstairs, the soft patter of footsteps — laughter, giggles, the high voice of one of the girls arguing about hair ribbons. Cecil, warm and firm as ever, gently corralling the triplets toward something resembling order.

My second chance was alive. Sweet. Safe.

But Naia's memory was in the bones of this place. In the wind that curled through the trees. In the daughter she left behind.

I thought of Dwyn — wild and radiant. Storm-born. Named Alpha with my own blood and breath.

I'd seen the power in her long before she'd understood it herself. Not just strength, but heart. Not just leadership, but mercy. She didn't need to roar to command. She didn't have to win their love. She earned it.

They could whisper all they wanted.

Let them doubt her. Let them measure her with old rules.

When she returns, they'll see what I already know.

She won't have to fight for the crown.

She is the crown.

And they'll bow.

Not because she asks.

But because there will be no other choice.