Burnt Luna, Rising from Ashes

The scent of jasmine and vanilla candles filled the air as I moved through the pack house corridors, my heels clicking against the polished marble floors.

"Jackson?" I called softly as I approached my m,ate’s private study, following the familiar trail of his cedar and smoke scent.

The annual prosperity banquet was only three days away, and despite having organized dozens of these events over the years, my chest still fluttered with the familiar anxiety of wanting everything to be perfect.

I clutched the guest list against my chest, the crisp paper edges digging into my palm.

We still needed to finalize the seating arrangements, and Jackson's input was crucial—especially for the delicate matter of where to place the visiting Alphas from neighboring packs.

Some old rivalries still simmered beneath the surface of pack politics, and one wrong placement could turn our celebration into a diplomatic disaster.

The heavy oak door was closed, which was unusual. Normally, he kept it open when working during the day, welcoming interruptions from pack members who needed his guidance.

I paused outside the door, my hand hovering over the brass handle.

Muffled voices drifted through the wood—Jackson's deep baritone and another voice, higher, more feminine. Claire.

My heart did a small skip of relief. At least he wasn't in some important Alpha meeting I'd be interrupting.

But something in their tone made me hesitate. There was an urgency there, a hushed quality that seemed... intimate. Too intimate for a brother and sister discussing pack business.

"But what if the baby looks too much like you, Jackson?" Claire's voice carried through the door, wheedling and anxious. "What will we tell everyone then?"

My blood turned to ice in my veins.

The guest list slipped from my numb fingers, papers scattering across the floor like fallen leaves.

The baby. Claire's baby. The child I'd been caring for, feeding in the middle of the night, singing lullabies to when Claire was too "exhausted" to manage.

Jackson's response came like a physical blow: "I'll handle it. Quinn will believe whatever I tell her."

The casual dismissal in his voice, the certainty that I was nothing more than a naive fool to be manipulated—it hit me harder than any physical strike could have. My knees nearly buckled as the implications crashed over me like a tidal wave.

Claire's baby. Jackson's baby. Their baby.

My mate—my fated mate, the man I'd devoted my entire adult life to supporting and loving—had been sleeping with his own sister. And I'd been caring for the product of their incestuous affair like the devoted Luna I'd been trained to be.

Without conscious thought, my hand closed around the door handle. I needed to see. I needed the visual confirmation to make this nightmare real, because surely my ears were deceiving me. Surely the man I'd shared a bed with for eight years, the man whose mark still tingled on my neck, couldn't be capable of such betrayal.

The door swung open with barely a