Chapter 7 Chapter Seven

• The next morning, I wake with a million thoughts swirling in my head, but one stands out above the rest—what my mate said last night. Why would he say that? What did he mean?
• After freshening up, I head downstairs. As I reach the bottom step, I stop short, spotting a stunning brunette standing in the hallway.
• “Good morning, Luna,” she signs with a warm, soft smile.
• “You can sign?” I ask, my brow furrowing. Then I add quickly, “And I’m not your Luna.”
• Her smile widens. “Yes, I can. I used to be unable to hear, but that changed once I found my mate.” Her hands pause briefly before continuing. “And you are our Alpha’s mate, which makes you our Luna.”
• I gesture toward my neck, tilting my head slightly to the side to make my point clear. "Yes, I am his mate, but he hasn’t marked me yet." My hands move fluidly, the signs sharp and deliberate. I hold her gaze, waiting for her response.
• Her eyes flicker briefly to my neck, then back to my face. “Even so,” she says with a shrug, her tone confident, “I should still call you Luna.”
• I shake my head, a soft exhale escaping my lips. My fingers dance again. "We could go back and forth about this all day, but I’d really rather not. Can we skip to why you’re here and who you are?" My eyebrows lift slightly in question, and I cross my arms.
• She blinks, then softens, offering a small smile. “Right, sorry. I’m Anastasia, but you can call me Ana. I’m the beta’s mate. I’m here to take you to breakfast.”
• My hands pause mid-air for a beat before I respond. "Oh. Why can’t I eat breakfast here?" I sign quickly, glancing toward the small kitchen I’d noticed during yesterday’s tour. My hand motions toward the doorway as if to point it out. "Dan said I could use it. I’m more than capable of making my own food."
• Ana’s grin widens, and she shakes her head lightly, her red curls catching the morning sunlight streaming through the windows. “We all have breakfast in the pack house,” she explains. “It’s how they keep track of everyone.”
• "A head count?" My expression shifts to confusion, and my hands reflect the sentiment. "Breakfast is mandatory here?"
• “No, not mandatory. But it’s... expected.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, but there’s a playful glint in her hazel eyes. “And, really, why would anyone want to skip breakfast? It’s the most important meal of the day!”
• I raise a skeptical eyebrow, my hands moving in reply. "Sometimes, you’re just not hungry."
• She pauses, considering this for a moment before nodding. “Fair enough. But trust me, you don’t want to be late. Let’s go.”
• I sigh softly but nod, following her toward the door. Ana moves with an easy confidence, her fitted navy sweater and dark jeans hugging her athletic frame. I, in contrast, glance down at my plain gray sweatshirt and black leggings, suddenly feeling underdressed.
• We step outside into the crisp morning air. The forest beyond the clearing is alive with birdsong, and the faint scent of pine and damp earth lingers. Ana leads the way toward a sprawling, two-story building with large windows that gleam under the rising sun.
• “This must be the pack house,” I think to myself as we step inside. The dining hall is massive—easily the size of a banquet hall—with a long wooden table dominating the space. It looks like it could seat twenty, maybe more.
• I tap Ana’s shoulder to get her attention and sign. "Does everyone eat here together?"
• “Not exactly,” she replies, brushing a stray curl behind her ear.
• I tilt my head, fingers moving in the air. "Explain."
• She chuckles. “The Alpha sits with his officials at the head of the table. Everyone else sits by rank. It’s more... structured than casual.”
• I glance around, noticing how each seat is already occupied. My gaze shifts back to Ana, and I gesture toward the crowded table. "And where am I supposed to sit?"
• Ana points toward the head of the table, right next to the Alpha—my mate. “You’ll sit there,” she says, her voice light but deliberate. “I’ll be over here, next to my mate.”
• The moment I turn toward where she’s pointing, I catch it—the familiar scent that has haunted me since we first met. It’s warm, earthy, and electric all at once, and it washes over me the moment I step further into the room. My heart races.
• The Anton is seated at the head of the table, his commanding presence impossible to ignore. His dark hair falls slightly over his forehead, and his piercing eyes seem to scan the room with ease. But as I approach, I can feel his attention shift entirely to me.
• Eva stirs within me for the first time since we arrived at the pack. The faint echo of her growl vibrates in my mind, low and pleased, and it sends an involuntary shiver through me.
• ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask her, my mental voice cautious but warm. After everything—the fight, her injuries, the chaos—I hadn’t had a moment to check in with her. Guilt flickers through me.
• ‘I’m good,’ she replies, her tone calmer than usual but still carrying her usual edge of strength.
• ‘That’s good,’ I respond, relieved. Then, as if her awakening reminds me of the void I’ve felt, I ask her, ‘Why do you think our mate hasn’t marked us?’
• ‘Why are you asking me like I’d know the answer to that?’ she shoots back, her words sharp.
• I sigh internally. Before I can say anything else, she continues, ‘I’ll tell you one thing: I’m sure he’s mad at us because of that stupid human boy you insisted on dating.’
• ‘He’s not stu—’ I stop myself mid-thought, then groan. ‘Oh, fine. Yes, you’re right. Matt is stupid. But I doubt the Anton even knows we dated anyone.’
• Eva growls softly, the sound tinged with exasperation. ‘Don’t say we, human. I told you from the beginning I hated that boy around us.’
• ‘Don’t worry, you won’t be seeing him again,’ I reassure her, trying to soothe her lingering annoyance.
• ‘You can’t imagine how happy I am to hear you say that,’ she responds, a flicker of smugness in her tone.
• Her presence recedes slightly, and I take a breath to center myself. But my focus is yanked back to reality when I hear a deep, commanding voice cut through the haze of my thoughts.
• “Are you going to stand there all day or sit down?”
• I blink, meeting his sharp, dark eyes. My mate’s voice is like gravel—rough, grating, and utterly unapologetic. He’s leaning back in his chair, radiating authority, his broad shoulders framed by a perfectly tailored black shirt.
• Heat rises in my cheeks as I realize I’ve been standing there frozen. My hands instinctively twitch, but before I can sign anything, he cuts me off.
• “Sit down,” he orders, his tone cold and dismissive.
• My movements are stiff as I lower myself into the seat beside him, feeling the weight of his gaze like a physical force. His presence is overwhelming, and yet there’s no warmth in it, only the suffocating pressure of dominance.
• “You sitting here doesn’t change anything I said yesterday,” he says, his voice low and sharp, every word a deliberate jab. His dark eyes lock onto mine, unreadable and cold.
• I lift my chin slightly, my fingers twitching with the urge to respond, but I stop myself. What’s the point? He doesn’t understand my language.
• He continues, his tone as curt as ever. “Because I’ll never make you my Luna. I don’t need a Luna.”
• The words settle in the air like a heavy weight. My chest tightens, but I keep my face neutral, refusing to let him see how much it stings. Instead, I press my lips together and let the silence stretch, hoping it will do the speaking for me.
• He narrows his eyes slightly, mistaking my quiet for some kind of rebellion. “I’ll tell you why,” he says, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table. “Because I don’t need a woman making things more difficult for me.”
• The insult burns, hot and sharp, but I force my hands to remain still in my lap. My instincts scream to argue, to explain that he’s wrong, but it would be wasted energy. He won’t hear me. Not the way I need him to.
• I hold his gaze and slowly raise a brow instead, hoping to silently challenge his ridiculous reasoning. He leans back, either unfazed or choosing to ignore my reaction entirely.
• “The only thing women contribute is making men weak,” he adds, the words dripping with disdain.
• The words land harder than I expected. A lump rises in my throat, but I swallow it down, meeting his gaze with steady defiance. If he thinks I’m weak, he’ll never see it. Slowly, deliberately, I let my hands rise, my movements precise and controlled as I sign: “I never want to be your Luna.”
• The motion feels futile, a shout into a void, but I need to say it—for myself, if for no one else. His dark eyes follow the movement of my hands, but there’s no recognition, no attempt to understand what I’ve said. Instead, his impatience deepens, his jaw tightening like he’s waiting for me to stop wasting his time.
• Something inside me snaps. Without a word, I push my chair back, the legs scraping against the floor with a sharp screech. I rise to my feet, my appetite long gone, replaced by a bitter knot of anger and hurt twisting in my stomach.
• I feel his gaze burning into my back as I turn toward the door, but no words come from his mouth to stop me. Not a single syllable.
• The silence is deafening, each step I take away from him feeling heavier than the last.