The Alpha's Stolen Luna-Chapter 109: You Think You Can Fool Me?

Kaya

I sit quietly in the corner of my new room, my eyes glued to the old witch in her rocking chair. Just like before, her eyes are glued to the little, worn-out book, its dry pages slicing through the silence every time she turns them.

I have already grown to hate that sound––it reminds me of nails scraping a porcelain dish.

My fingers are wrapped around a paper cup filled with water; from time to time, I look down at its steady, transparent surface, frowning a little as I think about what kind of shit it can be laced with.

At first, it made me wonder why the water had to be in a paper cup, considering the witch keeps a lot of glass around here anyway. But then, it finally dawned on me––it’s not the water that’s mixed with drugs. The paper itself is what adds to it.

Camilla’s voice lingers in my mind—don’t let it get into your mouth. Make it go slowly. Tap your fingers inside and wipe them off. Soak your shirt in it and hide it. I don’t know if the old witch cares about how fast you drink it. But she needs to know you did.

So this is what I do. I sink my fingers into the cup and sprinkle the drops on the floor. I soak the back corner of my shirt and squeeze it into the armchair. Then, I lift the cup toward my lips and pretend I take a sip, while instead, I let a few more drops fall onto the bare skin of my legs, and wipe it off against the chair’s fabric.

I don’t get to empty the whole cup, but I think it doesn’t matter. If my acting skills are any good, perhaps the witch will let it slide.

So I place the cup on top of the bedside table and lie on the vast bed, groaning something about feeling tired. My chest rises slowly, evenly. My arms remain limp at my sides.

The witch watches me with narrowed eyes for a long while, but at last she seems satisfied. With a sharp clack of her tongue, she turns and leaves, the faint swish of her robe retreating into the darkness behind the door.

I keep myself utterly still, fighting the instinct to tremble, until the distant echo of her footsteps fades.

Moments later, I hear the heavy scrape of boots. Two guards. Their scents hit me first—muted, wrong. They smell of damp earth and metal, their sweat sharp and unpleasant.

A cold click fills the air. My shock collar. The guards disable it, and I feel the faintest shift of power ripple beneath my skin, though aconite still runs in my veins like ice. I can’t shift, can’t fight. But at least I am aware.

Suddenly, hands seize me—rough, cold—and I’m lifted onto a wheeled table. The cold metal presses into my back, a shiver of dread rolling through me. The wheels creak as they push me outside of my bedroom and down the narrow corridor.

I keep my lashes lowered, just enough to leave a slit of vision. I flinch slightly as we pass Camilla’s door, then steel myself again, relaxing my jaw to bring back the act.

Every turn we take, I mark it carefully. Left at the dripping wall where moss climbs like green veins. Right at the lantern that flickers lower than the others. Another right, past a broken grate where the air smells faintly of rot. I map it all in my head, searing the details into memory. If I survive this, I’ll need that path. I’ll need it to escape.

The air grows colder as we move deeper. The tunnels open into a larger chamber—the lab.

Even in my stillness, the sight chills me. The place reeks of blood and burned herbs. Tables cluttered with glass vials, jars filled with things I can’t bring myself to identify. A stone altar-like slab in the center, stained darker in places where no scrubbing has ever erased what was spilled there.

They wheel me closer. I shut my eyes tight again.

Then, a sharp prick bursts in my arm, hot and stinging. My body wants to flinch, but I force myself not to. The needle slides deeper, veins drawn tight as they siphon me dry. My jaw clenches, but I keep my face slack, my lips parted just enough to mimic unconsciousness.

Tears gather at the corners of my eyes as the pain burns deeper. They slide slowly, hot trails down the sides of my temples, disappearing into my hair. It hurts. Goddess, it hurts so much.

"Good girl," Damien’s voice cuts through the haze, smooth as polished steel.

I almost whimper in surprise––I didn’t notice his presence here before, but I guess I have to credit that to the fact that I am now bearing his scent. I can no longer distinguish him

He’s close now—too close. His shadow falls over me, his presence heavy with arrogance. I feel his hand, deceptively gentle, patting my head as though I were some obedient pet. My stomach twists with revulsion.

"You see," he begins, his tone almost conversational, as if explaining some grand theory to a child, "your blood is extraordinary, baby doll. Poison to wolves, yet harmless to others. Such a gift, really." His fingers brush down the side of my hair, slow and possessive. "I have been gathering it for nine long years. Do you know what I’ve done with it? What I will do?"

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

"I feed it to my ghouls. And do you know what happens, Kaya?" His voice lowers, smooth and dark, like oil over flame. "They grow stronger. They shed weakness. While other packs squabble like children, I build something greater. An army."

His smile is audible, thick with satisfaction. I can practically hear his lips stretch wider.

"With the witch’s help, I will mold them into perfection. Ghouls stronger than wolves, immune to our precious King’s laws and borders. I will send them first to tear through the packs, one by one. Then—" he leans closer, his breath warm and foul against my ear—"then I will turn them on the King himself. And when his throne falls, I will carve my own kingdom from the ruins."

My chest tightens, rage simmering beneath the fog of aconite. I want to spit in his face, to claw the smugness from his smile, but my limbs remain heavy, my wolf still shackled beneath poison. So I lie there, silent, my lashes damp, letting his words burn themselves into me.

The needle finally withdraws. The guards step back. My arm throbs, raw and aching, blood sluggish where too much has been taken.

Damien straightens, and I feel him surveying me like one might a painting, pleased with the effect. Then, with a snap of his fingers, I assume he dismisses them all.

One by one, the guards leave. Their boots echo against the stone floor, growing distant until the last sound fades. The door shuts with a hollow finality, leaving me alone in the room with him.

I almost allow myself a breath of relief, but then, all of a sudden, his hand is on me—cold, rough, unyielding.

His fingers clamp around my throat in a painful grip.

I gasp, my pretense of sleep shattering as air catches painfully. My eyes fly open, wide and glistening.

"Ah," Damien murmurs, his face bending over mine, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. "There you are."

His grip tightens. My pulse pounds against his palm, desperate and wild.

"You think you can fool me, little wolf?"