Blood on the Moon

Asher

I sit on my knees in front of the giant oak tree the pack’s largest ecclesia is built around, my hands resting in front of me, dug into the dirt.

It’s traditional for ecclesias to be built around nature, almost always trees, with glass ceilings to see the sky at all times. The walls are made of stone, moss and ivy growing up the sides, built in a circle around the oak tree. There are a few pews toward the walls where some choose to sit, but it’s more traditional to be on the ground, where the grass still grows. Even a few wildflowers sprout in the spring and summer.

I’ve always felt uniquely connected to the Moon Goddess. All werewolves are since we were created by Her hand, but for some reason, I’ve always felt… Different. As if I’m more myself inside an ecclesia than I am anywhere else. Stripped of all pretense, my raw self on full display, without fear.

“Moon Goddess, I need your guidance,” I whisper, bowing my head in a child-pose position. “You bonded me to a monster.”

I take a deep breath, letting a tear slide down my cheek for the first time in a while. I don’t let myself cry around Genevieve; the ridicule I would receive would be out of this world, and I don’t know how many more attacks on my manhood I can take. As if crying makes me less of a man. Intellectually, I understand it doesn’t. My father is the best man I know, and he doesn’t hide his emotions in front of us; he never has.

But… That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt when Genevive says things like that. Even if my mind doesn’t believe her, my heart does.

And maybe my soul, too.

“Fuck,” I hiss, lifting my head to the bright crescent moon, sitting amongst the galaxy of stars, wondering why She decided to connect Genevive and I’s souls for all eternity.

“Am I supposed to change her? Make her a better person? Is that why You sent me to her?” I ask. “If so, why me? Am I supposed to put up with the way she treats me until then? What is Your plan?”

My shoulders slump, my heart deflated as I think of Rose.

“Why couldn’t I be mates with a woman like her?” I ask, staring at the oak. “Werewolves label her as a monster, but she’s been nothing but kind to me.”

A kind of kindness I haven’t experienced in years. She compliments me. She makes me feel seen, heard and cared for. She feels like family, like home.

Am I supposed to give that up? For a woman who has spewed every ugly insult in the book at me? Scratches, objects flying at my head, bruises, and bloody lips? When was the last time I went an entire week without having to hide a mark she gave me?

“Moon Goddess, please, help me!” I cry, dragging my nails through my hair, the tears streaming like the stream into which the fateful elk’s blood flowed. The blood that brought Rose into my life.

“I love her,” I groan, not knowing who I’m trying to convince. My heart is torn. Is this love or obsession? Devotion or conditioning? Do I love her, or am I dependent on her? But if I leave, what does that mean? That I’m defying the Moon Goddess’ will? Going directly against Her divine plan? Will I be damned to loneliness? Will She strike me down for abandoning my fate-determined mate?

“It’s not always bad, too,” I say. “It’s not. She’s good to me most times. She apologizes.”

But do those apologies ever stick? Does she love me? How could you hurt someone you love so badly?

Would Rose treat me this way? Is there better out there, or is this how love is? A constant battle where I seem to lose every time.

You shouldn’t be debating this.

“It feels like something we need to debate,” I argue. “I-I can’t live like this for the rest of my life. Can you?”

Do we have a choice?

My heart sinks as I bite my lip.

She’d ruin our family.

My fists clench as I grit my teeth, holding back a scream as my chest tightens. Where can I escape to? She’ll exile me and my family if I reject her. I won’t inherit the pack having mated into the Alpha position; she’d be vengeful enough to do it.

She’s threatened as much on multiple occasions.

And where would we go? She’d wage war with any pack that took us in. Am I supposed to make my brothers and sisters rogues, ruining their chance at a normal life, because I failed as a mate?

There’s no escape, no way out, even if I wanted one. Which I’m not sure I do. Not yet.

Things can get better. I can fight to make us better; find a way to make her happy. Then I’ll have the old Genevieve back—the Genevieve who laughed at my jokes and only ever slapped me jokingly.

But it’s hard not to feel trapped. What if things get worse? What if she leaves me no choice? Which am I willing to sacrifice: My family’s future or my own?

“I don’t want her to hurt you.”

My breath falters, my cheeks flushing, my skin fluttering with the memory of her hands cupping my face. Her touch was tender, and she looked into my eyes with an expression I couldn’t recognize.

Why can’t I find the name for it, even now?

Don’t let your mind go there.

“Shut up,” I grunt, tilting my head back and closing my eyes, remembering in gruesome detail how her scent brought me back to life. Her hands were in my hair, my lips grazing her neck, my hands shaking with anticipation and adrenalin, so close to losing control. Closest I’ve ever been in my life.

I wanted to kill Cato when he pulled me away from her. I wanted to give in.

But that’s not what you need. You need to stay loyal to your mate.

“A mate who hasn’t done the same for us?” I roar, my eyes wild. “Did you forget how our mark burned while we were with Rose? Or are you going to claim I’m crazy, too?”

You cannot scold our mate for her infidelity when you met with another woman in secret.

“You did nothing to stop me from going there,” I chastise. “And her affairs started long before I ever spoke Rose’s name.”

Two wrongs don’t make a right. You shouldn’t see her again.

I grimace, the idea of letting her go sending a rock to the pit of my stomach. Why would I let go of my only source of respite? Even if it’s a fantasy, one a wiser man wouldn’t indulge in, who cares? Plenty of people find their escape in their minds.

I'm not doing anything wrong as long as I don’t cross the line from fantasy to reality.

“Hey.”

I look over my shoulder and smile.

“Hey, Margarita,” I whisper as I stand.

“You okay?” She asks, wrapping her arms around my torso.

“I will be.”

She pulls away, arching her eyebrow as she takes my wrists in her hands. “Did something happen between you and Genevieve?”

I shake my head.

She opens her mouth to speak, but I interrupt, “What brought you here?”

She shoots me a disapproving look, telling me she knows I’m avoiding the conversation.

She sighs, running her hand through her hair. “I’m having a bit of a moral dilemma.”

“How so?” I ask, keeping my face still so as not to let on that I’m here for the same reason.

“I saw something,” she mutters. “Something someone I love should know, but it would hurt him.”

I chuckle. “Well, I’m the only male you give two shits about around here, so this must be about me.”

“Hey!” She argues. “I could have a secret mate running around; you never know.”

I roll my eyes, and she giggles, lifting my spirits.

“Seriously, though,” I reply, my voice slightly lower as the mood shifts. “What’d you see?”

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “You know how you’ve been telling me that your mark has been burning on occasion? And Genevieve claimed it was a figment of your imagination.”

“Yes.”

“I…” She trails off, her face pained as she avoids eye contact, staring at the floor, kicking a pebble.

“You caught her in the act?” I ask, crossing my arms over my stomach.

“Yeah,” she replies, her voice so soft I can barely hear it above the howling wind outside.

“My mark was burning earlier today, so I’m not surprised,” I comfort, running my hand down her bicep. “You shouldn’t feel guilty for telling me. I appreciate it. At least I know I’m not crazy.”

“You never should have felt crazy in the first place.”

“Who was she with?” I ask.

“The trainer. Exactly who you suspected.”

I scoff, shaking my head indignantly. “How fucking cliche. She could have at least cheated on me with someone a little less obvious. Not that there probably aren’t other suitors; I’m sure there are.”

“What’re you going to do about it?”

“Exactly as I’ve been doing,” I answer, shrugging. “I’ll just have to try harder to please her because, clearly, I’m not giving her what she needs.”

“I don’t think you should beat you-”

I raise my hand, and she stops, looking frustrated, but I don’t care.

I’m not sure I care about much anymore.

Including myself.