The world moved in slow motion as the patrol arrived too late to the scene of Valerie's demise. The forest, once a sanctuary of life and vitality, now echoed with the silence of death. The Beta, Dexter, a formidable wolf with a heart as loyal as the day was long, was the first to reach Valerie's lifeless form. His paws, usually sure and steady, trembled as he picked up what was left of their Luna.
"Damn it, Val," he cried, his voice cracking under the weight of his grief. "Why didn't you wait for us? I told you to wait." His words hung in the air, a mixture of anger and sorrow that resonated with the other wolves who had gathered around. They had failed their Luna, their leader, and the pain of that failure was a tangible force among them.
Valerie's spirit, now untethered from her mortal form, moved with a swiftness that defied the constraints of the physical world. Her essence, a beacon of the life she had lived, was drawn to the one person who had been her rock and her ruin—Maxwell, her mate, her Alpha.
In the blink of an eye, she was hovering above him, witnessing a scene that would have once broken her heart but now only served to harden the resolve of her spirit. Maxwell was entwined with his mistress, their bodies moving in a dance of passion that was a cruel mockery of the love that Valerie had once believed they shared.
Did he know she was dying as he found his pleasure in another? Did he feel the moment her heart stopped beating, her spirit slipping away as he thrust into his lover? Valerie shouted at him, her voice a mere whisper in the wind, but he did not hear her. His attention was solely on the she-wolf beneath him, their moans and sighs a symphony of betrayal.
"Max, I'm here!" she shouted in his ear, but he looked up only for a moment, his gaze unseeing. He returned to his lover, and Valerie knew that even in death, she was as invisible to him as she had been in life. No matter what she tried, it was pointless. He wouldn't listen to her when she was alive; why would her death matter?
Unable to turn away, Valerie watched as Maxwell reached his peak, his body tensing and relaxing in the aftermath. She wished she could touch him one more time, feel the warmth of his skin against hers, but all she could do was watch as he slid out of Phoebe and began to prepare for the Alpha Ball.
Phoebe, the she-wolf, was a vision of innocence and beauty, her eyes downcast as she obeyed Maxwell's command to get cleaned up. "Yes, Alpha," she replied quietly, her submission a stark contrast to the passion they had just shared. Valerie's spirit ached at the sight, the pain of betrayal as fresh as if it were the first time she had discovered their affair.
Maxwell dressed in his finest attire, his handsome features marred by the coldness in his eyes. He was preparing to make an appearance with Phoebe, the omega who had stolen his heart. Valerie remembered every moment he had dismissed her concerns about their relationship, his words a knife twisting in her gut.
"She's an omega," he'd argue, "You're my Luna. You will always be my Luna. She could never take your place." But as they strode into the Alpha Ball side by side, Valerie couldn't help but notice how perfect they looked together.
An hour later, their joy was snatched away by the arrival of their Beta, Dexter. His grim face and blood-stained clothing told a tale of tragedy and loss. He pulled Maxwell aside, his news dousing the festive mood like a bucket of ice-cold water.
"There was an attack," Dexter explained, his voice heavy with grief. "A large group of rogues violated our borders." As he delivered the news of Valerie's death, all the color drained from Maxwell's face.
"Why weren't you with her? She wasn't supposed to be alone," the Alpha demanded, his face only inches from his Beta as he fought to rein in his anger.
"We were called away to check the southern boundary," Dexter explained. "By the time we were called back, it was too late."
Only moments after Dexter left, Phoebe's small, blonde head peeked around the doorway. In one hand, she held out a glass of whiskey. In the other, the bottle.
"Alpha, are you okay?" she asked, her voice soft and soothing.
Snatching the glass from her hand, Maxwell swallowed it in a single gulp. "Val is dead," he announced, his voice distant and cold as he reached for the bottle.
Her face fell sympathetically. "Let's get out of here," Phoebe suggested, and he agreed, letting her wrap her arms around him in comfort.
They made the slow march back to the packhouse. She settled in next to him, soothing his hurt with her kind words and gentle touches.
"Come on, Baby," she said, taking a deep swig before handing the bottle back to him as they reached the packhouse. "Let's go back to your room. I'll help you forget about this. Let me take care of you."
"No," his lips curled. "Not tonight."
"But we wouldn't even need to sneak around this time. She's not here to bother us anymore," she pouted.
His fist clenched the bottle. "I said no."
"I bet she set up this attack herself," Phoebe's sweetness soured at his rejection. "She was always so jealous. It serves her right that she…"
Maxwell slapped Phoebe hard enough that she stumbled and fell to the ground. Blinking up at him in shock, she placed her hand on the bruises forming on her cheek.
"How dare you speak of your Luna that way!" He snarled, his words slurred from alcohol and pain.
Phoebe cowered as she dropped her head to the ground. "Please forgive me, Alpha."
He turned his back to her and opened the packhouse door.
"Val, I'm…" he started to call out like he always did, but there was nobody here to answer this time. Tonight, the packhouse was empty and dark.
As Valerie reached forward to comfort him, another hand landed on his shoulder.