The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven Chapter 2: Scorned At the Lunar Ball

Gritting his teeth until the agony of the severed bond subsided, Marc allowed his lips to curl into a cruel sneer, his words dripping with ridicule. "Did you genuinely believe the Moon Goddess would link us? A cursed, wolfless pariah like you?"

A ripple of laughter surged through the ballroom.

This was entirely unexpected. I had harbored hope that tonight, the Moon Goddess might finally grace me with her compassion. Instead, she had orchestrated this disaster.

By now, the entirety of werewolf society was aware that I was cursed and uncherished. Acceptance would be impossible for me, even from my own kin, who had been the first to cast me aside.

Stinging tears burned behind my eyes, yet I forbade them from falling while watching Marc retreat with that woman, his hand firmly holding hers.

No. I would not weep. Not before this audience. And certainly not in his presence.

However, just as I believed the disgrace had reached its peak, my pheromones erupted—a frantic, uncontainable fragrance signaling a female in distress.

The men in the room reacted instantaneously.

Some pivoted sharply, their inner wolves growling in their chests. Others went rigid, their pupils widening as their instincts bowed to the aroma.

A man standing by the bar exhaled sharply, while another tightened his jaw, white-knuckling his glass.

One even took a step in my direction before regaining control. The tone of the whispers shifted.

"I cannot believe she possesses the audacity to project such a seductive scent immediately following her rejection."

Panic clawed at my throat. No, please, not now. I reached into my clutch for a bottle of perfume, desperate to smother the scent that drove men into a frenzy. Before I could retrieve it, a forceful hand snatched the veil from my head.

A wave of audible gasps swept through the room.

The frigid air brushed against my scarred cheek—a jagged, hideous blemish that ruined my former beauty—now fully exposed for all to see.

Before I could even process the movement, someone jeered, the sound echoing throughout the hall.

"Horny wench!"

Laughter flared up like wildfire, piercing and suffocating. Each peal of amusement inflicted a deeper wound.

"How dare you attempt to entice these men with a face like that?" Cora, the daughter of Alpha Aiden of the Nightshade clan and my primary tormentor during our college years, demanded. Her tone dripped with venom as she stepped directly in front of me.

She had been the one to discard my veil, and now her expression turned murderous because my unsightly scar had drawn the attention of men she longed for but could not possess.

Exposed, disoriented, and vulnerable without my veil, my breathing hitched as panic began to take hold. But Cora would not relinquish her grip on me. Not this time.

She was determined to ensure I drowned in shame—far worse than the humiliation since the night of the Lunar Curse.

Cora shoved a finger hard into my chest, and when I remained silent as I turned to walk away, she struck.

As I lowered myself to reach for my veil, she used all her strength to shove me from behind. The next moment, I found myself stumbling and impacting the tiled floor with a heavy thud.

A cry of pain escaped me as my hip bone collided with the hard ground.

Suddenly, the mockery, the finger-pointing, and the collective disdain of the crowd exploded around me.

Hot tears welled up, yet I refused to shed them. Not for them. Not for a pack that had abandoned me to the wolves. One day, they would regret this.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted my father, his hands balled into fists, watching me suffer before a hundred spectators.

To my surprise, he began moving toward me. He was coming to my aid—not out of any lingering paternal affection, but because he served as the Beta of our Moonstone Pack, and I was his daughter.

Being shamed in public was a stain on his reputation and a threat to his authority.

Suddenly, my brother Gary emerged, grabbing my father's arm to force him to stop.

My father’s brows knitted together as he turned to Gary, silently demanding an answer, but Gary simply shook his head and mouthed, 'Don't go, Father.'

He was telling our father to ignore his own flesh and blood as she was tormented at the Lunar ball.

The agony in my heart reached a fever pitch as my vision blurred with tears, yet I clung to the remaining scrap of my dignity.

I longed to flee. I longed to vanish entirely. But my limbs refused to obey.

Amidst the shame, the physical pain, and the surging pheromones, my breath hitched as the world spun around me.

Then, suddenly, the air was flooded with a new scent. It was not merely a scent; it was a manifestation of power, dominance, and command.

It was the kind of presence that forced wolves to stall in their breathing and compelled Alphas to lower their heads in reflexive submission.

The entire ballroom plunged into silence. A voice, deep and frigid, cut through the stillness. "What in the hell is occurring here?"

My heart froze. Cora’s smirk vanished instantly. The crowd retreated, parting to reveal him.

Draven Oatrun.

The Alpha of the Mystic Furs, the future King of Werewolves, and the most lethal man in the room.

His massive frame was encased in a dark, bespoke suit, his golden eyes scanning the vicinity with arctic indifference. Then, those piercing eyes settled on me.

Everything ceased. Even time itself stood still.

My pheromones—those which I had been unable to suppress—instantly dispersed. It was as if someone had extinguished a wildfire, forcing them back into submission.

Alpha Draven began to approach, and my breathing faltered entirely.

I forgot how to draw air.