The Forbidden Moonball

Marcy's POV

I silently and meticulously clean my family's shoes, the sharp, chemical scent of wax filling my lungs as I scrub the fine leather. My cheek still throbs with a dull, heavy ache from my father’s slap moments ago, but I force myself to ignore the pain. I keep my head bowed, scrubbing harder, mentally preparing for the grand annual moon ball our pack is hosting tonight.

Every Alpha, Beta, and high-ranking official from miles around will step through our doors. This ball is where destinies are forged. It is where werewolves find their fated mates. At twenty years old, I desperately want to attend. I need to find my fated mate. A mate is my only ticket out of this house, my only chance to escape this miserable, slave-like life and finally be treated like a living, breathing person instead of dirt beneath my family's feet.

I finish buffing my father’s expensive dress shoes, placing them carefully by the door. As I stand up, dusting off my stained knees, he walks back into the hallway. His massive frame towers over me.

I swallow the lump of fear in my throat and summon every ounce of courage I possess. “Father,” I say softly, keeping my eyes fixed on the floorboards. “I have finished my chores. Since I am twenty now, may I please attend the ball tonight?”

My father halts. He turns his head slowly, glaring at me as if I am a piece of rotting garbage. He immediately crushes my fragile hopes.

“No,” he snaps with a cold, final voice. He lets out a harsh, degrading scoff, mocking the ridiculous idea that finishing chores earns me the right to prance around at his ball. “You are a stain on this family, Marcella. Make sure this hallway is spotless before the guests arrive, and stay out of sight.”

He turns on his heel and marches away, leaving me standing alone in the cold corridor. My chest tightens, but I refuse to let the tears fall again. Undeterred by his cruel rejection, I wait until the house falls quiet. I have a backup plan.

Slipping out the back door, I sprint toward the pack house kitchens. I made a secret, desperate arrangement earlier this week with Beatrice, the pack’s head chef. She is an old friend of my late mother and the only person in this entire territory who shows me a shred of kindness. When I beg her for a chance to just see the ball, she hands me a crisp, black-and-white serving uniform.

“Put this on, Marcy,” Beatrice whispers, her eyes darting around to make sure we are alone. “You will go in disguised as one of my serving staff. Keep your head down, do not speak unless spoken to, and stay in the shadows.”

I change in a cramped pantry, my hands shaking with nervous anticipation. I tie the white apron around my waist, flattening down my unruly hair. Stepping out of the kitchen and into the edge of the grand hall, my breath catches in my throat.

The room is a magnificent spectacle. Massive crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the polished marble floors. Women in breathtaking gowns and men in sharp, tailored suits glide across the dance floor. Music swells through the air, mixing with the rich scents of roasted meats, sweet pastries, and expensive perfumes. Hiding in the shadowed corner of the grand hall, I watch the vibrant festivities, my eyes wide with wonder. I press my hands together against my chest, fervently praying to the moon goddess to bless me with a loving mate tonight. Just one glance. Just one spark of hope to prove I am meant for more than scrubbing floors.

My wandering, hopeful thoughts are sharply interrupted.

“Marcy!” Beatrice’s voice cuts through the music. She marches up to me, shoving a heavy silver tray loaded with crystal champagne flutes into my hands. She points directly toward the center of the room. “Take this and serve drinks to the Alpha and Beta table. Hurry up, they are waiting.”

My blood runs cold. I stare at the head table. My heart pounds violently against my ribs as I approach the high-ranking guests. I keep my head tucked low, the heavy tray trembling slightly in my grip. I immediately spot my terrifying father sitting at the center. Right alongside him sits Garrick, the Beta's son.

Garrick. My breath hitches. He is my longtime, secret crush. He has broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, and a confident aura that always made my heart flutter. More importantly, he is the only person in this pack who never kicked me, never spat on me, and never treated me like a slave. Could he be my mate? The thought feels like an impossible dream. A lowly servant and a Beta's son?

I step closer to the table, preparing to lower the tray, when something hits me.

An intoxicating, overwhelming mix of lavender, chocolate, and musky wood invades my senses. It hits with such force it almost knocks me off my feet. The scent is so thick, so rich, it drowns out the perfume, the food, and the sweat of a hundred dancing wolves. It wraps around my lungs, pulling me forward like a magnetic force.

Inside my head, my wolf, Sable, jolts awake. She claws at the forefront of my mind, screaming with deafening, overwhelming joy: *‘Mate! MATE!’*

My hands shake. The crystal glasses clink against the silver tray. Following the incredible scent, I lift my head. My eyes lock straight onto Garrick. He is staring right back at me, his warm honey-gold eyes wide with realization.

*‘Is it him?’* I ask Sable, my soul trembling.

*‘Yes! Our mate!’* she purrs, her spirit leaping with wild, untamed happiness.

A massive wave of hope swells in my chest. He is looking right at me. The Beta's son is my fated mate. The moon goddess actually listened to my prayers. My endless nightmare as a slave is finally over. He will claim me, take me away from my cruel father, and I will finally know what it feels like to be loved.

But reality comes crashing down violently in a brutal instant.

My father spots my face. His eyes narrow, his lip curling up to reveal his canines. He sneers with absolute disgust, demanding to know what a lowly servant is doing at his table and ordering me back to the kitchen.

I freeze. My eyes dart back to Garrick, silently begging him to say something. To stand up. To claim me.

Before I can even process my father's words or react, my eldest sister, Drusilla, struts past me. She wears a stunning crimson dress, and a cruel, triumphant smirk stretches across her lips. She does not even look at me. She reaches Garrick, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Then, she leans in and kisses him deeply right in front of my eyes.

The world stops spinning. The silver serving tray slips from my trembling hands. It crashes loudly against the marble floor. Crystal flutes shatter into a hundred pieces, champagne splashing across the polished stone. The loud clattering echoes through the grand hall, bringing the music and the dancing to a dead halt.

Pure betrayal rips through my chest like consuming fire. It feels as if a jagged blade is twisting directly into my heart. My mate is kissing my sister.

Through heavily falling tears, I clutch my chest, struggling to breathe. “G-Garrick?” I choke out his name, desperately declaring that he is my mate.

The surrounding crowd gasps, and then the whispers start. Mocking, cruel laughs echo from the guests. They point at my stained apron, sneering at the very idea of a servant claiming the Beta's son.

Ignoring the humiliation raining down on me, I stare at Garrick. He pulls back from Drusilla, looking down at me. He merely sighs in annoyance.

He flatly states that I am not his mate, claiming Drusilla is.

I fall to my knees, the shattered glass biting into my skin. The fantasy of freedom turns to ash in my mouth. I desperately whisper that my wolf specifically recognized his unique scent.

His tone turns entirely cold and indifferent, dismissing my wolf as mistaken and declaring I am nothing to him.

Drusilla breaks their kiss with a victorious, wicked grin. She loves this. She loves destroying the last piece of my soul. She explicitly demands Garrick reject me officially so I don't get the wrong idea.

“Yes, baby,” Garrick agrees instantly.

He takes a step forward, pinning me with a stern, emotionless look. The air in the room grows heavy. His words slice through the air with devastating precision: “I, Garrick Valerius, son of the Beta of Crimsonmoon pack, reject you, Marcella Vance, as my mate.”

The words strike me like physical blows. The entire grand hall erupts in booming laughter. I scream in raw physical and emotional agony, grabbing my chest as I feel the sacred fated bond violently sever and snap within my soul. The tearing sensation brings up the metallic taste of blood in the back of my throat. My entire world crumbles into ash.

But the nightmare is far from over.

My father suddenly lunges from his chair. He crosses the distance in a blur of motion, grabbing my hair with a bone-chilling, beastly snarl.

He yells, “Worthless slave!” plunging the laughing hall into utter, terrified silence. No one dares to breathe.

He drags me up by my hair, my boots slipping on the spilled champagne. He marches me toward the heavy oak dining table. He roughly and humiliatingly shoves my face down against the hard wood. My jaw cracks against the surface. Before I can process what is happening, he forcefully lifts my dress, and exposes me to the entire watching pack. Hundreds of eyes stare at my bare flesh.

I squeeze my eyes shut, whimpering in terror as the sound of a heavy leather belt unbuckling rings in my ears.

*CRACK.*

His heavy leather belt violently strikes my backside. My skin burns with searing agony from the lashing. I scream, a guttural, raw sound tearing from my throat. The pain radiates through my nerves, hot and blinding. My frail body trembles uncontrollably against the table, tears pouring down my cheeks and soaking into the wood.

*CRACK.*

The thick belt slices through the air a second time, tearing into me with even more force. It feels like my skin is splitting open. My legs give out, my entire weight supported only by his fist twisted in my hair. I sob, gasping for air that refuses to fill my lungs. The sting is unbearable, a fiery welt rising instantly on my flesh.

I squeeze my eyes tighter. I bite down on my bottom lip until I taste copper, agonizingly bracing for the third brutal blow. I wait for the leather to bite into my broken skin again.

But it miraculously never comes.

Instead, he abruptly releases his grip on my hair. Without his support, my battered, trembling body collapses weakly to the cold floor. I hit the marble hard, curling into a tight ball, shivering from the searing pain and the soul-crushing humiliation.

“Now get out of here!” my father thundered, his face red with unbridled anger.