Filed to story: The Lycan's Savage Luna (Wren Tristan & Killian) Book PDF Free
When the door finally closed behind him, my tears-those that had clung to the corners of my eyes-dried instantly.
The sorrow faded, replaced by stillness.
See? I could cry.
I could beg.
I could play weak if I wanted to.
But what was the point of chasing love that had never been mine to begin with?
Celestine hadn’t stolen their affection. She’d merely taken what should have been mine by birthright-the certainty that family meant protection, not punishment.
The door behind me clicked softly, and a shadow moved in the corner of my eye.
“You’re not happy,” a deep voice rumbled.
Killian.
He’d been standing there, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, eyes glinting silver in the dim light.
I caught his hand before he could touch my face. “I’m fine,” I said, keeping my tone steady. “No one will bother me for a while. Fenrir’s guilt will take care of that.”
He arched a brow, amused. “You’re terrifying when you talk like that.”
“Good,” I said simply.
Killian chuckled low, stepping closer. The air thickened with his scent-smoke, forest musk, and the faint metallic tang of dominance. My wolf stirred at it.
“You know,” he murmured, “there are easier ways to take revenge than emotional warfare.”
“I’m not looking for revenge,” I said, turning back to the window. “Just silence.”
He tilted his head, watching me. “And if I told you silence is overrated?”
I didn’t answer.
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his claws grazing my skin just enough to make me shiver. “You keep pretending you’re stone, Wren Vale. But even stone breaks if you hit it long enough.”
“Then I’ll learn to be steel.”
That earned me another low laugh. “You already are.”
The next few days fell into a strange rhythm.
Because of him, my nocturnal habits vanished.
We slept early, woke early. I’d go out for breakfast runs-always careful not to draw attention from nearby packs-and he’d cook when I returned. His injuries made it hard for him to shift or fight, so I became his reluctant helper.
The domesticity was… unsettling.
A mesterious Alpha and a disgraced Moonvale daughter living like a mated pair.
By day, I painted. By night, we watched old holo-films or read in silence. Sometimes, when I was sketching, I’d look up and find his gaze on me-unreadable, predatory, but calm.
Two wolves trapped together by fate, pretending the world outside didn’t exist.
Maybe we both knew that peace was temporary. But for once, I didn’t care.
Skylar called every day, ranting about Tristan and Celestine and swearing vengeance on my behalf. I didn’t stop her. Let the world burn a little.
Third Person’s POV
But before any plans could even be set, news broke: Celestine had been beaten into the hospital.
Wren hugged her phone in the dim of night, a low, triumphant chuckle vibrating through her chest for half an hour. She had heard that Celestine’s perdformance as the main dancer broked.
Seizing the moment, Wren had immediately reached out to the rival dance troupe, investing resources and ensuring Celestine’s opposition flourished.
During Celestine’s forced recovery, every opportunity for influence or gain was Wren’s for the taking. She even visited the hospital, letting her presence stir the air like a predator’s scent in the den, leaving Celestine fuming and trembling.
During these days of quiet, Wren and Killian lived in measured domesticity. Fenrir had declared his intention to confront Wren, but returned vacant-eyed, mumbling nothing to
Alpha Remus or Luna Evelyn, unable or unwilling to bring up punishment. The Vale household retreated into isolation, phones confiscated for three days, forcing an unnatural stillness.
What unsettled Celestine most wasn’t the silence, but the subtle shift she could smell in the Vale family’s attitude. Even Alpha Remus and Luna Evelyn, in the haze after anger, began to sense the fire in Wren’s reactions.
The old couples realized that if this continued, the daughter they had long controlled would drift further from them. Wren was of age now-whether as the Vale’s daughter or Tristan’s future Luna, it was time to step into the public eye.
For years, Wren had avoided appearances; most only knew of the Vale second daughter’s rebellious reputation, unaware of her true form, her wolf or her strength. Many did not even know there was a second daughter beyond Celestine. Such a gap in perception was intolerable.
Listening from her hidden perch, Celestine sensed Fenrir and Alpha Remus quietly plotting a delayed birthday celebration for
Wren, a guise to introduce the youngest Vale daughter to society.
Celestine, curled up with clenched fists around her blanket, could only growl at the unfairness. Wren’s birthday coincided with the memorial of Yuna Ward; she had not celebrated since she was six. Traditionally, the birthday was reserved for the Vale sons and Celestine. This year, the event was set for three days after the memorial, a symbolic echo.
Thinking of Wren’s face-radiant, unyielding despite years of suppression-Celestine’s eyes burned with jealousy. Her mother’s life had been the price she paid to reach this day, yet Wren, the instigator of so many grievances, thrived. Celestine’s lips curled in a twisted smile reflected in her phone screen: “Blood ties can’t be severed? Then let me be the one to end it. Wren Vale, I will give you a birthday you will never forget.”
…
Meanwhile, Skylar worried over Vale’s intentions regarding Yuna’s memorial and Wren’s birthday.
“Wren, are you really going back?” Skylar’s tone was sharp, protective. With Celestine’s cunning, there was no chance she would let such an opportunity pass to strike.
“I’m going. Don’t worry-I’ll be fine.”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
“No. I can handle it. If anything happens, I’ll call.”
Skylar’s nature was volatile; in conflict, she would be first to act. Wren would rather shoulder the risks herself than expose Skylar to blame from Vale’s household or foster any false reputation of disobedience. Skylar, resigned, warned her repeatedly to stay alert, to avoid Celestine’s schemes.
Even so, Wren’s preparations to return home felt like stepping into a predator’s den. She answered Skylar patiently, her chest warm with gratitude for the concern. Once the call ended, she stepped into the empty living room, finding Killian gone once more.
His recovery had restored him almost fully; his body was a weapon in flesh, tempered by discipline. Though he had not yet revealed his full plans or stepped into the public eye, his absence was strategic, and the world outside smelled of opportunity and danger. Wren knew exactly which Killian she served and protected-the son of Ulric Sanchez, heir to unseen legacies and unspoken power.
Even the Sanchez family’s turbulence reached her senses: kidnappings, car accidents, tax scandals, all intertwined with internal power struggles. Killian’s disappearance had allowed ambitious wolves to rise from the shadows, claws and fangs unsheathed. The old Alpha Bastien Sanchez had suffered multiple emergency hospital visits from the stress, while the family’s children fought viciously over inheritance.
None of this touched Wren directly. She submitted her latest artwork to the editors and sank into the sofa, sending Killian a simple message: “Dinner at home tonight?”
Elsewhere, in a blood-soaked underground chamber, Killian’s fourth uncle Conor lay sprawled on the floor, mixture of blood and urine mingling, limbs splayed like a corpse, the scent of fear and pain thick in the air. Three meters away, Conor’s son Caleb, blindfolded and trembling, howled and whimpered, the raw terror of a young wolf caught in the teeth of fate echoing through the den.
Killian’s POV
The dim light flickered above me, barely cutting through the shadows. I leaned back in the chair, relaxed, letting the darkness cloak me like an old friend. My tall frame cast a long silhouette across the blood-streaked floor, and between my fingers, a silver blade spun lazily. Its sharp edge glinted whenever it caught the light, like a wolf’s fang glistening before the bite.
“I heard you’ve been gathering a few old generals lately, Uncle Conor,” I said lightly, my tone almost lazy. “Foreign funds, new alliances… It seems your long hibernation was only to prepare for this-your grand flight to the heavens. Truly, you age like fine blood.”
Conor Sanchez, my fourth uncle, was barely recognizable beneath the bruises and blood. His body trembled, sweat and tears staining his once-pristine suit. He had thought hiring Charles would finish me. He’d sent a dozen ranked killers after me, and yet here I stood. The scent of his fear was intoxicating, sharp as iron and salt.
Now Charles’s den was ash, his men scattered. Every piece of Conor’s decades-long game board had been flipped, each pawn uprooted and burned. The man who once fancied himself the wolf of the capital now whimpered like prey caught in a snare.
“Killian,” he rasped, voice raw, “I’m still your uncle. Kill me, and your grandfather-Alpha Bastien-will never forgive you.”
“Kill you?” I smiled, the sound low and dangerous. “Uncle, I’m not here to kill you. Wolves pay for what they do. You’ll simply watch a show I prepared for you.”
His eyes widened, snapping toward the other side of the room. His son, Caleb Sanchez, sat bound and blindfolded in a steel chair, his body trembling violently.
“What-what are you doing?!” Conor’s voice cracked.
I tilted my head. “Your son’s been busy, hasn’t he? Sleeping with another Alpha’s fiancée a month ago, then playing sick games with underage girls two weeks later. Both times you shielded him with the Sanchez name.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “That kind of rot shouldn’t be passed down, don’t you think?”
“No! Please! He’s my only son-Killian, please, I’m begging you!”
I had seen that desperation before-in the eyes of men who thought blood could save them. It never could.
I flicked my fingers, and one of my pack enforcers stepped forward. Masked, gloved, and silent, he approached Caleb.
“Stay away! What are you doing?!” Caleb screamed, his voice cracking, the metallic scent of fear thickening the air.
Crack.
The sound was wet and final. Caleb’s scream tore through the room, echoing off concrete and steel.
“MAGNUS! YOU FUCKING MONSTER!” Conor’s voice shattered.
I said nothing. His son fainted, his body limp. Conor’s face twisted with agony, hatred burning bright before breaking.
“You… bastard,” he spat, voice trembling. “You’re avenging her, aren’t you? That whore you called a mother! She was nothing-just a rutting bitch-and you’re her spawn! You’re both freaks! Cursed wolves! Everyone will always fear you! Hate you! No one will ever love you!”
“Tch.” I clicked my tongue, rubbing my ear as if brushing off his words. “Ugly talk. Cut his tongue.”
“Yes, Alpha.”
Conor’s growl turned into a scream, then into silence.
When it was over, both father and son were unconscious, sprawled like carcasses on the floor. They would live, though not as they were. Wolves could survive almost anything-sometimes, that was the real punishment.
