The Rejected Luna (Avery and Kaden) novel Chapter 91

**Chapter 7**

**Selene’s POV**

The gash on my forehead was not just a surface wound; it felt like a chasm carved deep into my flesh.

More than fifteen stitches were required to close it, each one a reminder of the pain that had led me to this moment.

Only after the healer had meticulously wrapped my head in bandages did Julian Blake finally allow himself to breathe, his shoulders slumping under the heavy burden of guilt that seemed to cling to him like a shadow.

He settled into the chair beside my bed, his fingers restless as they played with the fabric of his jeans.

“Selene,” he began, his tone unusually gentle, almost as if he were trying to soothe a frightened animal, “I’m really sorry. This is all my fault.”

His words dripped with a kind of condescension, as if he thought I were merely a petulant child throwing a fit over a lost toy.

It was as if he believed that everything that had transpired was merely a fleeting tantrum I would eventually outgrow.

I kept my face impassive, but inside, my heart twisted painfully, a dull ache radiating through my chest as if my ribs were on the verge of cracking.

Even now, he saw me as nothing more than a child throwing a temper tantrum.

Even now, he couldn’t bring himself to consider the possibility that I was speaking the truth.

In his heart, Claire would always hold the heavier weight.

He loved her.

And so, he chose to believe her lies, dismissing my words as if they were nothing but whispers in the wind.

He loved her,

and the very thought of questioning her integrity never even entered his mind.

Just then, the Pack Healer returned, a clipboard clasped in his hands.

With a practiced air, he confirmed my identity and meticulously reviewed the list of precautions I needed to take after my injury.

Julian listened with rapt attention, nodding along as if each word were a sacred mantra.

When the healer concluded his briefing, Julian hesitated for a moment, then asked the question that finally coaxed a bitter smile from my lips.

“And what about the pup?” he inquired, his voice laced with a strange mix of hope and dread. “Selene’s carrying our pup… is it alright?”

The healer blinked, a look of confusion crossing his face as he flipped back through my medical records.

“Pup?” he echoed, his brow furrowing.

“There’s no pup listed.”

Julian’s expression shifted, his brow knitting together in concern.

“No pregnancy?” he repeated, his words slow and deliberate, as if he were tasting them for the first time.

The healer opened his mouth to respond, but before he could fully articulate his answer, Julian’s phone rang out sharply, shattering the heavy silence that hung in the air.

He glanced at the caller ID, a flicker of urgency igniting in his eyes.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he sprang to his feet and answered the call, striding purposefully toward the corridor.

I couldn’t hear the words exchanged on the other end of the line.

But I didn’t need to.

Because I could see it—the way his posture straightened, the sudden urgency that propelled him forward.

He didn’t even cast a glance back in my direction as he left, leaving only silence in his wake.

I lowered my head, the stark white sheets blurring into an indistinguishable haze before my eyes.

You missed it, I thought numbly, a hollow ache settling in my chest. You missed the last chance to hear the truth.

Inside me, my wolf whimpered softly, curling tighter and tighter, the bond that once united us fraying further apart.

Mother wolves feel the loss of their pups like a second death,

not just the physical tearing of flesh and blood,

but the ripping apart of spirit, the severing of what could have been.

It left me feeling empty.

It left me bleeding inside a body that somehow refused to succumb to the darkness.

Days turned into an agonizing blur.

Julian didn’t return.

Only Claire filled the void he left behind.

Each day, she sent messages, painting vivid pictures of warmth and tenderness with a cruel precision that cut deeper than any blade:

On the first night,

a video of Julian reading her a bedtime story, his voice soft and soothing.

On the second night,

a picture of Julian spoon-feeding her cooled soup, the intimacy of the act making my stomach churn.

On the third night,

a blurry clip of Julian drying her hair with painstaking care, his hands gentle as he brushed through her strands.

Meanwhile, my own forehead throbbed under the weight of fifteen tight stitches, a constant reminder of the pain I was enduring.

I hadn’t seen Julian even once.

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