Alpha, I Won’t Be Your Luna Again Chapter 04

Alpha, I Won’t Be Your Luna Again Chapter 04

On my third day in the hospital, the doctor finally agreed to discharge me to rest at home.

He said I had a fractured leg, bruised abdominal tissue, and a lot of smoke in my lungs.

I needed at least another week of observation.

But I didn’t nod. I just asked, quietly, “Can I leave now?”

He studied me for a long moment, then closed the chart, his voice cooling.

“You can sign yourself out. But if anything happens after you leave, that’s on you.”

“Fine,” I said.

When Elowen came to get me, she had a fresh stack of printouts in her hand.

The Mate Bond Dissolution Agreement, an asset-division list, a draft complaint.

She set them in my lap, her eyes dropping to my cast. She held it back, then couldn’t anymore.

“Mira, are you sure? Maybe wait a couple days, you’re in no shape —”

“I can’t wait,” I cut in.

My throat was still raw from the smoke, my voice torn.

“Estate Management just gave notice. They’ve finished logging the fire scene, so residents can go back for their things. Any later and they’ll start clearing and repairing, and my stuff will be even harder to find.”

Elowen frowned. “You think anything’s even left?”

I looked down at the files on my knees, my fingers tightening.

The fire had started in the kitchen.

At its worst that night, the kitchen, living room, and guest room were nearly gutted, the walls scorched black, the furniture warped. But the crew put it out fast enough.

The master bedroom hadn’t burned through, just filled with smoke, so most of what was in the closet should still be there.

Inside sat my driver’s license, Social Security card, and property title deed.

And the wooden box my mother left me.

Inside sat all her personal keepsakes—the only possession I’d never allow anything to ruin.

More than that, the originals I needed to file for breaking the mate bond were all in it.

One step too late, and who knew if I’d ever get them back.

“Let’s go, just once,” I said, lifting my head. “We grab it and we leave.”

Elowen was quiet for a few seconds, then sighed and helped me into the car.

Once we were driving, she kept her eyes on the road.

“I already gave the building manager a heads-up. The spare key’s with the concierge. I’ll go in with you. I won’t let you stay long.”

I hummed a reply and turned to the window.

The afternoon sky hung heavy and gray.

The maple trees along the road rustled in the wind.

The light wasn’t even harsh, but my eyes still stung, like the smoke from that night had left roots that wouldn’t wash out.

I’d once spent so long decorating that place.

The color of the couch, the shape of the table, the warm lamp in the entryway — even every bowl in the kitchen. I’d picked them all, one by one.

I thought it was home.

Later I learned it was just a house I’d paid for, built up with my own effort and heart, only to have someone else move into.

And now I was going back, not to come home.

I was just there to take the last things that were mine before everything rotted for good.

By the time we parked, the wound on my leg was throbbing.

Elowen got out first and came around to help me.

The stairwell still carried the faint burnt smell. A new safety notice was taped to the wall, and a few bags of debris sat by the landing. The air was damp and heavy.

I climbed slowly, every step tearing at my stomach and my back.

Afraid I couldn’t hold up, Elowen muttered a curse. “That animal had better never end up in my hands.”

I didn’t say anything.

At the door, she slid the spare key into the lock and turned it gently.

The door opened.

What rolled out at us wasn’t just the lingering reek of smoke.

It was a thick, stifling stench of alcohol.

My brow twitched.

Elowen froze too, instinctively throwing an arm in front of me.

The living room was even more wrecked than I’d pictured.

Dark soot still streaked the walls, the ceiling near the kitchen scorched yellow and cracked.

And yet, in this place that had nearly burned me alive, the coffee table was crowded with empty bottles, takeout containers, and an ashtray.

A woman’s shawl and stockings were flung across the couch, along with a pair of blindingly red-soled heels.

Like someone had turned this burned-out house into their own party pad.

My fingers curled tight around my crutch, knuckles white.

Elowen’s face darkened. “She actually moved in?”