The Sweet Luna’s Revenge

Erica's POV

"You're responsible for the outcome of your life," were the wise words of my dad when he was still alive. Even though I often disagreed with his outlook on life, I now found those words to be true, especially now that I lay on my looming deathbed.

It was another morning filled with regret. Earlier, a maid had pulled the curtains apart, allowing sunlight to stream into the room. The morning was bright, the sun casting its usual aesthetically pleasing glow, yet a pervasive gloom hung over me like an aura. I couldn't tell if it was due to the brain-numbing pain coursing through me or the loneliness I felt that morning.

It saddened me to suffer alone, especially considering I was the Luna of the largest pack on the continent. I couldn't feel sorry for myself because I knew everything happening to me was my fault – my pack hated me, the man I loved and who I had made Alpha abandoned me, I had no family or friends around for support, and my cousin Natasha's poison flowed in my body.

Countless mistakes haunted me – I was either too weak, naive, insufferable, or just plain stupid – and now, all my errors had come back to haunt me. If only I could have a do-over at life.

I had lost track of time since my inexplicable ailment began, but I had plenty of time to reflect on the past two years of my life, realizing the magnitude of my mistakes...

My thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance of the man I once loved and now despised – Ronald, my mate, husband, and the current Alpha of my father's pack.

I hated how he turned the lock and strode into the room with an air of satisfaction. I hated the smirk on his face that seemed to mock my suffering, his domineering presence, and the tray he tightly held, which contained yet another dose of Natasha's poison. But I couldn't summon the strength to tell him to leave.

I was too weak – emotionally and physically – to sever our mating bond or confront him for his betrayal.

"You look better this morning, Erica," he greeted me, placing the tray on the bedside stool to my right, his smirk still intact.

"Fu—ck off," I managed to rasp, my voice raw, my throat dry. It was the first time in weeks I had tried to speak, hoping to wipe that grin off his face, but my effort was futile – if anything, his smile widened.

"I don't understand why you keep fighting, love. It's been five months since Tasha started poisoning you, yet you persist. I mean your wolf is gone, you have nothing, absolutely nothing to live for. No family, no friends, no pack. Die already!”

I mustered a look of defiance, though his words had struck my heart in more painful ways than one can imagine.

"She promised this would be the final blow. This dose will end your suffering in seconds. I brought it personally because I want the satisfaction of seeing you die." He continued, standing by my bed.

I looked at him with tears brewing in my eyes, “Please, Ronald, for old time's sake. Don't," I pleaded, swallowing my pride, desperation clear in my voice. He paused, surprised by my plea, but his astonishment was tinged with pleasure.

"You're begging me? How naive. Did you ever think I cared about you? Your delusions led you here. Did you know how much I despised your touch, or how difficult it was not to vomit when I was with you? All my love and support were lies. You were just a means to an end and this is the end."

His words weren't meant to hurt; they were the truth. I saw the hate in his eyes and felt the disgust emanating from him. With a surge of strength, I lunged at him, attempting to strangle him, but he easily restrained my feeble attempt. A sharp pain in my neck followed, and I could feel the poison spreading through my veins.

"Consider this my birthday gift to you. You'll soon join your family in hell," he sneered.

It wasn't until I began foaming at the mouth that I realized it was indeed my birthday. With my last breath, I made a final wish: to live long enough to see Ronald dead.

TWO YEARS AGO

When I woke up, the room was pitch dark.

Instinctively, I thought I must have ended up in hell. But there was no unbearable heat, no pain. As my eyes adjusted, I realized I was in my old room—the one I had before Ronald moved in. I cautiously approached the window and pulled back the heavy curtains. The sudden brightness almost blinded me, confirming where I was.

Is this what the hell feels like?

I moved around the room carefully, examining everything but hesitant to touch anything, afraid it might trigger something dreadful. Thoughts of purgatory crossed my mind—where souls wait for judgment or a second chance. Did I belong here? Was I supposed to fulfill some unmet destiny? Why has the goddess brought me here?

I resisted opening the door, fearing it would disrupt this strange peace. But then the doorknob turned, and the door swung open, startling me.

And there she was: Beatrice.

She was an elder on the council—the one who, in her stern way, had cared about me. She tried to mentor me in pack politics, but I had avoided her influence, carried away by Ronald's warnings. Until a fateful evening when she tried to warn me about Ronald and Natasha, but I ignored her, and the next day she was found dead in her hut.

I was so stupid. So fucking dumb!

Now, seeing her in the same black outfit from that tragic day, I wanted to apologize, to embrace her, even in the afterlife. But her expression remained stoic, unreadable. Even in hell or purgatory or whatever this was, she hated me. Rightly so. I hate me too.

As Beatrice moved about the room with her usual seriousness, she finally acknowledged me. "I see you're starting to understand responsibility, Luna. Getting out of bed and opening curtains on your own—promising."

Her words dripped with disdain, even with her back turned.

"Unfortunately, our people expect more than just basic competence from their leader," she continued, turning to fix her piercing gaze upon me with her almost colorless eyes. I shivered involuntarily, sensing an emotion I couldn't quite place.

"Get ready. Your pack is waiting for you for the final rites, followed by a council meeting and your family's burial." With that, she exited, leaving the door ajar and my mind in turmoil.

Confusion and fear mingled as I pondered Beatrice's words. Attending my family's funeral—again? Was this some form of twisted punishment?

As I moved to close the door, a sudden interruption stopped me in my tracks. It was Lena, my wolf—my companion whose bond had been severed months before my death.

"You're not dead. You've been reborn, two years younger." Lena spoke to me.

Stunned, I sank onto the bed.