Elmielos

"Hi, yes you aren't dreaming, it's the chubby Kelly," I say inwardly as I see the unhappy face expression of Jason who is disheartened. 

The guests laugh at us. They call our couple all sort of names. "The prince charming and the pancakes' eater Kelly" is one I can sadly remember."

"I, Jason Bentley of the South pack, reject you Kelly Thompson as my mate and the Luna Queen," he declared fiercely.

***
Kelly Thompson, an eighteen-year-old curvaceous and wolfless she-wolf, has been quietly admiring Jason Bentley, the heir apparent to the throne of the dominant South pack, for a number of years.

Unfortunately for Kelly, she doesn't get the same attention in return from Alpha heir Jason, as the handsome daughter of his old father's Gammas, Betty Nord, is already the love of the pack's future Alpha. But, the plump Kelly has an advantage over the skinny Betty because of a strong vow made by Jason's father, the Alpha King Don Bentley, that his son will marry the daughter of his Betas who gave their lives two years ago in a fight against the North pack's fiercest adversaries in order to preserve the life of the Alpha heir.

But clearly, nothing goes as smoothly as Kelly imagines.

The Rejected Curvy Luna Queen

Its obsidian flanks glisten under a sky veined with luminous cracks, the storm of eyes at its peak swirling like a galaxy of malevolence. Each pupil dilates as we approach, tracking us with predatory precision. Lumi’s silver scars flicker weakly, her light dimmed by the weight of the reborn Veil. Jara walks with her rifle unslung, her jaw set, her distrust of Lumi’s transformation a silent storm. 


**“It’s waiting,”** Lumi says, her voice echoing with the Veil’s dissonant harmonies. **“The Watcher knows we’re here.”** 


**“Watcher?”** Jara scowls. **“You didn’t mention that before.”** 


**“It wasn’t awake before.”** Lumi’s gaze never leaves the storm. **“It guards the first wound—the tear where the Veil was born.”** 


The shadow’s absence gnaws at me, a hollow where hunger once thrived. Its voice is gone, but the itch remains, a phantom limb begging to be scratched. 


The Sentinel Mountain