Chapter 54: Future Luna, The Doom Bringer

Chapter 54: Chapter 54: Future Luna, The Doom Bringer

Azura’s consciousness returned to her like a drunk elephant stumbling through a fog. She groaned, her eyelids heavy as lead, her brain feeling like it had been replaced with overcooked noodles. For a solid three minutes, she simply existed—a blob of confused human jelly on the most comfortable bed she had ever touched.

Her eyes cracked open.

She was staring at a ceiling that looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel. Crystal chandelier. Intricate crown molding. The kind of ceiling that probably cost more than her entire previous life’s apartment.

She shot upright.

Huh? Did I get reincarnated again?! Is this round two?! Where’s the truck-kun?!

Panic bubbled in her chest as she frantically patted her body. Same face. Same boobs. Same everything. She was still Azura. And then, like a horrible, horrible flashback, the memories came crashing back.

She’d been drugged. By the male leads. While she was talking to them. Like a normal person. Having a normal conversation. And they shot her with a dart like she was a rabid raccoon.

Her eye twitched.

So they really did kidnap me. Great. Fantastic. This is fine. I’m fine. Everything’s on fire but I’m fine.

She looked around the room—a massive, luxurious bedroom that made the Quinn family mansion look like a budget motel. The bed alone could probably fit six people. The curtains looked like they were woven by angels.

"This is nicer than my room at the Williams house," she muttered, frowning. "Wait. Whose pack am I in? The triplets’ pack? Kyler’s pack? Am I in a dungeon? No, dungeons don’t have chandeliers. Unless this is a very fancy dungeon. A boutique dungeon."

She sighed, rubbing her temples. None of this made sense. She hadn’t even done anything! Well, okay, she’d stalked the male leads, crashed into one of their cars, maybe slapped one of them—allegedly, she didn’t remember that—and her boobs had apparently caused another one to suffocate. (She also didn’t remember this, but apparently it happened.)

She pressed her palms against her eyes.

"What did I do to make them think I’m their fated mate? Is this something I did? Is this something that happened to me everytime I was unconscious? Did my body secretly grow a ’fated mate’ scent gland while I wasn’t looking?!"

After ten minutes of intense mental gymnastics that produced zero results, Azura’s stomach let out a sound that could only be described as "the roar of a neglected beast."

She looked down at her abdomen.

"Right. Priorities. Shower first. Then food. Then existential crisis."

She scrambled off the bed and bolted to the bathroom, grateful to find it attached to the room. No waiting in line. No fighting for hot water. Just pure, unadulterated luxury.

When she emerged, clean and slightly more human, she faced a new dilemma: clothes.

The walk-in closet was enormous. And filled with outfits. Racks upon racks of dresses, blouses, pants, and accessories, all with tags still attached, all looking like they cost more than her organs combined.

Azura stood in the middle of the closet, arms spread, mouth agape.

"Okay, so," she said to no one, "if you’re kidnapped by poor people, they demand ransom. But if you’re kidnapped by rich people..."

She picked up a silk blouse that felt like touching a cloud.

"...they stuff your closet with designer clothes and hope you forget you’re a hostage."

She sighed, grabbing a random outfit.

"Well, at least I’ll be well-dressed while I figure out how the hell I got myself into this mess."

Minutes later, Azura emerged from the walk-in closet feeling fresh, clean, and ready to tackle the day—right after she tackled a plate of food. But first, she needed her phone. She patted down the pockets on her previous clothes. Checked the nightstand. Looked under the pillows. Opened every drawer. Even checked inside the decorative vase like a lunatic.

Nothing.

She sighed, slumping against the closet door.

"Right. Because kidnappers love giving their hostages access to the outside world. ’Here’s your phone, please call the enforcers, we’ll wait.’ Of course they took it."

She thought about trying a mind link with Jonathan, but she still had no idea how those worked.

Did she have to concentrate really hard? Squint? Do a little dance? And even if she figured it out, they were probably miles apart. So she just had to hope Jonathan wasn’t tearing his hair out wondering where she was.

Her stomach growled again—louder this time, with the fury of a thousand neglected meals.

"Okay. Problem one: hunger. Problem two: everything else. Problem one first."

She marched to the door and threw it open, ready to conquer this new territory.

The hallway was... magnificent. High ceilings, ornate wall sconces, tasteful paintings that probably cost more than her entire education. It looked like a museum that also happened to be someone’s home.

It was also completely empty.

Azura stood there, blinking.

"Seriously? Not a single guard? Not one maid? No random guy walking his imaginary dog?"

She turned left. Nothing. She turned right. Still nothing. The hallway stretched before her like an abandoned museum corridor, all marble floors and expensive-looking art and not a single living soul to give her directions.

Azura’s eye twitched.

"You have got to be kidding me."

She had just spent days memorizing the floor plan of the Crimson Crest Pack House. She had finally learned where the kitchen was, where the bathrooms were, and which corridors to avoid because they led to the "aggressive goose enclosure" (don’t ask). And now she was in a completely new pack house, starting from square one.

Again.

She slumped against the wall, feeling the universe’s cosmic middle finger pressing against her back.

"Fine. Fine! I’ll just explore. Like I did before. Except this time, I’m hungrier and angrier and I will not hesitate to bite anyone who gets in my way."

She slapped her cheeks with both hands, psyching herself up like a protagonist in a shonen anime.

"Alright, Azura! For the sake of food! Your brain can’t function without fuel! It’s time to open every single door in this place until you find the kitchen!"

And so the second expedition began.

She marched through the hallways with purpose, throwing open doors with increasing desperation. Linen closet. Nope. Bathroom. Nope. A room that was just... empty. Why? Who knows. Rich people things.

Finally, she spotted them—two maids at the end of the corridor, carrying trays.

Her eyes lit up like a predator spotting prey.

"YOU! KITCHEN! WHERE?!"

She sprinted toward them, arms outstretched, her expression that of a woman possessed by the spirit of hunger itself.

The maids turned. Their eyes widened. Their faces drained of color.

One dropped her tray with a clatter.

"IT’S HER!"

"THE FUTURE LUNA! THE DOOM BRINGER!"

They screamed—actually screamed—and fled in opposite directions, their footsteps echoing down the hall as they disappeared around corners.

Azura skidded to a halt, arms still outstretched, confusion plastered across her face.

"...What."

She stood there, alone in the hallway, the abandoned tray at her feet, the sound of distant screaming fading into silence.

"I just wanted to know where the kitchen is. Why did they look at me like I was the final boss of a horror game?"

She had no idea. No idea at all.

Little did she know, word had spread through the pack like wildfire. Last night, the pack members had seen Noah and Oliver stumble off the private jet looking like they’d just witnessed the apocalypse. They’d overheard snippets of conversation:

"Our future luna is scary... no wonder Wilson said everyone will go mentally ill if they get near her."

"She almost destroyed an entire road with just a scooter. Even a poodle had an existential crisis because of her."

"I can understand why Alpha Caesar is traumatized by her."

By morning, the entire pack believed that their alphas had brought back their future luna—a woman of incomprehensible power like wildfire. She’s a force of nature, capable of affecting anyone who got close to her go insane. Every time she walked, the ground cracked. If she rode a scooter, the apocalypse would follow. And if she made eye contact with you, you’d find yourself sitting on a rooftop, staring at the sunset, questioning every life choice you’d ever made.

And here the woman in rumors was, hungry, confused, and wondering why everyone was running away from her like she had the plague.

Azura picked up the fallen tray, examined it, and found a single piece of bread.

She took a bite.

"...At least I found a snack."

Azura polished off the bread in approximately three seconds flat. It was gone before she even had time to savor it. She stared at her empty hands, then at the crumbs on the floor, then back at her hands.

"...That was not food. That was a carbohydrate suggestion. That was the ghost of a meal. That was edible confetti."

Her stomach roared in agreement, a guttural sound that could have been mistaken for a dying animal.

She needed real food. Actual food. The kind of food that made you feel alive and full and not like you’d just inhaled a piece of flavored air.

So she continued her journey, throwing open doors with reckless abandon. First door: a study. Empty. Second door: a bedroom. Stylish. Also empty. She was starting to think this pack house was haunted by the ghosts of people who refused to give her directions.

"This is fine," she muttered, marching toward the third door. "I’ll just open every door in this place. Eventually I’ll find either a kitchen or a person. Or a kitchen with a person in it. That’s the dream."

She pushed open the third door and froze.

It was dark. Not just regular dark, but dark dark. The kind of dark that felt like it was swallowing the light. Her curiosity, as always, got the better of her.

"Hello? Anyone here? I’m looking for the kitchen—please don’t be a murder room, please don’t be a murder room—"

She stepped inside, squinting, her hands patting the wall for a light switch.

Nothing.

She took another step. Then another. The darkness wrapped around her like a blanket. She could barely see her own hand in front of her face.

"Okay, this is definitely how horror movies start. I’m going to die here, and they’re going to find my body, and the headline is going to read ’Kidnapped Woman Starved to Death in Rich People’s Mansion While Searching for Sandwiches’—"

CLICK.

The door slammed shut behind her.

Azura’s heart stopped.

"Oh no."

Before she could turn around, she felt it—strong arms wrapping around her from behind, pulling her against a solid, warm chest. One hand clamped over her mouth, muffling the scream that was building in her throat.

She was trapped.

Her brain, ever helpful, provided a running commentary:

You’re being kidnapped again. This is your second kidnapping in less than a week. You’re collecting kidnappings like Pokemon. You’re— Wait. He’s just hugging me and covering my mouth. That’s not technically a kidnapping, right? That’s just... aggressive affection. A hostile hug. A captive cuddle.

She mentally slapped herself.

You should be offended by this. You ARE offended by this. But also, the arms are quite nice—NO. BAD BRAIN. FOCUS ON SURVIVAL.